Wax needed him. Time to end this fighting, then. Wayne dropped the bubble and dashed forward. He counted to two, then put up another bubble and dodged right. He dropped it and kept running, bullets streaking through the air where he had been. To the eyes of those trying to track him, he’d have blurred and appeared immediately to the right of where he’d just been. He did it again, dodging back in another direction, then dropped the bubble.

Almost there. Another bubble up, and—

Something hit Wayne in the arm. He felt the blood before the pain, strangely enough. He cursed, stumbling, and threw up a bubble immediately.

He grabbed his arm. Warm blood squirted between his fingers, and in a panic, he tapped the last smidgen of healing in his metalmind. It wasn’t enough to fix the gunshot wound; it barely slowed the bleeding. He turned, noticing another bullet about to hit his speed bubble. He jumped to the side just before it touched the perimeter, zipped through the air in a heartbeat, then hit the other side and slowed again, deflected erratically up toward the ceiling.

Damn, Wayne thought, tying an improvised bandage on his wounded arm. Someone has very good aim. He glanced about to find the black-suited Coinshot kneeling beside the wall, holding a familiar-looking rifle, sights on Wayne. The rifle was the one Ranette had given to Marasi. Well, this is going to hell faster than bendalloy burns.

He spent a moment of hesitation. Wax was down. But Marasi… what had happened to her? Wayne couldn’t spot her anywhere, though the Coinshot had cover beside some machinery, and he had her gun. That spoke loads.

Wax would want him to go help the girl.

Gritting his teeth, Wayne turned and dashed toward the Coinshot.

Waxillium groaned, stretching against the pain and pulling the small two-shooter from his ankle holster. He’d dropped Vindication in the blast—Ranette was going to kill him for that—and he’d left his other gun up above when grabbing Marasi. He was down to this.

He unsuccessfully tried to cock the tiny pistol with a shaking hand. He didn’t dare prod to feel the extent of his wounds. His leg and arm had been flayed.

Mist continued to flood down from the hole above. It had mostly enveloped this side of the room. With despair, Waxillium realized that his two-shooter had been damaged in the blast, and the hammer no longer cocked. Not that it would be of any use against Miles anyway.

He groaned again, leaning his head back against the floor. I thought I asked for a little help.

A voice returned to him, distinct and unexpected. And a little is what you received, I think.

Waxillium started. Well… could I have some more, then? Um, please?

I must be careful in playing favorites, the voice inside his mind replied. It upsets the balance.

You’re God. Isn’t playing favorites kind of the point?

No, the voice replied. The point is Harmony, creating a way for as many as possible to make their own choices.