It was a fool’s errand, he knew that even as he did it, but he hoped to at least get those men back to the Cherokee. Now it seemed that was the only way any of them would survive.

The cannons on the left arm of his EXO-13 went dry first, so he stopped running backward and started running sideways while he fired the last of the rounds in the right. He’d expended his missiles some time earlier, which left him with the suit itself and very little else. Eric vaulted the big machine over a roadblock they’d been using as cover, for all the good it did. The vaporized section of concrete and steel was a testament to the power of the enemy weapons and the futility of trying to hide from them.

The only good thing he could imagine about the situation was the fact that he was going to go down fighting in a cockpit that at least slightly resembled the interior of his Archangel. It was a microscopically small comfort, but there it was.

“Cover!”

The order came in the clear over his tac channel, and Eric didn’t question it. He threw himself down just as a ripple of explosion tore through the enemy line and briefly put a hole in the wave of drones chasing him. His EXO suit hit the ground skidding and he could feel a pelting rain of debris striking down around him as he flipped end for end, winding up on his back, staring up at the shockingly blue sky.

The buildings that lined the street he was fighting on were mostly intact, and he spotted a familiar IFF code on his HUD, highlighting a figure standing atop one of them.

“Bermont?” he blurted, surprised to see a name he recognized, particularly flying very familiar colors.

“Someone down there taking my name in vain?” The vaguely French accented voice laughed over the comm. “Gonna have to do something about that.”

Eric considered his situation, noting that he was out of ammo and there were now red lights across half his hydraulics and most of his pneumatics. He sighed, but blew the bolts holding the cockpit on and pulled himself out of the stricken mechanized armor.

“Get down here and give me a hand, you cackling Frenchman,” he growled, pulling the hatch off the emergency compartment and drawing out the Priminae GWIZ.

“Cackling Fren . . .,” Bermont objected as he dropped to the street, landing with a thud despite the practiced flex in his legs.

Eric cut him off. “How many did you bring back with you?”

Bermont froze, and Eric noted that his IFF was being checked, twice.

“Captain? Mon Jesus, we thought you bit it when you dug the Odyssey in,” Bermont managed despite his shock.

“So did I,” Eric admitted, before asking again, “How many people came back?”