She had seconds. Not even seconds. Just an instant. Then, the two soldiers in front of her would open up and the torrent of bullets would tear her body to shreds.

  She felt the urge to look behind her. She’d been pretty sure she’d heard something coming up as well, from the sound of it, probably another security bot. She thought she’d eluded it, but she had no question the sound of the fire would bring it quickly.

  The bot wasn’t a major concern, of course, not if the Foudre Rouge cut her down in the next two seconds.

  Her fire felt rushed, erratic, but then she could see that even her gut instincts had become attuned to fighting the heavily armored enemy. She was close—maybe ten meters or so—and her rounds ripped through the gap between the rear soldier’s chest and backplate, and his leg armor. At least half a dozen shots had connected, and maybe more, and the Foudre Rouge dropped hard, blood spraying out all around.

  One down…

  The second trooper was almost around, his rifle moving toward her. She fired again, five or six more shots, and then her clip ran dry.

  The bullets ricocheted off the Foudre Rouge’s armor. The soldier’s movement and Andi’s rushed aiming had combined to deny her a repeat of the first attack’s success. Even as her enemy prepared to fire, her legs acted on their own, lunging hard to the side, sending her diving through an open hatchway just to her right.

  It was fortune as much as anything that had positioned her next to a compartment when the enemy heard her, and she had pushed off as hard as she could, knowing each fraction of a second could be the difference between life and death.

  She hit the ground—hard—and she felt pain radiating through her body. Her hip, not broken as she had earlier feared, but pretty banged up nevertheless, hurt like hell, and her knees slammed hard onto the steel floor.

  She arched her back, struggling to flip herself around, even as she reached for another clip. It was a clumsy maneuver, and her fingers almost lost the small cartridge. But she pulled it loose and slammed it in place, even as she brought the weapon to bear on the doorway. She was in the open, and the enemy trooper would likely stay behind the wall, in cover. There was a word to describe her chances.

  Shit.

  She knew the Foudre Rouge would be there any second, and she waited, determined to take her best shot. She had to take out the trooper, somehow. Even if he shot her too, if she died right there, maybe killing her adversary would open the way for the captain and the others to get back.

  Andi was no selfless paragon. She wanted to live. Badly. But she knew the difference between dying for nothing and dying for something.

  And saving three of her friends was definitely something.

  But the trooper didn’t come into the room after her. She was confused for a few seconds, and then she heard it. Gunfire out in the corridor…coming from both directions.

  Her first thought was that one of her comrades had followed her despite her best efforts. But the sound of the weapon was wrong. It was higher-pitched, more so even than Lorillard’s gun or the weapons of the Foudre Rouge.

  And the rate of fire was higher.

  Suddenly, she knew.

  It had been the security bot…it had caught up to her.

  More accurately, she had led it to the Foudre Rouge, which it seemed to regard as just as much an enemy as it did her.

  It was good news. It had saved her life.

  It’s also going to kill me in a few seconds, unless…

  She reached inside her bag, pulling out one of the grenades she’d grabbed from Nightrunner’s weapons locker. They were strong, frags with enough power—maybe—to take down one of the station security bots.

  She had no certainty there was only one out there, nor sure the grenade would get the job done, but it was a damned sight better option than lying there waiting for the thing to find her.

  She forced herself to her feet. She was wobbly, weak, but she pushed on. If the bot hadn’t detected her before, it couldn’t have missed the sounds of her climbing to her feet. She lurched toward the door, planning on leaping out into the corridor, but then she stopped, and her eyes focused on the opening.

  She would wait, and try to catch the thing as it entered the room. It would have to find her, lock on to her. She just might have a chance.

  She waited, breathing once, then twice.

  And then it was there. Just like the units she’d seen earlier, but in far better condition. A hundred thoughts ripped through her mind in a wild torrent, but she ignored them all. She just hurled the grenade, almost without a thought, and then she dove to the side, throwing her hands over the back of her head to shield her from the blast.

  Chapter Thirty

  Somewhere Inside Imperial Station

  Orbiting Zensoria, Osiron VI

  Year 301 AC

  Lorillard’s rifle snapped up. He’d heard something this time, for sure. Gunfire, a good distance away…sounding very much like some kind of exchange. He felt the urge to run down the corridor, to investigate, and he took a step forward to do just that.

  Who the hell could be fighting down there?

  He stopped abruptly as he saw shadows extending from around the far corner.

  He knew what they were immediately, and he ducked back, taking as much cover as he could behind the doorway.

  Foudre Rouge.

  His blood ran cold. To the Confeds in his crew, the Union soldiers were terrifying enough, but Lorillard had seen them in action, not against similarly-armed Confed Marines in pitched battles, but shooting down rioting crowds, smashing open doors, hauling away prisoners who were never seen again.

  They were merciless killing machines, utterly obedient to their masters, trained from birth for combat. The perfect warrior to form the steel fist of a brutal totalitarian regime.

  He had a fear for them no one else on Nightrunner could understand.

