A second passes in the quiet. And another, before I’ll risk an open eye.

Something bright flashes across my visor.

EJECTOR FAILURE

ABORT

REPEAT: EJECTOR FAILURE, OPERATION ABORTED

ALL POINTS RESPOND

If someone calls, you go.

Into the fire, if that’s what it takes. Into the wind, even if it’s blowing full of hate and cinders. Towards the screams, if they’re lucky. Into the quiet if not.

Over decking that’s slick beneath my boots, crackling and sharp where shattered armour fell. Through air that stinks of fuel and scorched iron, rippled by heat-shimmer and hazy with smoke.

If someone calls, you go. That’s the way it works. ‘These few for the many, this one for another. These things done, so that there may be life.’ A grand oath, for a fucking can-opener. But some habits die hard, and NorCol drilled them deep. I was up and walking before I knew it, and out the door before I’d decided what to do. My training keeps me moving, but it doesn’t stop me feeling like I’m about to choke. Doesn’t stop me wishing I had more than just this helmet, or that I didn’t have to do this on my own two feet.

Get the plug, I send to Hail, hoping she’ll pick me up. If she replies, I don’t hear it, but I can’t spare the moment to check. It’s all I can do to keep myself from tripping up. Ready to turn and run, but still not looking back.

I walk a line into the lee of the teetering Decatur, too compromised to move. The plates have bent so badly that the cockpit is probably trapped by its own supports. The retros are still sparking, hot enough that I can feel them from here, but there’s no burn.

Decatur, M661-E. Made for gun duels and firefights, smart and fast. Optimised for long rails and warhead strikes, trading heavy metals and solid-core kinetics with targets so far away you can barely make them out against the stars. Good at taking needle-hits at range, deflecting blast-blossoms and hypervelocity shot.

Not so much against mass and swinging fists, apparently.

The pale machine tries to watch me, but I don’t meet its gaze. Dipshit. I keep pushing. I can’t stop now—hell, I can’t even slow down.

My world darkens in the shadow of the Juno, all faded crimson and webs of silver scars. I feel that gaze again. Feel it take my breath away.

I can hear the movements of its massive body. There are other sounds, but I’m not listening; it’s static, interference. Noise, even if it echoes with my name. In that moment, all I know is the grind of steel on steel, joints shifting where huge fingers make a fist.

Six eyes try to focus, and sensor-pulses ring.

But I don’t stop.