The Boy at the End of the World by Greg van Eekhout

better?”
    Fisher coughed. Maybe his instinct and reasoning had both been wrong, and he should have left the robot to his own fate.
    He began climbing down a tree, inch by painstaking inch. “What are we up against?”
    â€œIt is actually quite interesting,” Click began, as if they were passing time in front of a campfire. “During my hours of captivity, I monitored my abductors’ communication signals. They transmit in a familiar language. It is very similar to the one I used to communicate with other machines at the Life Ark.”
    â€œYou mean … the gadgets are from the Ark?”
    â€œNo, there were never any machines such as these in the Ark.”
    â€œSo, what does it all mean?”
    â€œI do not know, Fisher. It is an intriguing mystery.”
    Their route became too overgrown to pass. Instead, Fisher followed a beam toward the edge of the building, looking for another way down. Several floors below, the muddy river rippled like a brown sheet.
    â€œWhat did the gadgets want with you, anyway?” Fisher asked.
    â€œSpare parts,” said Click. “From what I could tell, the scout-drones scour the area for mechanical salvage and bring it to the disassemblers, who take useful parts away somewhere else.”
    â€œAnd the strikers?”
    A cluster of flying machines rose in front of them. They hovered in air, all sharp protrusions and grasping arms.
    â€œAh, yes,” said Click. “The strikers. They are here.”
    The whine of the strikers’ engines changed pitch, and they came forward, cautiously, as if trying to judge what Fisher would do.
    Fisher was pretty sure what they would do. It wouldn’t be nice.
    â€œDrop me,” said Click.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI am a burden and I am jeopardizing your survival. Drop me.”
    â€œI’m not going to drop you. You’ll smash on a steel beam or get tangled in the plants or hit the water and sink.”
    â€œYes, but—”
    â€œOh, just shut up.”
    Click hissed.
    The strikers extended their claw arms. Tiny turrets swiveled around and aimed little gun barrels at Fisher. When red targeting lasers converged at a point on Fisher’s chest, he knew there was only one thing to do.
    He sucked in a deep breath and jumped.
    Missiles whizzed past his ears as he and Click plummeted. He hit the water hard but managed to hold onto Click. Sinking fast under Click’s added weight, he kicked until his tortured legs brought him to the surface. The raft was just a few yards away, rocking as the mammoth stomped and snorted.
    Sputtering, Fisher managed to load Click aboard. But that gave the strikers time to target him again. Little missiles splintered the logs right in front of Fisher’s face. He ducked under the water and paddled downward.
    Missiles drew bubble trails through the murky water. The water slowed the strikers’ projectiles, but they could still hurt Fisher. At least down here, he had a chance.
    All he had to do was hold his breath.
    Forever.
    After considerably less time than forever, Fisher’s bursting lungs drove him back to the surface.
    Something came up with him. Something huge. Fisher’s skin prickled with electricity as a serpentine monster surged up from the muddy deeps and broke into open air. Gobs of water flew off its shimmering skin.
    Knowing his fish, Fisher instantly identified it as a type of knifefish—specifically, an electric eel, grown to a colossal twenty feet long. Its back skimmed the surface, drawing the attention of the strikers. They erupted with bursts of missile fire but only managed to graze the eel’s back. The eel thrashed and retreated beneath the surface.
    Gadgets with missiles or giant electric eel. Either seemed more than capable of killing him, and with only his scrap-metal knife, he didn’t like his chances.
    The eel stayed close to the surface, swimming back and forth like a giant letter “S.” Humans