He smelled blood on Sardar and Nadine. From the sound of the blast and the resulting crash he guessed the APC’s front axle had splintered. Ryan, the driver, was unconscious. He’d hit his head hard enough that the trauma nanites in his bloodstream had knocked him out while they worked to stop the swelling in his brain.

“Out! Out! Move it, motherfuckers!” Bigsby shouted.

There was a hiss as the rear and side exit hatches of the APC fired open. Light streamed into the vehicle. Bigsby was out first, his very large rifle at the ready. Nadine and Azime followed behind him. The former had a Juggernaut auto-shotgun, the latter had an M14 sniper rifle.

There were no infantry nearby, not yet. But Roland closed his eyes, concentrated, and after a second his hindbrain guessed that the nearest ground troops were a quarter of a mile away. Six men in Ares-­pattern powered armor followed by fifty unmodified human soldiers, a half-dozen technicals, and two drone-carriers.

The men in the Ares suits were the only thing that concerned him. Powered armor couldn’t make an unmodified human into a true match for a godfucking monster engine like himself. But it could give a squad the firepower they needed to do some real damage. If they could hurt Roland, they could kill Bigsby and his team. His hindbrain told him the power armored soldiers would be in weapon’s range within two minutes.

Just enough time to roll a blunt!

He grabbed a blunt wrap and a bag of ground weed out of his backpack and started to roll as he walked out of the abandoned APC. Sardar and Pedro had taken cover behind the vehicle and started to administer basic first aid to their wounded driver. Will was a few meters ahead, on overwatch, covering them all with his heavy M-94 belt-fed grenade launcher. The others were nowhere to be seen. Roland heard them though; about fifteen meters west of the stricken transport. He felt them take up firing positions.

Should I warn Bigsby about the armored guys? Roland wondered. He shook his head and said “Nah” out loud. Sardar stared at him.

The weed was dry and slightly yellowed with age. Roland had certainly smoked better. But he’d smoked worse often enough not to complain. He drizzled the crumbled herb into the blunt wrap and rolled it between his fingers. He licked the seam and sealed it as he watched Sardar shoot a stim capsule into Ryan’s neck. The driver started to regain consciousness. Roland lit his blunt, took a hit, and offered it to the man.

“Welcome back to the land of the waking,” he said with a cheerful grin. “Pot?”

Sardar gave him a stern look. “Is this really the time?”

The screech of a rocket-propelled grenade filled the air. Out­going fire. It must’ve been from a nearby SDF position engaged with the advancing Martyrs.