The Juno steps in close, kicks the other machine out at the knee, comes down hard on the joint and rides it into the deck. Plating bends; the Decatur tries to save itself, swivelling the knee well past human-possible, but there’s no way the jockey can recover in time. They’re down on Juno’s level now, and there’s a beating on the way. A massive fist swings up and under, connects. Even with my helmet over my ears, the impact leaves me deaf and gasping.

That pale chestplate nearly caves. It holds, just, buffers blowing out before the impact can break the Decatur’s bones, but the Juno isn’t aiming to kill. It’s been at this a long time. It understands. Without a weapon of its own, and only one hand free, a real fight would’ve been over in seconds. Instead, it plays to its strengths, and the other machine’s weakness. It doesn’t have to beat the mass of armour and deflectors—breaking the jockey will work just fine.

And so it aims to blind and maim, to leave the operator sucking for air, blinking at the shock. That first punch landed just metres from the cockpit, and the next one finds centre-of-mass so hard the armour cracks, raining splinters down across the deck. Strike-surfaces rattle in their housings, primary armour systems ringing like church bells, even from all the way out here.

It works. The jockey reels, tries to throw the shell backwards, but that old monster is so close it’s probably all they can see. Screens full of Juno, instruments blaring, the jockey does exactly what you’d expect: they panic. They’re losing their connection to the machine, and the twisted leg can’t hold their weight, but it doesn’t stop them thrashing. Something tears, something else fails with a whine.

There’s a weird prickle in the air as the jockey pulls the plug, and a sudden rush as the shaped explosives wake beneath the Decatur’s plates, skipping sparks and cutting steel around the outline of an ejector-pod. It’s the machine’s mind-state, saddle, and operator all in one, tearing free of the shell. Huge rockets swell to life inside the machine’s deep chest, ready to hurl them all to safety. Ready to wash the hangar with fire and exhaust, damn anyone standing nearby.

Bastard.

I throw myself back behind the lock, but there isn’t time to wrestle the door back into its frame. The best I can do is find cover, jam my knees around my ears, force my eyelids shut, and brace my arms across my vitals. I’ll pay with skin, that’s for sure, but there’s every chance that I’ll live. Enough to claim some of Kadi’s teeth when this is done, anyway.

I hold my breath, but nothing comes. No burn, no sudden concussion.