The klaxons did not stop.
BZZZZT. BZZZZT.
Thirty-six hours.
The number hung in the humid, ozone-choked air of Hangar 2 like a guillotine blade. Five thousand scavengers stared at Warlord Marcus Holt. They were clutching their newly dropped glowing Amps, their sudden wealth entirely rendered useless by the reality of thirst.
A human body can survive three days without water in perfect conditions.
This was a rusted metal box floating over a boiling, toxic ocean. They would be drinking each other's blood by tomorrow night.
Marcus didn't call a council. He didn't ask for opinions.
He turned on his heel and started walking toward the massive launch doors. His heavy naval coat snapped around his ankles.
"JARVIS," Marcus thought, the gold lines on his temple flaring hot. "Open ship-wide."
[Channel open, Boss. You are live.]
"Boatman," Marcus projected his voice directly into the Spire's command feed. "Turn this rust bucket around. Bring us three miles off the Naples coast. Maximum thrust."
A crackle of static hit his inner ear.
"We drop anchor that close, the Board's coastal batteries will peel us like a grape," the ancient cyborg rasped back.
"Then give me the CIWS guns on auto-target," Marcus ordered, his boots slamming against the steel deck. "Shoot down anything that flies. We are invading right now."
Marcus pointed a finger at the massive cyborg enforcer standing near the canal.
"Scylla!" Marcus yelled. "Get these people to the cranes!"
The Butcher of the Styx didn't hesitate. She slammed her massive hammer against the side of a gutted F-35 fighter jet. The boom shook the hangar.
"Move!" Scylla roared. "Into the dropships! You want to live, you grab a rifle and get in a boat!"
Panic erupted, but this time it was directed. It was functional.
Thousands of filthy, gaunt scavengers shoved their glowing Amps into their pockets and scrambled toward the rusted salvage barges hanging from the ceiling cranes. They were terrified. They were shoving each other, fighting for space on the swaying platforms.
Marcus watched a young man drop his Amp. He ignored it, diving headfirst into a swinging metal basket just to secure a spot.
Wealth meant nothing without water.
A heavy hand grabbed Marcus's shoulder.
It spun him around. He was suddenly shoved hard into the dark space between two massive shipping crates, away from the screaming mob.
Marcia stood in front of him. Her scarred face was pale in the dim light.
"Have you lost your mind?" Marcia hissed. Her hands gripped the receiver of her shotgun so hard her knuckles were white.
"We don't have time for this, Marcia," Marcus said, trying to step around her.
She stepped into his path, blocking him.
"You are sending farmers and scrap-rats against a fortified Board position," Marcia said, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "They don't have armor. Half of them are holding sharpened pipes. It's a slaughter."
Marcus looked at her. He didn't blink.
The gold UI in his vision was running casualty algorithms. The numbers were entirely red.
"I know," Marcus said. His voice was completely flat.
Marcia froze. She stared into his eyes, looking for the Warlord who had fought tooth and nail to save every single refugee in Syria.
She didn't find him. She found an Emperor.
"It's basic Warlord math, Marcia," Marcus said coldly. "We have water for thirty-six hours for five thousand people."
He leaned in closer. The smell of ash and sweat rolled off him.
"If Nero kills two thousand of them on that beach," Marcus whispered, "the remaining three thousand get another day to live. And another day gives me time to crack the purification plant."
Marcia took a slow step back.
Her breath hitched. The sheer, ruthless logic of it chilled her to the bone.
It was exactly the kind of math Executive Vane would use.
"You're using them as a meat shield," she said, her voice hollow.
"I'm using them as a distraction," Marcus corrected. "Nero's automated turrets will be firing at five hundred junk boats. That gives our Vanguard a ten percent higher survival rate to slip in and hack the grid."
He reached out and gently touched her cheek. His thumb brushed over her scar.
"I have to save this ship," Marcus said softly. "But I have to save you first. And I need you to lead the Vanguard."
Marcia closed her eyes for a second. She took a deep breath, burying the horror under a thick layer of Roman discipline.
She opened her eyes. They were hard as flint.
"Who is the Vanguard?" she asked.
"You. Me. Narcissus," Marcus said. He turned to look out into the hangar. "And the Butcher of Sector 4."
Lucilla was standing near the safe house. She was shivering, clutching her bloody head bandage.
Marcus walked out from behind the crates and marched straight toward his sister.
Lucilla looked up at him, her eyes wide with terror.
"I can't fight," Lucilla stammered, backing away. "Marcus, please. I don't know how to shoot. I'll just be in the way."
Marcus reached into his naval coat. He pulled out a heavily modified, scavenged Board datapad. He shoved it hard into her chest.
