The fire died at the waterline.
Behind them, the Italian coast was a glowing ember. The smoke from Pisa twisted into the sky, black and angry.
Ahead, the sea was gray. Cold. Empty.
Except for the wall.
It wasn't a wall. It was a hull.
Marcus looked up. His neck cracked.
The aircraft carrier blocked out the rising sun. It was a mountain of riveted steel, rising two hundred feet straight up from the water.
Rust streaked down its sides like dried blood. Barnacles clustered at the waterline, thick as concrete.
It smelled of diesel. It smelled of wet iron. It smelled of rot.
"Big," Marcia whispered.
She was shivering. Her Board officer's coat was soaked, heavy as lead. But her hands were steady on her railgun.
She aimed it at the massive shadow looming over them.
"Don't," Marcus said. His voice was a rasp. His throat tasted like smoke.
"They signaled us," Marcia said. "But they aren't lowering a ladder."
"They don't need a ladder," Marcus said.
A siren wailed.
It sounded like a dying whale. Low, mournful, mechanical.
High above, a hatch opened in the side of the hull.
Movement. Shadows.
Chains rattled. Massive, rusted links the size of truck tires.
A platform descended. It was an aircraft elevator, big enough to hold a tank. It lowered jerkily, screaming metal-on-metal.
SCREEE-CLUNK. SCREEE-CLUNK.
It hit the water with a splash that rocked their rafts violently.
Waves washed over the deck. Salt water stung Marcus's burns.
The platform leveled out, half-submerged.
Figures stood on it. Six of them.
They wore yellow rubber slickers and gas masks. They held assault rifles—old kinetic ones, not Board lasers.
One of them waved a hand. Come.
"Trap," Decimus said. He gripped his spear.
"Rescue," Narcissus rumbled. "Or prison. Does it matter?"
The giant was sitting in a pool of oily water on the center barge. His red eye was flickering.
"No," Marcus said. "We don't have a choice."
He stood up. His legs shook. His nanites were screaming for glucose.
"Paddle," Marcus ordered.
The refugees dug their debris-paddles into the gray water. The raft island drifted toward the steel platform.
They bumped against the metal grate.
"Get off," one of the yellow-slickers barked. His voice was muffled by the mask.
Marcus stepped onto the platform. It was slick with oil and algae.
He reached back to help Marcia. She refused his hand. She jumped, landing in a crouch, railgun up.
The refugees followed. Two hundred exhausted, burnt, soaking souls. They huddled together in the center of the lift.
"The big one," the slicker said. He pointed his rifle at Narcissus.
Narcissus tried to stand.
His servos whined. A sound like a drill hitting bone.
He got halfway up. His right leg locked. The knee joint was fused solid from the heat of the firestorm.
He collapsed.
CLANG.
The raft tipped.
"I am... functional," Narcissus grunted.
He dug his fingers into the steel mesh of the lift. He pulled.
He dragged himself onto the platform. His dead leg trailed behind him like an anchor.
It was humiliating. The Titan who had crushed a factory was crawling like a crippled dog.
The slickers didn't help. They just watched.
"Clear the edge!" the leader yelled.
He hit a button on a control box hanging from his neck.
The chains tightened.
The platform jerked upward.
They rose.
The sea dropped away. The air grew colder. The smell of the ship got stronger—ozone, unwashed bodies, frying grease.
[WARNING: BATTERY AT 3%.]
[SUGGESTION: DO NOT START A FIGHT, BOSS.]
"Thanks, JARVIS," Marcus muttered.
They passed a hole in the hull. Someone was welding inside. Sparks showered down on the refugees.
They passed a drain pipe. Brown sludge poured out of it, splashing into the sea below.
"Sanitation is primitive," JARVIS noted. "Cholera risk: High."
The platform shuddered. It reached the top.
The flight deck.
It wasn't an airstrip. It was a slum.
Marcus blinked against the gray morning light.
The deck stretched for three hundred meters. It was covered in tents made from old parachutes. Shipping containers were stacked like apartments.
Fires burned in oil drums. Smoke drifted across the deck.
There were people everywhere.
Not soldiers. Scavengers.
Men with prosthetic limbs made of car parts. Women washing clothes in buckets of rainwater. Children running between stacks of crates.
They stopped what they were doing.
Hundreds of eyes turned to the lift.
They looked at the refugees. They looked at the wet clothes. They looked at the weapons.
Hungry eyes.
"Welcome to the Styx," the yellow-slicker said.
A man walked through the crowd.
He wasn't wearing a slicker. He wore a crisp, clean naval uniform. It was threadbare and patched, but pressed.
He had a pistol on his hip. An old revolver.
He stopped ten feet from Marcus.
