Firenze accessed the cameras around the engine deck, tried to ping any dangers for Clausen's Bravo Team. Their immediate perimeter was clear, and the number of slowly-cooling corpses gave a good explanation of why. Firenze broadened the sweep. There were none of the heavies left near Bravo, neither the armored greatcoats nor the plated goliaths. Firenze allowed himself a moment of relief, but it vanished when he swung his scans over the aft loading bays.
There, an armored tide grey. Armature frame combat drones - killbots - poured through the hallways, spindly legs and sensor-bubble eyes flashing. They descended through the cargo holds as a blackened-steel tide, trampling the remains of Captain Lee's broken command beneath their clattering feet. No longer did he have to wonder what had happened to Charlie. They'd died as uselessly as the rest.
Firenze tried to grab a count of the swarm, but the numbers kept growing. Perimeter's reinforcements had arrived, and Sergeant Clausen's team was about to die.
He reached for his radio, but his camera feed cut. The Phalanx had returned, and it had closed out his connection. He fired off a round of automated crackers to keep the AI busy, but without Lauren, he could do little more than stall it. He didn't waste his time. He'd already failed too many people today.
Firenze toggled his radio, his fingers dancing from adrenaline, and he started, "Bravo Four, this is Delta, uh, something. I managed to get some of the net under control-"
"You're late." Clausen's voice was cold, dead. He sounded nothing like the man Firenze knew, but the truth cut deep. If he'd been faster, he might have saved Weber. Might have saved Lauren. Might have lessened the list of blacked-out names on the TACNET tree. Kawalski's entire team was stuck babysitting him, and he couldn't do his damn job.
He'd failed, and everyone had died.
He almost broke, right there in the hallway, damnation ringing through his skull. Only the alert-tone of the Phalanx pushing on TACNET drove him back into action. He stammered, "Sir, you've got three squads of killer robots coming your way."
"I don't have time for-"
"No!" Firenze screamed."They've got some sort of armature-frame bots! They've got guns, armor - they're coming down on you from above! I count three dozen! They killed Lee - they - nothing works on them!"
"How long we got?" Clausen's voice was raw. He sounded like he was talking through his teeth to keep from screaming.
Firenze tried to guess, to figure from speed and distance. His math wasn't right. He knew it wasn't. He needed to sit down, get a desk and notepad. If he had a minute, he could get the right answer-
"A minute? Maybe less?" He heard himself say. The numbers sounded right. He hoped they were. He tried to key up, to hesitate, equivocate - to tell Clausen that he wasn't quite sure, but that it was the best he could do.
The line was dead.
Firenze tried to pull another feed, but the Phalanx blocked his every move. For just a moment, Firenze felt a bit of empathy for the watchdog. It had lost its entire network, but it had finally managed to lock him out.
Then he remembered Lauren's last smile, and that sympathy was gone.
He ripped his goggles off, hurled them to the floor. Hill turned towards him, an unasked question perched on his chapped and bloody lips. Firenze tried to answer, but all that emerged was something between a sob and a shriek of impotent rage.
Hill nodded. He understood.
Then the lights flickered.
The ship's announcer began her refrain, but her voice twisted from pleasant to demonic. Firenze scrambled for a hand-hold, but the smooth walls offered no purchase-
He was airborne once more.
The lights returned, and he bounced from the deck, hard enough to hear ribs crack. Pain lanced from his chest, and he closed his eyes against the white-noise-burn that coursed through him.
Something chimed. Not the buzz-chirp of the PA, but something higher, like an elevator door, or a hundred elevator doors. Firenze snapped his head up from the cold deck, fear blooming and realization dawning. Every red-lit doorframe had just flicked green and swung wide.
Screams filled the hall, a hundred voices crying out in pain, terror, and hope. From every room, the hostages flooded, first in ones and twos, and then in a tide, until the corridor might burst from the stampede.
Firenze tried to stand. Someone grabbed his buddy-handle and dragged him towards the alcove. His computer tumbled away, kicked between churning legs, and he dove after it. Blows crashed down on him, shoes and knees in a chaotic tumble. No one noticed his uniform or heeded his cries. The human tide flooded onward.
Firenze scrambled through the maelstrom, chasing shadows of his box as it ricocheted through the writhing mass of khakis and stockings.
The klaxon sounded, the lights went out, and the stampede slammed against the port wall. Men became meat as they fell beneath the tide. The wailing rose as the desperate fled their gilded cage.
Firenze snatched at his computer, caught the strap and reeled it in-
A bludgeon fell across his back. The tide surged, and he toppled into the deadly melee. One boot landed. Another. He curled around his computer, shielded it as the pain blossomed and bones cracked-
Gunfire split the air.
Light shone as the sea parted. Kawalski stood over him, her rifle aimed at the ceiling and smoke framed about the muzzle. In the reflection of her goggles, he saw the crowd reeling, shrieking. She snatched his handle and hurled him from the melee.
He crashed into the wall, and agony soared from broken ribs.
Hill pinned him in place, without regard for the amber flashes on his medlink. Kawalski screamed something in the tumult, spittle caught on her lips. She snarled, "-and keep him there!"
Hard light dawned.
The bloom rose everywhere at
