Anderson made a high-pitched wailing sound, jumping to his feet and running full out. He made it less than five feet before he smashed into the metal housing of a backup compressor. He hit it full on, foolishly looking behind him, and the impact tossed him back three, if not four, feet.

Orr, grimacing with pain, cried out, “Get the hell out of there! Anderson, move!”

He did, but far too late.

He got to his feet, but awkwardly from the impact. His reflexes were slow. He moved like a stunned cow. And just as he made to vault away, the Exosuit was on him. Thump-thump-THUMP, went its pounding footpads. The claw manipulator seized him by the shoulder and Orr clearly heard the mangling of flesh and the wet crunching of shattered bone. Even with Anderson’s manic, insane shrieking, he heard it quite well. The manipulator lifted him up into the air, ever-tightening its grip, scissoring through meat, its prongs sinking deep into his scapula. Blood gushed and sprayed in wild loops, splattering against the mangled bulkhead and splashing against the gleaming shell of the Exosuit.

There was nothing Orr could do.

Even if some devastating weapon were at hand, he doubted he would have had the strength to wield it. Backlit by the emergency deck lights, mist and smoke swirling in the strobing halogens, the gigantic suit looked like an alien robot, an invader from a distant star, Anderson dangling in its grip like a prized specimen.

What happened then was inevitable.

The rotary saw came up with a hissing and clicking of hydraulics. The blade began to spin with that same insectile whirring like millions of pissed-off hornets. It grew so loud as it was powered to full that Orr had to cover his ears against the hypersonic screeching of it. As Anderson writhed in the grip of the manipulator, the saw came down, ripping into his scalp with an eruption of gore and bone chips, cutting through his skull and splitting his brain in half. The blade split his face like an oak plank and continued right down through his neck and torso until he was quite literally cut in half. Blood and macerated tissue and bone fragments sprayed through the air, gathering in a red-tinted nimbus over the Exosuit, a cloudburst of gore that spattered even Orr with hot droplets like a summer squall.

The remains of Anderson hit the deck with a wet splat. Then the suit’s acrylic helmet bubble rotated in Orr’s direction. Whatever energized the suit and glorified in sadism, had not forgotten about him.

Swaying side to side, the Exosuit advanced on him. Blood dripped from its shell, ran like tears down its view bubble, and streamed from the huge rebreather unit on its back.

Thump, thump, thump.

It was closing in on him.