Chapters (41)
- Title
- Indicia
- Steel Frame
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Acknowledgements
- About The Author
- 'Ironclads' by Adrian Tchaikovsky
- 'NineFox Gambit' by Yoon Ha Lee
- 'Grunt Life' by Weston Ochse
I push the Juno back into a run, and it lets me take the lead, not understanding. We leap across a fallen pillar, circle back the way we came, and find the Mirai in the middle of it all, right above Lear’s machine.
I don’t wait for anything more. We go hot, and I kick for so much thrust it picks us up, hurls us out of cover. We hit the ground running, keep on burning.
The Mirai leans down, and picks Lear’s mangled shell up by its hull.
Hail and Salt are circling, but they don’t understand. They’re playing by rules that don’t apply. They’ve got their weapons free and ready, but they don’t shoot, not with one of their own in the way.
I wake my nets. Every single one. “Get out of there!”
The Mirai glances back at me, but it doesn’t take aim.
It holds Lear up, presses its auto against his hull and opens up. The shots throw the ruined Decatur around, flapping like a target on a line. Lear pulls his ejectors, and the bolts start cutting him free, but the Mirai is too fast. It drops its weapon, plunges its open fist through Lear’s cracked hull and tears his cockpit free. It rides the wash of his ejector rockets, holding on tight, fingers wrapped around the Decatur’s heart and soul.
We land our first shot, right above the Mirai’s shoulder-guard, but we’re too far away. The bullet sparks off the armour, but the big machine barely moves. We send another round, cycle, and ride the recoil once again. We burn, running hard as the old Juno can handle.
Hail and Salt stand their ground. Lear is exposed, but he’ll still be alive in there. They’re waiting for a call. Waiting for the Sigurd jockey to admit the game’s over. They think Lear is leverage, to be traded for a safe flight out.
But the call doesn’t come.
“Get him out of there!”
Hail doesn’t look at me. “We’ve got it under contr—”
The Mirai presses Lear’s cockpit between its heavy hands. The pod shivers. Then it shatters.
OPERATOR DOWN.
OPERATOR DOWN.
OPERATOR DOWN.
The words scroll down the corner of my eye.
98.97
We’re already flying, already riding the curve back down to earth. Our engines burn so hot that they’re screaming warnings in my head. Our rifle matches the sound. We shake, caught between the recoil and thrust. We rain fire over the remains of Lear’s machine, coming in so fast we catch sparks of burning armour in our eyes.
One bullet goes in the Mirai’s chest, a second in its forehead. One in its hip, and another snaps its elbow back at the joint.