Hail’s already moving, bracketing the Sigurd machine in front of me. Lines of plasma trace her shots, leaving acid afterimages in their wake. The Mirai is whip-fast, already halfway round, riding the impacts on its shield. We don’t have time to join her; the other shell’s drawing a bead on her machine, levelling its ugly auto at the nearest thing it can see. It still can’t see me; it’s doomed already.

The Juno and I tack past Hail and her engagement, line ourselves up, and kick for thrust. The gee throws me back in the saddle, easing as we float on engine burn, buoyant for half a second. We land so close the Mirai’s black hull is all we can see. It tries to turn, spinning hard to bring its guns to bear, but we’ve already got it collared. We close our wrecking-ball fist, bring it down on the auto’s heavy barrels. Steel meets steel with a thunderclap and a wash of sparks in the darkness, and the weapon spins loose in the air, hovering in a cloud of shattered armour and the Mirai’s broken fingers.

The shell reels, fighting for purchase in the dust, but we’ve hit too hard and too fast. It works to keep its feet, grabbing at the secondary on its hip, but we use our rifle like a lance, slamming the barrel against its throat, bending the armour underneath.

98.38

I don’t feel us pull the trigger, but my skin sings in the imaginary heat. For a second, the entire world is a pocket of fire and smoke and boiling gas. The flash is blinding, the picture playing over when I blink my eyes. I see enough. The round cuts through armour plate and insulation, but doesn’t find its way to anything soft. The Mirai slides, feet spread to keep it balanced, leaving massive tracks in the stone between us. Our weapon ejects, cycles, and we haul it level in our hands.

The next shot slams the rifle back against my shoulder, tearing clean through mangled armour, arcing into brick and mortar beyond, spraying frag and burning propellant.

97.08

The shell stumbles, and its head spins away in a rush of fluid and atmosphere. Oil spatters and air turns silver in the cold. We catch the machine before it topples, pull it up by its ruined collarbone, jam our barrel against the hull, right over the cockpit.

97.00

I roar at the thing in front of us, all channels open. “Eject!”

The jockey hesitates, tries to raise a hand. We rest our muzzle against a joint, and take a whole arm clean at the shoulder, riding the recoil on gritted teeth and adrenaline, slamming our barrel back against its chest.

“Eject!” as loud as I can. “Christs-dammit. Eject!”

A massive casing rings against the floor.

“Eject!” My throat is raw. We press, feel the armour creaking under pressure.