He looked Marcus up and down. He saw the burns. The dirt. The glowing gold lines of the Neural Link.
"I am Deck Officer Kael," the man said. "This is a sovereign vessel. You are unauthorized cargo."
"We are refugees," Marcus said. "We need medical aid. And repairs."
He pointed at Narcissus, who was still prone on the metal grate.
Kael looked at the giant. He sniffed.
"We don't do charity," Kael said. "Payment is upfront."
"We have labor," Marcus said. "My men are strong."
"We have enough backs," Kael said. "We need steel."
He pointed at Marcia.
"The gun," Kael said. "And the shotgun. And the spears."
Marcia stepped forward.
"Touch this gun," she snarled, "and I'll paint this deck with your brains."
Kael didn't flinch. He didn't even reach for his pistol.
He raised a hand.
A red dot appeared on Marcia's forehead.
Then another on her chest.
Then three more on Marcus.
Marcus looked up.
The ship's control tower—the Island—loomed over the deck.
Snipers.
"Railguns are nice," Kael said calmly. "But high-velocity rounds go through three people before they stop. My snipers don't miss."
Marcia's finger tightened on the trigger. Her knuckles were white.
"Marcia," Marcus said softly.
"I can take him," she whispered.
"You can take him," Marcus said. "But the Legion dies."
He looked at the red dots dancing on the refugees.
"Stand down, General."
Marcia froze. She looked at Marcus. She looked at the sniper tower.
She let out a breath. A hiss of rage.
She lowered the railgun.
She reversed it. She held it out, handle first.
"Take it," she spat.
Kael snapped his fingers. Two slickers stepped forward and grabbed the heavy weapon. They took Decimus's spear. They took the refugees' knives.
"Good," Kael said. "Now the trash."
He pointed at Narcissus.
The giant was leaking.
Black fluid pooled under his chassis. A hydraulic line had burst during the crawl.
"He's leaking coolant on my deck," Kael said. "Corrosive."
"He needs a mechanic," Galen said, pushing to the front. "I can fix him!"
"He's dead weight," Kael said. "We don't have the spare parts for a Titan-class frame. He's scrap."
Kael looked at his men.
"Push it overboard."
"No!" Galen screamed.
Three men moved toward Narcissus. They grabbed his good arm. They started to drag him toward the edge of the lift. A hundred-foot drop to the sea.
Narcissus groaned. His eye flickered. He tried to lock his arm, but his servos failed.
He slid across the wet grate.
SCREEE.
"Stop," Marcus said.
Kael ignored him. "Heave!"
Marcus stepped in front of the dragging men.
He raised his left arm.
[BATTERY: 3%]
[WARNING: SHIELD FAILURE IMMINENT.]
[DO IT ANYWAY?]
[YES.]
HUMMM.
A wall of purple light sprang into existence. It flickered. It buzzed like an angry hornet.
It blocked the men. They recoiled from the heat.
"I said stop," Marcus growled.
Kael looked at the shield. His eyes widened.
He'd seen guns. He'd seen knives. He hadn't seen hard-light tech. Not out here.
"He is not scrap," Marcus said. His voice was low. Dangerous. "He is my brother."
The shield sparked. It popped. It was unstable.
"Touch him again," Marcus said, "and I will burn a hole through your hull and sink this floating rust bucket."
It was a lie.
If he fired a beam, his battery would die instantly. He would pass out.
But Kael didn't know that.
Kael looked at the shield. He looked at the glowing gold lines on Marcus's neck.
He licked his lips. Greed replaced contempt.
"Energy," Kael whispered.
He waved his hand. The men stepped back from Narcissus.
"Fine," Kael said. "The scrap stays."
He looked Marcus in the eye.
"But you're not guests," Kael said. "You're steerage."
He pointed to a large, dark freight elevator set into the deck floor.
"Processing is below decks," Kael said. "Move your metal friend. If he drops one more ounce of oil, I'm taking it out of your skin."
Marcus deactivated the shield.
The light died.
His vision swam. Black spots danced in his eyes.
He stumbled.
Marcia caught him.
"You okay?" she whispered.
"Empty," Marcus gasped. "I'm running on fumes."
"Let's get below," she said. "Before you fall over."
Galen and four refugees grabbed Narcissus's limbs. They heaved.
"One, two, three!"
They lifted the giant. He was dead weight. Tons of it.
They dragged him off the lift and onto the freight elevator.
The refugees followed, heads down, eyes on the floor.
Kael watched them go. He tapped his headset.
"Captain," Kael said into his mic. "We caught a big fish. He's got a Nuclear Battery."
The freight elevator doors slammed shut.
Darkness took them.
The lift began to descend. Down into the belly of the iron beast.
Down into the rust.