I swallow the weight in my throat. If the Juno hadn’t caught me, I might have lost us our feet. Now it slows me down. We don’t have the armour or the power to jump into the thick of it, so we play to our strengths. Ducking under sections of ceiling fallen low between the pillars, darting from one tall shadow to another, trying to get a lock on Lear.

We keep our passives open, but we’re mostly rolling blind. There’s hot tungsten and depleteds in the walls, and they simmer when I switch to infrared. Burning propellant bleeds heat into the air, and the dust glimmers where it’s been turned to glass by hypervelocity shot.

There’s a slope I hadn’t seen before, running downhill from where the Lighthouse seems to be. At least, that’s what it looks like.

If we were out in the open, we’d have a better view, but then, an open field would have seen this fight done by now. Three on one, with space to manoeuvre, and we’d have spread the Mirai’s wreckage all over.

Instead, it rides out the barrage, dodges bullets between the pillars. Its quick feet and fine sights keep the NorCol machines ducking for cover. Hail and Salt aren’t pushovers, though. They turn the handle on the grinder, wither the ancient masonry under a stream of arcing fire.

No place for a Juno.

So we work the edges, keep our head down in the dust. The Sigurd machine may have eyes everywhere, but there’s still a jockey in the saddle, soft and fallible.

We sprint between the pillars and drop into the lee of some broken stonework. At least, that’s what I think it is. We level our weapon over the top, sighting on the chaos ahead, but it’s a full ten seconds before I realise what we’re leaning up against.

A distant muzzle flash lights it up, and I find myself looking down on a hulk of orange plate. We start back, and the Juno rides the rush, already sighting down for a shot.

But the Hasei shell doesn’t move.

There’s a huge hole in its chest, scorched and curled around an ejecting cockpit-pod. The Juno’s sensors can’t find a mind inside the shell, and there are no nets or reactor activity. It’s still warm, though: dead less than half a day, if I had to guess.

We listen for the ping from its ejector, but wherever it is, it’s keeping quiet. Its wingmates might have picked it up already, but there’s every chance that the jockey just wants clear of the fight. I wouldn’t blame them.

The Juno and I settle back against the dead machine and aim a tightline into the distance. Friendly on three o’clock. Running cold. Check fire.

Hail flashes back. Understood. Checking fire.