Time to move.
23
[Down the Dragon’s Throat]
Gunfire crackles from the indoor park ahead, a concentrated volley of orchestrated death buzzing out from manicured topiaries like swarming wasps. Bullets ricochet wildly off the concrete debris shielding me, windows shattering into tinkling waterfalls of debris. I take the opportunity to reload, staring up at the light panels blanketing the atrium’s ceiling. A sudden crump silences the firing, one of Wind’s flashbangs, and Slend opens up with her heavy machine gun, mecha-assisted strides putting her into a flanking position far quicker than the defenders expected. I spin over into a prone position and pick off two figures trying to exfiltrate from the killing zone, their arms flailing as they topple like hewn trees.
<<Clear.>>
<<Clear.>>
<<Clear.>>
We push forward through the small park, our third encounter with WGSK’s security forces, shattered bodies sprawled in our wake. I don’t let myself think about them, not yet. We still have to get deeper into the complex, to what is hopefully the control room, if we’ve read the blueprints right. The other half of WGSK’s army is no doubt on its way.
Straight lines of hedges give way to even straighter lines of corridors, another interminable set of skyscraper connective tissue. I check the map overlay in my glasses—three blinking dots running through a maze of wireframe halls, Sawyer’s data the only resource availab—
I’m on my back, gasping for air, pain radiating from my chest where a sledgehammer just flattened me, scabbard digging into my shoulder and spine. Wind’s submachine gun chatters noisily, then Slend’s face fills my vision, expression concerned. Jamming hashes our comm channel in a static hiss.
“Hit?”
My gasps turn into choking coughs, bruised lungs slowly refilling, a deeper, piercing pain still lingering.
“Armor… caught it.” I push myself to one knee, wincing. Wind is posted up at the hallway’s intersection farther down, a uniformed corpse at her feet, busy scanning for more threats. “Probably a cracked rib or two.” I grab my rifle, and force myself into a jog. “C’mon. No time. We gotta keep moving.”
Slend nods, the mecha boosting her past me and up next to Wind. They spin around the corner, and I follow. More shots ring out, a cluster of figures hidden behind couches and desks in what looks like a reception lobby, and we dive for cover in the doorways lining the hall. I look over and see Wind hissing with pain, right hand clutching her left bicep, submachine gun dangling loosely from its strap. Blood seeps out between her fingers and drips to the floor below.
“Status?” I yell over the fusillade of gunfire.
“In and out. Stings like a motherfucker. I’ll be fine. Slend! Head down, ’nade in three!”
The heavier cracks of Slend’s machine gun die away, and Wind lets go of her wounded arm, pulling a grenade off her bandolier. Fragmentation this time. A flick of her thumb sends the arming pin spinning out, and then she whips it across the linoleum floor toward the lobby. A second passes, then another, sounds of consternation just beginning to rise before the ringing explosion wipes them away with red splatter smears. I advance out of my alcove, trotting toward the wreckage, hunting for survivors, Slend covering my right. Smoke fills the air, setting off a ringing fire alarm, and my finger twitches once, twice, neutralizing the last threats, their groggy movements giving them away. Water sprays down from overhead sprinklers, cold and clammy on my skin, and we move deeper into the facility.
“Through here and down three flights. Go.”
More violence, more encounters, more damage. Slend takes a bullet in her thigh on the first landing, mecha working double time to take the load, but she presses on, lips set in a grim line, heavy machine gun ripping craters from walls and flesh. Wind twists an ankle diving out of the way of a grenade on the second, fragments peppering her back and side, her armor barely absorbing the worst of the deadly kinetic force. A steady stream of curses spills from her mouth as she staggers along, almost too low to hear, but her aim remains true, hands swapping between her submachine guns with automatic ease, flinging blood and grenades until her bandolier is almost empty.
We emerge onto the third landing, panting for breath, and miraculously, nothing attacks us. A long corridor, bare of branches, extends to a set of solid-looking double doors. I glance at the other two.
