They were a block and a half away and Lukas’ lower half was still enshrouded in smoke. They probably did not see him. He squinted, trying to make out their markings. Narrow blue, wide white. Lyran.
But were they rebels or loyalists? In a civil war, even the generals had trouble keeping track of which regiments were on whose side. For a civilian, it was impossible. He wished he knew; if the troopers were loyalists, maybe he could go to them for protection. Let them know who he was, who he had killed, and he’d be fine. He’d just have to portray what he’d done as an act of war, the kind of thing they did every day. He wasn’t a criminal, he was a hero. They’d understand.
He shook his head. They wouldn’t. People like him were never heroes. If discovered and caught, they wound up in deep, dark holes. They were the dirty secrets of the universe, and most people wanted them to stay hidden.
Best to assume they’d be hostile. Staying near the ruined buildings on the south side of the street, picking his way through the rubble, Lukas moved east, away from the infantry.
They didn’t follow. The troopers stood in the street, not in any sort of formation, talking with each other. A full day under fire is enough to scatter any platoon, and these soldiers were probably disoriented, confused, and weary. All that worked to Lukas’ advantage.
He picked his way a block and a half ahead before the troopers moved. One of them issued an order. Lukas was too far away to hear what he said, but the commanding tone was unmistakable, and they quickly fell in behind him, walking ahead, drawing closer to Lukas.
He cursed. Normally he’d have no difficulty finding shelter in this city. He’d only been back for a year, but he had dozens of places to hide. The few good contacts he’d made in that time, though, were now either dead or fled and his safe havens buried under rubble. The rebels sweeping through Tukwila had destroyed the webs he’d woven—another reason not to feel bad for what he had done to their cause on Luthien.
The infantry was rapidly drawing close, their speed leaving him few options. He didn’t want to be seen, certainly didn’t want to be questioned by troopers. He had to stay ahead of them. He picked up his pace, made it to the end of the block, and turned south.
That was a mistake. After only half a block, Lukas saw a looming silhouette, well over ten meters tall—a Zeus—walk into the street about half a kilometer away. It turned and headed north, toward him, scanning the ground with a searchlight. Looking for infantry.
He turned, but only briefly. The infantry had arrived behind him, walking right toward the lumbering, heavy-shouldered ’Mech. Panic spiked through Lukas’ head.
Insanity. Six troops didn’t stand a chance against a ’Mech, especially one this size. The infantry should have turned back as soon as they saw it, unless the stress of battle had made them suicidal. But the troopers and the Zeus closed on each other, with Lukas squeezed between.
He didn’t understand the troopers’ decision to walk forward until he reached the next cross street and saw a smaller ’Mech to the west, crouched in the shadows of one of Tukwila’s taller buildings. It was completely still, weapons poised and ready, aimed at the intersection where Lukas stood. He had seen this model before, with its bulbous legs and round shoulder turrets, but its name escaped his mind.
The Zeus was being lured forward so the other ’Mech could pounce. The trap was going to be sprung in the intersection where Lukas stood.
He had only one way to go—east, toward the front lines. Toward the explosions, the mortar whistles, and the screams. He’d endured that for ten hours today. He couldn’t, wouldn’t be able to endure any more.
The first shots fired by the infantry told him he didn’t have a choice. Their SRMs worked as intended, doing no serious damage but angering the Zeus. It stomped forward.
Lukas ran.
He’d made it only a block before the intersection behind him exploded. A roar nearly shattered his eardrums and the ground heaved beneath his feet. He flew five meters, then rolled sideways across the ferrocrete. His legs and arms never stopped moving, and soon he was up again, running. Someone was dead in the intersection behind him, he was sure. But it wasn’t him.
He was only conscious of smoke swirling around him, of his feet pounding the battered street. He thought of nothing but motion.
Two blocks later, his luck almost ran out. He heard the crackle of gunfire just as he entered another intersection—look both ways before crossing, some detached part of his brain told him—and he jumped backward and rolled behind the corner, out of harm’s way. He didn’t notice the crease of blood across the back of his left hand until he wiped sweat from his brow.
He looked curiously at the wound for a moment. He’d never been shot. Been a shooter, but never been shot. It stung.
He shook his attention back to the present, poking his head around the corner. It was bad. Infantry to the north. A ’Mech to the east, another south. And the survivors of the skirmish to the west would undoubtedly be closing in soon.
On top of that, he had no shelter. The buildings that used to stand on this block were no use. No doorways remained clear, no roofs were intact. The crumbling interior might kill him faster than the warring armies.
He felt his right hand fluttering. He looked at it, tried to will