  And now they were coming. Coming for him, and for his people. It took all he had to hold back the panic, to control the shivering his fear was trying to unleash.

  He turned his head abruptly. “We’re out of time! Whatever you’ve got, it’s going to have to work.” Even as he said it, he knew what he was really telling them.

  ‘You’re going to die in a few minutes, so rig this place to blow before that happens.’

  He hated that he was giving up on his people, accepting that they were going to die there with him. But there was no way they were getting past the Foudre Rouge. He might take down one, with a massive assist from luck, maybe even two.

  But he could hear then approaching now, and he figured from the sounds, there were four at least.

  That meant the fight was hopeless. The only thing his people could do was to blow the station while they could.

  If they could. He had no idea if Yarra’s bomb was ready.

  “I need a few more minutes, Cap.” He could hear the tension, the near-panic in the engineer’s voice.

  “We don’t have it, Yarra.”

  “We’d better get it then, Cap…’cause this thing ain’t gonna blow, not yet. I’ve got to set the detonator into the explosive. Two minutes. Get me two minutes.”

  He nodded, a pointless gesture since he was facing the other direction, and he suspected her eyes were focused on her work. He didn’t know if he could get those two minutes, but he was damned sure going to try.

  He stared down the corridor, trying to focus, to aim for the spot where the enemy troopers would emerge. He had to get the first one, at least, take some advantage from whatever facsimile of surprise he would have. But even as he tried to clear his mind, a thought wandered in. He wondered if Yarra had realized yet, that they were all dead, that she was rigging that bomb to blow up herself as well as the station.

  Another second passed, perhaps two. Then he saw it. The slightest movement, nothing more than a helmeted head peering around the corner. He knew the shot would be difficult, that it would require almost perfect aim.

  He fired, without delay, even without thought, a burst of three rounds. For an instant, he wasn’t sure if he’d hit his target or not. The head had jerked back out of sight…but then an instant later, the Foudre Rouge fell forward, into the corridor, trailing a spray of bright red blood.

  Lorillard felt a rush of exhilaration, but there was no confidence accompanying it. He’d managed a head shot—the enemy’s head was all he’d had in his field of view—but he couldn’t be sure the soldier was dead. He fired again, two more bursts, this time hitting the still target three or four times.

  Even as he finished off the first soldier, another one popped around the corner. He heard the high-pitch of the enemy’s weapon, similar to the sound of his own. The hypersonic rounds ripped down the corridor faster than his eyes could track, even than his mind could imagine. He was jerking back, trying to dodge the enemy’s fire, but he wasn’t quick enough.

  For a second, he thought his arm had been torn clean off. But a quick glance confirmed the appendage, badly torn apart, was at least still there.

  He stumbled backwards from the door, somehow maintaining enough control to push himself away from the opening, out of the enemy’s direct line of sight.

  He dropped to one knee, letting the rifle drop at his side, as his hand swung around, reaching out, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his ruined arm.

  No…you can’t give up…you need another minute at least. He glanced again at his arm, the remnants of his once-light gray sleeve completely covered in deep red. He was bleeding to death, he realized that almost immediately.

  But can I last another minute…

  He pulled his hand away, and blood spurted out from the wound with a renewed force. He winced for an instant—the pain was almost unbearable—but he was focused on what he had to do. He’d been born into misery, watched his friends and family waste away working twelve hour shifts in filthy factories, seen those who protested, complained about their lots, dragged away forever. He hated the Union, and everything it stood for. He couldn’t let them move toward total control of the Rim, subject billions more to the tyranny and despair he’d endured.

  He would avenge his family, the comrades who’d set out to escape with him, those who’d never made it. He needed to live, for another minute at least.

  He needed to fight, to find the strength somewhere. He had to hold that door…somehow.

  He scooped up the rifle, struggling to bring it to bear with one hand. His one arm was half-severed and useless. He shifted to the side, trying to get some help balancing the gun from gravity, and he aimed the best he could toward the doorway. He could hear the enemy coming, the sounds of their boots on the metal deck.

  It was down to seconds now, seconds that might decide the very fate of the entire Rim.

  * * *

  Blackness, hazy thoughts, confusion. She lay on the deck, against the wall. There was blood streaming down her face. She could feel it. She reached up, her fingers feeling around, finding a nasty cut on her forehead. A few more seconds went by, and then suddenly, she was aware.

  She struggled to leap up to her feet, ignoring the pain from half a dozen small wounds. She reached for her pistol as she rose, but it was gone. She felt a panic inside her. She was unarmed. Almost. Her hand went to the sheath at her waist, pulled out her knife. It wasn’t much in a fight against an imperial security bot, but it was all she had.

  Her eyes scanned the room, looking for her enemy, even as she expected a burst of fire to take her down at any second. But there was nothing.

  Nothing except the scattered debris, the bot torn into four large sections, plus a few dozen small bits. The wreckage was twisted and blackened, and all of it was motionless.

  The grenade had done it.

  It had almost done her, too. She tried to turn to the side, but her mobility was all but gone. Everything hurt. Part of her wanted to drop back to the deck, to lie still so the pain—some of it, at least—would stop.

