The Royal Architect twitches, and his plastic body whines like a wounded dog.

Soldiers lower their weapons from menacing an empty chair. Dolce gets his arms under the robot’s head, his sleeves rolled to the shoulder, and lifts with all his might. Dead weight would have been easier. The Architect writhes and squirms, unconsciously fighting to escape the grasp of his rescuer. Dolce gives another heave, but it is as useless as the first. “Come on!” He looks to 20022, pleading. “Three less soldiers won’t make a difference, but they could get him to the heart of the station in time. We can’t-”

The Architect spasms in a violent burst of motion and light. He shakes and sparks in Dolce’s arms. A hand catches him square on the chin. He does not cry out. He does not loosen his grip. And when the storm passes, his hand gently pats the smooth, artificial frame. Through the stars swimming in his vision, through the ache in his jaw, he meets the eyes of his friend.

“[i]Please.[/i] We can’t just leave him to die like this.”