“How’s your ammo?”
Wind pats one of her submachine guns, unclipping the other and letting it fall to the floor, then pulls a last flashbang from her harness.
“Thirty rounds, then I’m dry. One sparkler left. Slend?”
Slend drops her heavy machine gun and pulls out a large pistol, sliding an oversized magazine home.
“Twenty-five. Punching after this.”
With the mecha’s enhanced strength, her punches should shatter concrete, but that’s not much use against a bullet. I check my rifle—fifteen rounds left, no extra mags.
“I’ve got fifteen and my blade. Let’s move.”
We set off down the hallway, alert for any traps, but the cheerfully painted walls, swooping and dipping with murals of fantastic creatures and exotic landscapes, remain still. Halfway down, to my shock, it finally penetrates—I recognize almost all of them as encounters from the Game. I look closer. A small figure is barely visible in the background of each one, streak of blue in her hair, dagger brandished aloft. Wind sucks in a breath.
“This is creepy, Ash. Mega creepy.”
“Just another psych-sec, Wind. Just another encounter. We’re almost there. Map says our target is behind these doors. Slend, if you’ll do the honors?”
Slend nods, then delivers a thunderous kick with her mecha-enhanced leg. The doors splinter and crash inward, one falling off its frame entirely. Beyond, a large oval room lies shrouded in twilight gloom, a familiar liquid-filled tank in the middle, consoles surrounding its length, a thrashing body floating in its depths. Scattered ceiling lights shine fitfully, most burnt out and shattered.
“Well, this certainly looks like a boss roo—fucking hell.”
My stomach falls with Wind’s startled exclamation. Stepping out from behind the tank is a Shredder, molyblade legs tapping gently on the black-and-white patterned floor, streamlined shell rising nearly halfway to the vaulted ceiling overhead. Armored panels spring up around the tank and consoles, fully enclosing the vulnerable occupant, one last spasm briefly visible.
“Hamlin,” I whisper, heart sinking. “Oh, Ham, what are they doing to you?”
“Ash!” Wind’s voice is urgent. “What do we do? That’s fucking wargear!”
The Shredder skitters forward, directly at me, an oversized insect covered in polymer plates. I let off a burst at its central core, but it twists as I fire and the rounds deflect off its armor.
“Scatter and ground it! Aim for the legs!”
Wind and Slend split off to the sides, limping heavily, small salvos from Wind interspersed by single shots from Slend. Bullets whiz and spang through the room, but the Shredder keeps advancing, none of our attacks finding a vital junction. One limb scythes at me, molyblade splitting the greasy air, and I roll to the side, feeling the wind of its passing. I roll again, another limb slamming down with floor-cracking force next to my head. A third leg sweeps at my ankles, and I flip over it, unloading the last of my bullets into the joint, watching it deform and warp, ignoring the stabbing pain from my broken ribs. Wind darts in from the other side, slamming her flashbang into the gap, then pinwheels away, caught by a backhand blow from the second leg. She slams into the wall, head lolling into unconsciousness, and the flashbang explodes, a thunderclap of deafening light and blinding sound leaking out from the joint. The Shredder’s wounded leg falls limp and still, actuators severed, and I dodge another molyblade strike seeking to bisect me. My rifle strap splits apart, a ghost of the past, bullpup shape spinning away, momentum sending me tumbling across the floor. Slend appears, grabbing one of the Shredder’s legs with mecha-enhanced strength, muscles close to bursting from her skin. Screaming, she pulls, ripping it free in a shower of buzzing sparks and hydraulic fluids, then flies off in the opposite direction from Wind, another Shredder leg slamming across her midsection with a crunching impact, pieces of mecha spiraling away in violent constellations. She hits the ground and curls into a ball, unmoving, blood leaking from her earlier wound, the dismembered leg next to her. The Shredder scrapes its way toward me, disabled hind limbs dragging behind it in a halting screech, front legs striking like pistons.