  But her mind was clear again, and she knew she wasn’t done. She still had a job to do.

  She looked around, finding the pistol laying a couple meters away, against the wall. She scooped it up, along with her rifle and her sack. Then, she stepped back out into the corridor. She glanced down at the dead Foudre Rouge, killed by the bot. But she only looked for an instant.

  She’d already lost time. There was no more to waste.

  She moved down the corridor, picking up her pace, limping painfully with each rushed step. She was driven by determination, by loyalty to her comrades…and by the rage flowing through her body.

  Nightrunner’s crew had been set up. She’d known that already, of course, in some way, but the thoughts had only just truly coalesced.

  They’d been sent out to die, to open the way for Sector Nine to come in and move into the station. The fury she felt at such treachery was like a force of nature, and it reinvigorated her battered body. There was no pain, no injury that would stop her. They would have to kill her…and if they didn’t, she was damned sure going to kill them.

  Every one of them.

  She pushed herself forward, listening carefully. There were more bots out there, she was sure enough about that, and there were Foudre Rouge, too. She didn’t know where, but she knew she had to hear them before they heard her.

  She had to get to the captain and the others. She had to help them get out of the trap they were in.

  She quickened her pace, and she spun around a corner. She’d seen the layout Sylene had pulled up from the station’s data system, and she remembered it. At least she was pretty sure she did. She’d always had a nearly perfect memory, and now she was betting on it.

  She was betting her life.

  She pushed forward, ignoring the pain and fatigue, and then she stopped dead.

  She wasn’t sure if she’d heard something first, or if some kind of sixth sense had intervened.

  Whatever it was, any doubt vanished an instant later.

  Gunfire…

  She was close to the reactor—at least to the spot on the schematic Yarra had guessed marked the power plant’s location. Her whole body tensed. There was a fight going on up ahead, and she knew her comrades were in the middle of it.

  She broke into a dead run, her rifle ready, and she whipped around another corner and stopped again.

  There were shadowy figures ahead of her, down the corridor. They were distracted, focused on something else. She saw one of them drop, and another lean around and open fire.

  Then, they all started to move forward, around the corner, firing as they went.

  She didn’t have a doubt, none at all. They were moving on her shipmates.

  Sy’s not much in a fight, and Yarra’s not much better…

  It was one of the things that had driven her to ignore the captain’s orders, to race to find and aid her comrades. Lorillard was the only real fighter in the group. And he was outgunned and trapped.

  She lurched forward, recklessly, knowing she was out of time. She opened up at full auto, running as she sprayed her fire up and down on the last Foudre Rouge trooper in the small enemy column. It would be luck, she knew, to catch him in a vulnerable spot with such crude aiming, but fortune had served her well before. It had taken her far from the filthy streets of the Gut. Had it done that only to see her die in the depths of dead space, a hundred lightyears from any inhabited planet?

  She was going to find out.

  Her fire ceased as her clip ran out, but she could see her target was already falling. She’d unloaded fifty rounds into him, and from the volume of blood she could see, she knew at least a few of those had gotten through the armor.

  Her hand reached back behind her, into her bag, grabbing a reload. She jammed it into place, and then she raced down the corridor, chasing the other Foudre Rouge and lost in a wild frenzy of combat and killing.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Somewhere Inside Imperial Station

  Orbiting Zensoria, Osiron VI

  Year 301 AC

  Lorillard’s fire was erratic, the rifle shaking in his single-handed grip, sending shots all around in all directions. Still, the first Foudre Rouge in the room fell back, struck by several of the hypervelocity rounds. At such short range, the military-grade projectiles tore through the trooper’s armor with ease, leaving a gaping hole in the dead man’s chest.

  The kickback was too much, though, and the weapon finally wrested itself free from Lorillard’s tenuous grasp. The gun skittered across the floor, and the captain lost what little balance he’d regained, and he fell to the cold steel of the deck.

  He struggled to remain in action, even as he rolled over, sliding around in the expanding pool of his own blood that surrounded him. He could feel weakness, fatigue. He knew he was dead if he didn’t at least slow the bleeding, but there was no time. Another Foudre Rouge soldier was turning toward him even then, bringing his rifle around.

  Lorillard pulled his pistol from its holster, and he fired, wildly, emptying the cartridge in a couple seconds. He managed to hit, with at least one or two shots, but the handgun wasn’t the military level weapon his rifle was, and the weaker rounds just pinged off his enemy’s armor.

  Lorillard was vaguely aware of the others, Sylene and Yarra, scrambling for weapons themselves, but he knew they would be too late.

  The Foudre Rouge was already aiming, about to fire, when Lorillard saw…something.

  Movement, behind the enemy soldier. He thought it was another Foudre Rouge at first, but even the fleeting glimpse he’d managed was enough to tell him it wasn’t.

  Then, the fire began.

  He gritted his teeth, preparing himself for the shots that would finish him, but the shooting he heard was different, not the high-pitched whine of the enemy’s hypervelocity rounds.