The descent was fast.
Marcus watched the bioluminescent gardens blur into the neon smog of Hangar Bay 2. The air in the glass elevator grew thick and hot again.
He held the heavy brass key in his fist. It dug into his palm.
"You really going to do it?" Scylla asked. She was leaning on her hammer, her mechanical eye studying him.
"I don't have a choice," Marcus said.
"Everyone has a choice," Scylla grunted. "You could steal a skiff. Make a run for the coast. The Boatman wouldn't care. He expects you to run."
"My people are in that cage," Marcus said. "And my brother is dying on a metal slab."
Scylla looked at him. The shark smile faded.
"Iron," she whispered. "The Boatman likes iron."
The elevator hit the hangar deck with a heavy CLANG.
They walked out into the chaos of the market. The night cycle was ending. The artificial day lamps were flickering on, casting a harsh, orange glare over the rusted stalls and the canal of sludge.
Marcus walked fast. His nanites were screaming for fuel, but the thirty amps in his pocket were useless now. He needed to get the team out.
They reached the Quarantine zone.
The fat Tax Collector was there. He was tapping his tablet, counting the refugees through the chain-link fence.
"Ah," the Collector sneered as Marcus approached. "The Warlord returns. Empty-handed, I see. Rent is due in two days."
Marcus didn't speak. He stepped past the Collector.
He jammed the brass key into the heavy analog lock on the gate.
CLICK. CLACK.
He turned it. The heavy deadbolts retracted.
The Collector's eyes widened. "Hey! You can't open that! That's a secure zone!"
Scylla stepped forward. She didn't say a word. She just dropped the head of her hammer onto the deck. It cracked the steel plating.
The Collector swallowed hard. He backed away. "Right. The Boatman's business. Excuse me."
Marcus pushed the gate open.
The refugees scrambled back, terrified of Scylla looming behind him.
Marcia pushed her way to the front. She looked exhausted, her face smeared with grease.
"You're alive," she said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of relief.
She didn't hug him. She punched him lightly in the shoulder.
"Took you long enough," she muttered.
"I got delayed," Marcus said. He looked past her. "Galen. Status."
Galen was huddled next to Narcissus. The giant's red eye was still dark. The smell of decaying bio-gel was stronger now. Sweet and sickening.
"He's slipping," Galen said, his voice trembling. "His core temperature is dropping. If it hits room temp, his brain dies."
"Pack him up," Marcus ordered. "We're moving."
He reached into his jacket. He pulled out three thick, sealed foil packets.
"Real food," Marcus said, tossing them to Decimus. "Not algae paste. Bread. Dried meat. Scylla's stash."
Scylla scowled, but she didn't object.
The refugees fell on the food like starving wolves. Decimus had to shout to keep them from tearing the packets apart in a frenzy.
"How did you pay for this?" Lucilla asked. She was holding her bruised cheek, eyeing Scylla warily. "You didn't have enough Amps."
"I made a deal," Marcus said.
He looked at his core team. Marcia, Lucilla, Galen.
"The Boatman wants me to fix the ship's reactor," Marcus said quietly. "It's melting down. The control rods are jammed. If I do it, he prints a new spine for Narcissus."
Galen dropped his wrench. It clattered on the deck.
"The reactor?" Galen whispered. "Marcus, that's a Class-9 Rad Zone. The shielding is gone. You'll cook from the inside out in twenty minutes."
"JARVIS said fourteen percent survival," Marcus corrected dryly.
"That's suicide!" Marcia grabbed his arm. Her grip was tight. Desperate. "We can fight our way out. We take the lift. We steal a boat."
"And Narcissus?" Marcus pointed to the giant. "We carry two tons of dead weight past three thousand armed scavengers? No. We do the job."
He looked at Scylla.
"Where is the safe house?"
"Level 4. Velvet Deck slums," Scylla grunted. "Follow me. Keep your people close. The market is hungry today."
They moved out.
It was a slow, agonizing procession. It took eight men, including Decimus, to haul Narcissus's mag-sled out of the cage.
They walked through the main thoroughfare of Hangar Bay 2.
The noise of the market washed over them. Grinding metal, shouting vendors, the hum of jury-rigged generators.
The refugees huddled close together, terrified of the scavengers who stared at them with hollow, hungry eyes.
Marcus walked point with Scylla. Marcia guarded the rear with a scavenged pipe.
They passed a row of stalls built into the shell of a gutted fighter jet.
Neon signs buzzed overhead.
"Scrap Metal."
"Water Filters."
"Board Tech. Unlocked."
Lucilla was walking near the front, trying to keep her head down. Her pristine Board uniform was torn and stained, but the high-quality synthetic fabric still stood out against the rags of the locals.
They walked past the "Board Tech" stall.
The merchant was a thin man with a severe radiation burn covering half his face. He was polishing a cracked tablet screen.
He looked up as the procession passed.
His eyes fell on Lucilla.
He froze. The rag slipped from his hand.
He stared at the sharp cut of her cheekbones. The specific silver threading on her collar denoting Executive status.
"No," the merchant whispered.
He stood up so fast his stool tipped over with a clatter.
"You," he croaked. His voice was ragged, destroyed by breathing ash for years.
Lucilla turned. She looked at him.
Confusion. Then recognition. Then sheer terror.
"Alistair?" Lucilla breathed.
"You!" The merchant screamed. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated hatred.
He lunged across his stall.
