‘No! There’s got to be something!’ Katherine panted. ‘Vakov!’
But I was screwed. Fusebombs have a thirty-second countdown. Assuming Joreth had set it off when he shut the door, I was almost out of time.
But my body’s survival instinct wouldn’t let me quit and the gears kept spinning.
I scooped up my weapons and bundled my body into the largest of the crates. For the first time in my life I wished I wasn’t such a big guy as I crammed myself into the rock case. Squeezing the weapons between my legs, I sealed the case shut and gritted my teeth as my injury scraped against the metal, sour sweat dripping down to where the harness buckle was rubbing between my shoulders. How long was I going to be—
There was a flaring, hellish explosion, swallowing up the world in a bone-shaking roar, loud as Harvest artillery fire. My guts leaped into my mouth as the crate went flipping into the air and slammed hard against the wall. My head collided with metal and my mouth filled with blood. I almost bit my tongue in half, choking as smoke seeped in.
I’d survived.
But when I tried to push the crate open, it wouldn’t budge. Sealed shut. My eyes were watering from the smoke. I heard the distinct crackle of burning wood and realised I’d locked myself in my own coffin. I twisted in the choking darkness, finding the corners, the crate’s weak points. Metal ground against my spine as I manoeuvred myself around, steadily drawing on the stormtech, and pushing against both sides of the crate. Heat built against my skin and I felt my legs, arms and back strengthen, an animal growl tearing out of my throat. I raked in a breath, choking smoke pouring down into my lungs. The next few breaths were going to be my last.
Something gave under my fist. I drew back my hand and punched where the seal would be. The metal groaned as it dented. I punched again, again, again, my knuckles tearing open and bleeding. I swore I felt a bone breaking, but between one blow and the next the stormtech had already repaired it. The seal gave a splintering crack and I tumbled out into a burning inferno. The fire was barely visible through the cloud of smoke. I coughed and heaved as clawed up my weapons. The door had been damaged in the explosion, the tattered remains bursting apart as I powered through. The groaning stairs collapsed under me as I raced down them, sending me flying, almost me skewering on a chunk of rebar. I staggered, choking and spluttering through the roaring blaze. Everything was a fiery red smudge of heat. Smouldering beams collapsing around me, spitting hot wooden shrapnel. Glass and windowpanes shattering in my face. The fire spreading as it swiftly cut off all exits.
There: a slice of daylight ahead, stabbing through the smoke. Not knowing if I was on fire and not caring, I leaped over a burning table and I hurled myself at the front door in a great crunch of splintering wood, spilling face-first onto the footpath.
I rolled onto my back, raking in fresh air, too exhausted to move as I watched the xenomuseum surrender to the damage. The walls were already blackening, roof caving in, great sheets of windows shattering and sliding off like cooked flesh off a bone. A scream of tortured wood as beams collapsed. Dark smoke coiling skyward to be sucked up by the air vents. Emergency drones whirled down to stop the blaze spreading to other parts of the Academy, but centuries too late to save anything inside.
I might have found our next lead, but I hadn’t prevented the House of Suns from obtaining their victory. They’d destroyed the xenomuseum in their act of planned terrorism. That was its own kind of failure.
I found some reserves of energy to scoop myself up and stumble away. Everything ached. My fist and shoulder were both bleeding. A puddle of sweat and blood had congealed around my feet. I probably had severe burns. But I’d have become a kebab if I’d stayed in that box, so I was going to take my injuries in stride.
And that’s when I noticed the crowd staring.
They’d been focused on the burning building. Until I, the lone survivor, came bursting out of it wearing a high-tech suit with weapons strapped to my back. Now, half a hundred people were staring at me with an expression I wasn’t liking one bit.
‘It wasn’t me.’ I barely recognised the sandpapery growl that clawed out of my throat, attempting to form words. ‘It wasn’t me.’
A few looks were exchanged. Fists tightening. Anger building on faces. Someone spat. They’d been primed for this moment by the escalating Reaper and skinnie incidents, by other attacks that looked awfully similar to this. ‘It wasn’t me,’ I choked out again. A chunky ball of stormtech had wedged in my throat and wouldn’t go away, my voice turned husky. There was an ebbing in my elbow where I’d been cut getting out of the crate. I twisted it around to examine it. The blood oozing out of the wound wasn’t red. It was blue. Splattering to the ground like dye.
Oh no.
‘Terrorist dog,’ someone shouted to sounds of agreement.
‘You people destroyed that bank!’ someone else roared.
‘No!’ I roared, but no one was listening. No one wanted to listen. Easier to leap to assumptions then let anything dissaude them. I’d tried to save these people and they were about to turn on me.
‘Get him!’ someone shouted.
Screw this.
I unslung my scattershot and levelled it at the crowds. ‘Get back!’ I roared. The crowd gasped. The two men approaching me paused, but didn’t back off. I was so focused on them I didn’t notice the one sneaking up behind me. He grabbed me by my harness, heaved, and sent me sprawling across the hard concrete, scraping my wounds. Screams erupted
