“The slope was too steep,” I say. “Looks like they slipped.”

“Rolled, looking at the mess.”

“Hold up,” says Hail. “We’ve got something.”

I look back and find Lear’s shell next to her, up to its elbows in the dust. It stands, rolling sand between its fingers.

“There’s three of them here. Maybe four.”

“Show us,” says Hail, tracking the horizon.

The pale machine crouches again, and I trade Salt’s camera-feed for Lear’s. I watch through his eyes as the Decatur dusts the ground with turquoise fingertips. Delicate, if it wasn’t so huge.

“See the burn patterns? Here”—he taps a finger on the ground, picking out a line of glassy circles in the stone—“here, and here. Hard burn. Too fast for wings, and about as heavy as us.” His shell looks back at us and spreads its hands as if to measure. “Big fuckers.”

I look over at Salt, then back at Hail and Lear. We picked this spot because it was about the only flat ground we could find for nearly fifty K in any direction.

The Lighthouse rises up ahead, and the broken armour lies where I left it, just behind us.

“They were being shot at.”

The other three look at me.

“The main group put down just the same as we did. Smack in the middle, where the ground was as flat as it was going to get.” I blink a marker over Lear. “They’re coming in fast, combat drop. The fire starts”—I close the first, set another over Salt—“and whoever’s still flying turns out of the incoming.”

“And into the slope?” asks Salt. “You wouldn’t do it on purpose.”

“Someone takes a hit, right where I’m standing,” says Hail. She glances back to where I found the plate. “Sends that piece of armour nearly two K backwards, in a straight line.”

“Looks that way,” I say.

“Railshot?” asks Lear.

“Too small. Rail’ll kill the jockey, maybe knock out something important”—the Juno touches the little weld in the middle of our chest and my counter trembles—“but the hole’s not very big. Whatever hit our friend here tore them apart. A hardround of some kind, wide calibre.”

“Bullets.” Lear’s shell roots around on the ground. “Then there should be…” He trails off.

“What have you got?” asks Hail, not looking back, her weapon still scanning the horizon.

His shell spools its engines. “Step back.”

Hail clears the space beside him, and Lear burns short and sharp. Nothing like his landing, but enough to kick him up in the air for half a second, wreathing him in dust.

He lands, gives the wind a moment to clear the haze, and pushes another feed for us to see. The bare stone’s been shattered. Heavy bore.

“Hasei wasn’t alone,” says Hail. Her shell looks up toward the valley head. “And the fire came from the Lighthouse.”