Lucilla instinctively grabbed it.
"You aren't going to shoot," Marcus said. "You're going to slice."
He pointed toward the open launch bay doors. The black ocean was churning violently below them.
"Naples is a Board terraforming hub," Marcus said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "The water purification plant will be locked behind a military-grade firewall. JARVIS will be blind as soon as Nero turns on the signal jammers."
[He will absolutely jam me, Boss,] JARVIS chimed in. [My wireless connection to the ship will drop the second we hit the beach.]
"I need hands on the terminal," Marcus told her. "I need someone who knows Vane's code. I need you."
Lucilla looked at the heavy datapad. Her hands shook violently.
"If I fail, everyone dies," she whispered.
"Then don't fail," Marcus said. He turned his back on her. "Narcissus!"
The Iron Dog stepped forward.
CLANG. HISS.
The massive hydraulic piston in his new right leg locked with a sickening crunch. The deck plates groaned under his sheer weight. He stood twelve feet tall, a walking mountain of battleship steel and anchor chains.
"We drop," Narcissus rumbled. His voice was deeper now, resonating from a heavy steel chest cavity.
Marcus nodded. He led the Vanguard toward Launch Bay 4.
A massive, flat-bottomed salvage barge was hanging over the open water. It was rusted, ugly, and plated with welded sheets of scrap metal. Two massive outboard engines were bolted to the back.
Scylla was currently kicking scavengers off the boat to make room.
"Out!" Scylla roared, throwing a man onto the deck. "Warlord's barge! Find another ride!"
Marcus stepped onto the swaying metal platform. Marcia followed, immediately moving to the bow and racking a slug into her shotgun chamber.
Lucilla scrambled aboard, pressing herself against the rusted side wall. She clutched the datapad like a shield.
Then, Narcissus stepped onto the boat.
CRACK.
The entire salvage barge pitched violently downward. The rusted suspension cables holding it to the crane shrieked in protest.
Marcus grabbed the railing to keep from sliding into the sea.
The left side of the boat was sitting nearly a foot deeper in the water just from the Dreadnought's weight.
"Stand in the center, brother," Marcus grunted, finding his footing.
Narcissus moved to the dead center of the barge. He crossed his massive iron arms. The boat leveled out, but it rode dangerously low in the water.
"Lower us!" Marcus screamed up at the crane operator.
The winch gears ground together with a deafening screech. The barge dropped suddenly, plunging fifteen feet before the cables caught, swaying wildly over the abyss.
Below them, the ocean was black and violent.
Above them, the Carrier's hangar was a cacophony of screaming engines, blaring klaxons, and desperate people.
Dozens of other salvage craft were already dropping into the water around them. It was a chaotic, uncoordinated mess. It was the furthest thing from a disciplined Roman legion Marcus had ever seen.
It was a suicide charge.
"JARVIS," Marcus thought. "Status on Nero's frigate?"
[Frigate has retreated behind the coastal defense line, Boss. He's letting the automated batteries do the heavy lifting. He's waiting for us.]
The winch screamed again. The barge plummeted the final thirty feet.
SMASH.
The heavy flat bottom slammed into the ocean surface. A wall of freezing black water crashed over the sides, soaking Marcus to the bone.
The salt stung his eyes. The cold stole his breath.
The crane cables detached with a metallic clatter. They were loose.
"Engines!" Marcus roared to the scavenger pilot at the rear helm.
The twin outboard motors coughed, spewed a cloud of black smoke, and roared to life. The barge surged forward, immediately plowing through the heavy, choppy waves.
Marcus stood at the front of the boat, gripping the rusted rail.
He looked past the bow. He looked through the thick, unnatural morning fog rolling off the water.
He finally saw the coast of Naples.
It wasn't a city of stone ruins. It wasn't the dead, frozen wasteland they had fought through in Bulgaria.
It was a nightmare.
A massive, hyper-oxygenated jungle had swallowed the ruins of the Italian coast. Towering, mutated vines choked the rusted skeletons of skyscrapers.
But that wasn't the worst part.
The jungle was glowing.
A sickly, bright orange light pulsed from beneath the canopy. It reflected off the low-hanging clouds.
Nero had already set the perimeter on fire.
Towering walls of chemical flames licked the sky, turning the horizon into a jagged jaw of fire. The heat radiated across the water, hitting Marcus's wet face like an open oven door.
They weren't just sailing into an ambush.
They were sailing straight into a furnace.
Marcus drew his combat knife. The steel caught the orange light of the burning coast.
"Thirty-six hours," Marcus whispered to himself.
He gripped the rail harder as the barge plunged into the next dark wave. The invasion had begun.