Their suits were definitely some iteration of the basic Ares design. They had the familiar insectoid helmet with its bulbous eyes and heavy nasal sensor blister. The shoulders, chest, groin, thighs, and shins were heavily reinforced. These were breaching suits, meant to lead an advance and absorb an enormous amount of incoming fire.

The armor was painted the dull yellow of a Texas grassland. Roland could see red and blue on the edges of the pauldrons; Republic of Texas colors. But the suits had clearly been painted over, repurposed by their new owners. Two of the men had large, white crosses daubed across their chests. One man had a cross painted over his face-plate. The paint jobs seemed new. These suits had been captured—or handed over—recently.

Their wearers moved like competent fighters who weren’t used to the capabilities of full powered armor. Two of the Martyrs had shoulder-mounted missile pods with angry-looking rockets inside them. Three of them mounted rotary chain-cannons. Between their targeting systems and reflex-augmentation hardware, they could have hurt him if they’d had their shit together.

But they didn’t, and he hit the point man like a bag of concrete thrown by a gorilla. Roland didn’t even bother to swing the wrench yet, he just let his substantial body weight turn him into a post-human battering ram. The first soldier hit the ground, Roland atop him, with a whine of pistons and internal motors. He tried to bring his assault cannon to bear on Roland but the barrel was too long. Roland slammed Sardar’s wrench into the man’s crotch eleven times in the space of a second. The suit’s groin armor was rated to stop a .50 caliber rifle round. It caved in on the third hit.

Stop, he shouted inside his own mind. Stop! You’re going to kill him!

Roland pulled back with considerable effort. His brain wanted more, and every impact fed a few more endorphins into the hopper. But he managed to stop himself before he did irreparable harm. This hesitation made him a target, though. One of the armored Martyrs shot him four times and ripped deep gouges in his torso.

Roland rushed the man and slapped his weapon aside. The drugs flooded into him again as he swung his wrench up, under-handed, into the poor fellow’s chin. Bone shattered on the first swing.

Bigsby fired. Roland felt one of the other armored Martyrs go down, knee-caps and throat shot out. The two remaining Martyrs opted to retreat. But it was a fighting retreat. They bounded backward and launched a flurry of rockets toward Roland as cover fire. These he had to avoid. Roland could eat small-arms fire all day. Rockets were not small.