"The Butcher of Sector 4!" he roared, pointing a trembling finger at Lucilla.
The market around them went dead silent.
The grinding stopped. The shouting stopped.
Hundreds of heads turned.
"Sector 4," a scavenger nearby muttered. He dropped a wrench.
"The Purge," a woman whispered, pulling her child behind her.
Lucilla backed away. She hit the side of Narcissus's mag-sled.
"Alistair, I... I left them," Lucilla stammered. "I defected."
"You ordered the glassing of New Milan!" Alistair screamed. Tears streamed down his burned face. "My wife was in the transit hub! My daughters!"
He grabbed a heavy steel gear from his table.
He threw it.
It flew true. It hit Lucilla squarely in the forehead.
CRACK.
Lucilla cried out and collapsed, blood instantly pouring down her face.
The silence broke.
The market exploded.
"Board scum!" someone yelled.
"Kill her!"
The crowd surged forward. It wasn't an army. It was a mob of desperate, angry people who had lost everything to the Board. And now, a Board Executive was standing in their living room.
"Form up!" Decimus roared. The Legionnaires raised their fists and pipes, forming a protective ring around the sled and Lucilla.
But they were two hundred exhausted men against thousands.
A scavenger with a rusted machete lunged at the line.
Marcia swung her pipe, catching him in the ribs, but two more took his place.
They were being overrun.
Marcus stepped over Lucilla.
He didn't have his sword. He didn't have his shield. He was running on 14% battery.
He reached down and drew a combat knife he had lifted from the casino guard. It was six inches of dull steel.
It was nothing against a mob.
"JARVIS," Marcus thought. "Options."
[Calculating...]
[Crowd density: Critical. Hostility: Maximum.]
[Survival probability without crowd control: 3%.]
[Suggestion: Let Scylla work.]
A shadow fell over the mob.
Scylla stepped in front of Marcus.
She didn't shout. She didn't reason.
She swung her hammer.
It wasn't a warning swing. She put her mechanical shoulder behind it.
The massive engine-block head smashed into Alistair's stall.
CRASH.
Wood, metal, and Board tech exploded into the air. The shockwave threw the front line of the mob backward.
Scylla stood in the wreckage. She raised the hammer with one hand.
"She belongs to the Boatman!" Scylla roared. Her voice echoed off the high ceiling of the hangar, loud enough to rattle teeth.
The mob froze.
They hated the Board. But they feared the Butcher.
"The Warlord bought her life with iron," Scylla growled, sweeping her gaze over the angry faces. "Anyone who touches her, answers to me. And the Pit is hungry."
The scavengers hesitated. The man with the machete lowered his weapon and melted back into the crowd.
Alistair was on his knees in the ruins of his stall, weeping.
"She killed them," he sobbed. "She killed them all."
Marcus looked down at Lucilla. She was conscious, but dazed. Blood covered her eyes. She wasn't denying it. The guilt was written plain on her face.
She really was a monster to these people. Just like Vane was to Marcus.
"Get her up," Marcus said to Marcia. "Move."
They pushed through the silent, glaring crowd.
The hatred was palpable. It pressed against them like physical heat. They were safe for now, but the mob wouldn't forget. Lucilla was a walking target.
They reached the service elevator at the end of the market.
They loaded Narcissus and the wounded. The doors closed, shutting out the angry eyes.
They rode up to Level 4. The Velvet Deck Slums.
It was quieter here. The air was cleaner.
Scylla led them to a large, empty storage bay. It had a reinforced steel door and air vents.
"Safe house," Scylla said, leaning against the doorframe. "You have until tomorrow night cycle. Rest. Eat. Because the core is waiting."
She didn't look at Lucilla. She just walked away, her hammer dragging on the floor.
Marcus helped Lucilla inside. Marcia was already tearing a strip of cloth to bandage her head.
"I'm sorry," Lucilla whispered. She was shaking. "I thought... I thought because I was fighting Vane, it was erased."
"Nothing is erased," Marcus said coldly. "We just carry it."
He looked at the exhausted refugees collapsing on the hard deck. He looked at Narcissus, cold and silent.
He had bought them a day. One single day.
Suddenly, the steel deck vibrated.
Not the steady hum of the engines. A sharp, violent shudder.
The red emergency lights in the safe house flickered, then flared to full brightness.
A siren wailed. Not the mournful tone of the shift change. A high-pitched, frantic scream.
WEE-OOO. WEE-OOO.
"What now?" Marcia yelled over the noise, dropping the bandage.
"The reactor?" Galen panicked, scrambling backward. "Is it blowing early?"
Marcus touched his temple.
"JARVIS. Report."
[Boss.] JARVIS's voice was tight. Not sarcastic. Worried.
[It's not the reactor. It's external.]
Marcus ran to a small porthole window set into the thick hull of the storage bay.
He wiped the grime away and looked out at the ocean.
The sea was no longer empty.
The horizon was glowing. Not with the rising sun. With fire.
Dozens of red lights were speeding across the water, cutting through the mist. They were leaving trails of burning fuel on the surface of the sea.
And behind them, a massive shadow. A Board stealth-frigate, painted matte black, breaking the waves.
[Heat signatures massing off the port bow.] JARVIS confirmed.
[Identify.] Marcus demanded.
[Matching acoustic profile. It's the violin music, Boss.]
Marcus stared out the glass.
Nero had found them. The Inferno was here.
And Marcus was trapped on a dying ship, with a nuclear bomb in the basement, and nowhere to run.