At the same moment, a figure stepped around the corner at the end of the corridor. He wore a green tattered pressure suit, without helmet, and carried an automatic pistol in both hands. He saw us at the same moment I saw him, and we both recoiled in surprise. Then his gun came up, and I found myself shouting and trying to drag the others into the shelter of the open elevators. I grabbed Preston by the belt and yanked him backwards, sending him flying into the nearest alcove. Although strong, the exoskeleton was less than nimble, however, and the man had started firing before I managed to get hold of Clay. The pistol shots sounded like jackhammers in the confines of the stone-sided corridor. Bullets slammed into the carbon-fibre ribs of my suit, their impacts hard enough to snap my jaw shut and cause me to take a step backwards. At the same time, Clay jerked backwards with an indignant cry. The Archipelago pistol and magazine dropped from her hands and she fell over on her backside. There was a hole in her vest and blood spreading from it, darkening the material. With shots still flying around us, I reached down and caught her under the armpits. I pulled her up and heaved sideways, and together we crashed in behind Preston.

The rigidity of the exoskeleton gave it the strength to support my weight, but it also made it extremely difficult to get back up while lying on my side in a confined space. With my free arm, I pushed Clay into a sitting position against the wall.

We were trapped.

“Preston, get the gun.”

“I can’t.”

“Just reach out.” Stuck here, we were easy targets.

“I can’t!”

The kid sounded terrified. I turned towards him, and saw his hands pressed up against the transparent shutter that had fallen to seal the elevator’s entranceway. There had been no sensation of motion, but lights were flicking past in the darkness beyond the door as if we were falling at great speed down a long shaft.

I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I turned back to Clay. She had been hit just below the clavicle and had been trying to staunch the wound with her palms. Her hands and forearms were slathered with her own glistening blood.

“Preston, get over here.”

He tore his eyes from the flickering lights and crouched beside us. His hands were shaking and I knew I couldn’t rely on him. With a great effort, I levered myself up into a sitting position and snatched the medical kit from his shoulder. From my training, I knew that most battlefield deaths occurred within ten minutes of the initial wound.

“First, we’ve got to stop the bleeding.” With shaking hands, I pressed a wad of bandage against the hole in her vest top and she flinched. Her eyes were wide with shock, and her breathing reduced to pained, shallow gasps.