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
We’re still riding momentum when our first punch lands, hits so hard we mangle our fingers on its hull. We draw back, slam into it again, shatter the rest of our fist behind it. The impact’s so loud it hurts my ears inside my helmet. We plant another shot, point-blank against the outline of our knuckles in the steel.
The dark machine staggers back and falls over itself, chest buckled and ejector marks already showing under its armour.
WHO THE FUCK—
—who the fuck—
—kills an ejector?
Nobody, that’s who.
Sometimes there’s blood on the sand, we understand that; it’s the name of the game. Once you pull the plug, though, that’s it. You are no longer a hostile. Keep to yourself and any company machine will give you a pass. We’re all jockeys at the end of the day. Don’t do unto others, and they won’t do unto you. It’s been that way for longer than I’ve been alive, longer than anyone cares to remember.
There are rules.
I disconnect, dismount, and drop clear of the operator’s lock. I pull my service weapon from its holster as I march across the dust.
I hurt all over, but that doesn’t stop me. Hell, it doesn’t even slow me down.
The ejector-pod is the same colour as the machine that held it. It rings in my ears, Sigurd’s recovery frequencies singing loud and proud now that I’m close up. There are other sounds too. My heartbeat, deep and heady. My ragged breathing, hissing in my helmet. Hail and Salt drop in through the speakers, but I don’t know if I hear them.
97.31, says the little counter in the middle of my visor, fading in and out of my vision.
I make for the thick hatch that holds the back of the pod shut; the one that keeps its cargo safe and sound. It won’t stop us.
The Juno reaches over me. I reach over her.
It grips the hatch with its good hand. I grip the hatch with my good hand.
We spread our feet, and tear.
Metal splits around our fingers, bolts pop and hinges fail. Atmosphere boils in the vacuum.
I step into the breach, weapon drawn.
She steps into the breach, weapon drawn.
“Stand up!” I howl. “Stand up where I can see you!”
“YOU HEAR ME?”
My voice rolls around inside my helmet, leaves me alone in the cold with my pounding heart and heaving lungs. I inch my weapon past the broken hinges, and into the airlock behind it. I realise I can’t see the saddle.