“Who has the fox?” I call.
“On it, my Sovereign!” a burly Red Lionguard named Glaucus says. They’ve affixed Kavax’s carryall to Glaucus’s back armor. The man kneels and tries to lure the fox in. Sophocles is scared and refuses to come out from under a console. Each time they try to pick him up, he darts away. Holiday solves it before I have to. She lays down on her back, sets a ration on her chest, and pats it until Sophocles scampers over to nibble and lie in the nook of her armpit. Holiday stows him in the carryall on Glaucus’s back.
“Five…”
I brace alongside Oro. He looks so fragile next to me without armor. The Nucleus shudders and tilts. “What was that?” I ask.
“Exo-ligament seven is severed!” an Orange announces. “Their particle beams have compromised the Nucleus’s thermal wall.” That means the next particle beam will land directly on the surface of the Nucleus, and its heat will transfer, superheating the air of the Nucleus.
“Drop. Now.”
The great, impenetrable Nucleus begins its drop toward its exit shaft.
And then halts and goes nowhere.
Every screen goes out. The interior of the Nucleus starts to heat up, fast. A pupil of red light dilates above us on the metal. Sweat pours down the faces of Blues and Greens. The skin of my exposed face starts to itch. It’s only getting hotter. I raise my helmet. Of the Nucleus’s complement, only my bodyguards and now Sophocles in the carryall have armor. The sweat starts to wick off Oro’s face.
“Virginia…” he whispers as his saliva turns to steam. “The particle beam must have melted the shaft…”
The temperature outside my suit creeps upward. Then it doubles, and doubles again. Blues and Greens start to scream from the heat. “Emergency lifts!” I order. “Everyone, emergency lifts. Armor last!”
Holiday and my Lions don’t listen. They manhandle me and plow a path through the gurgling techs and crew into the lift. Past their armored shoulders, I see Oro struggling toward us, his eyes bulging from their sockets. Techs stumble, their hands melting to metal consoles as they try to steady themselves.
“We need Oro!” I shout.
Oro’s strength fails. He falls to his knees. His lungs, burned from the scorched air, vent an inhuman squeal. Holiday runs out at the last second and hauls him toward the lift. Oro’s burnt skin sloughs off and Holiday loses her grip. She falls. Glaucus and another Lion rush out to grab Holiday and pull her into the lift just before its doors seal shut with a bang.
Silence.
The lift descends. Our armor steams.
Holiday still holds the skin of Oro’s forearms. She sets it gently on the floor and orders weapons checks. I stare at the skin. I stayed too long. That’s my fault. Add it to the list. But I managed the retreat. I saved lives, just not in the Nucleus. We can contain this invasion.
“The lift will take us to the emergency tram, where we can transfer laterally to Bastion Two,” Holiday says to me. “We will make it.”
I nod, but soon the lift begins to slow. She checks its systems. “Let me guess. Shaft is blocked,” I mutter.
“System says there’s debris down there. We might be able to slip past it, but the lift can’t.”
“Let’s try. Abandon the lift.” I turn on my gravBoots and feel the uneasy thrum at my feet. All thirty of my guards activate their gravBoots too.
A pair of Lions open a hatch at the bottom of the lift and drop out of sight to scout the way. We hear the sound of pulseFists first, then a report of enemy contact. The Lions’ signals go dead. It’s not debris down there. I peer down the hole and see metal glinting in the darkness below, and rising fast. A horn sounds in the darkness.
“Minotaur,” I murmur. “Down is no good. Everyone, out the top. Drop the lift on them.”
“If we leave the shaft now we’ll come out in the middle of the Bastion,” Holiday says. “They could cut us off if they—”
“Would you rather go down?” I ask.
“Up we go, lads!”
Holiday releases the top hatch and we pour out of the lift. By the time I’m through, my Lions have opened the door to the level above. There’s gunfire, but they shout clear and I hustle through. Three Grays in Votum space armor lie dying. Holiday makes them dead and Glaucus blows the lift behind us. It shrieks down the shaft.
Twenty-eight Lions and I take off into the Bastion’s corridors at a sprint. My helmet’s HUD provides a tactical map. The Bastion’s sensors report hostiles pouring in through multiple levels. I keep my razor in its hidden holster and take a rifle. My armor is identical to my bodyguards’， and for good reason. To the enemy, I’m the ultimate prize. Damn that lift. Damn those clawDrills.
I inform my bodyguards of the situation on the fly. “We’re cut off to the east and west. Enemy is pouring in. Rath and Votum. With the fortress evacuated, there’s nothing to stop the enemy advance except automated defenses. We’re in danger of being cut off. We can maneuver sideways but we need to go down. Get to the Hollows. Our best bet is vertical shaft D. If it is blocked, we try shaft B.”
Already I’m stacking contingencies in case my plans fail one by one. I flip to the bodyguard frequency to hear Holiday adding on. “—her safety is your only priority. If you are wounded and cannot keep up, you will be left behind.”
“Nil that,” I snap. “We are outnumbered. They will close in from all sides, but they are glory hounds out for themselves. They will compete against one another to get me. We are not them. We are a pride. We kill together, we work together, we survive together. They came for a hunt, but they forgot: hic sunt leones.”
“Hic sunt leones!” they echo and we pound metal.
* * *
—
The hallways are a blur of tension and silence punctuated by random and intense kinetic violence followed by retreats, mad dashes, and weird refrains where hiding in lavatories or strategy rooms and even a kitchen become moments of extreme dread. It is a dance, and the enemy is finding we’re as hard to pin down as a greased eel.
But sadly, they aren’t a pair of hands grasping at us with their transports pouring troops. They’re about to become a very big net.
My twenty-eight Lions are tougher, better equipped, better trained, and better led by Holiday than the capable but standard Votum legionnaires. Apollonius’s men, on the other hand, are Martian veterans—hard bred and battle-scarred. And for them, hunting me is personal. Many would have been Augustan legion. My father’s own. He didn’t suffer fools. Neither does twelve years of war.
No matter how good my Lions are, they will die if we don’t get out.
I won’t be killed, though. I’ll be chained and dragged through the streets in Lune’s triumph.
The Votum Greens kill the power first. Our running firefights flare in the darkness. We hit like lightning, cover our retreat, and disappear into the station time after time, always trying to find a gap. We hit when we have to, we hide when we can, but mostly we run, phasing in out of sight in our ghostCloaks.
More and more we run.
Running on local power, the doors still function, and I retain control of those with my Sovereign implant. We split up half a dozen times. It confuses their pursuit, but they start to get wise. Cut off vertical shafts. Form a hard-deck on lower levels we can’t pass. Deploy hall-spanning particle shields, traps, auto cannons of their own. Mines.