A twist, a pop of cartilage, and his baton clatters against the plascrete.
Before he can shout, I drive my elbow into his throat—not enough to crush it, just enough to remind him who’s got the upper hand. He gasps, stumbles back, reaching for his comm bead.
I slam a shock pulse disk against his chest and hit the trigger.
The jolt knocks him off his feet. He spasms once, then hits the ground like a puppet with cut strings.
Kristi’s already moving.
“Door,” she snaps, voice taut with pain.
I turn. The security gate leading to the underground access is double-locked, a biometric reader glowing in red cycles.
She’s at the console in seconds, pulling a cracked palm-sized drive from her satchel. Wires snake out like vines, hissing against the panel’s surface. Her fingers blur across the touchpad.
I catch the scent of blood and ozone.
Her side’s bleeding again—fresh crimson soaking through the edge of her tunic where the wound tore open.
"Kristi—"
“Not now,” she bites out.
I turn my back to her and face the crowd.
A second enforcer's spotted the scuffle. He's pushing against the tide now, shouting something I can’t hear over the roar of the festival. Another shadow moves behind him—more coming.
“Three incoming,” I call.
“I need thirty seconds!”
I unsling the ceremonial staff on my back—hollowed, modified, rigged with a shock pulse core. It hisses alive in my grip. I plant my feet wide.
Let them come.
The first enforcer reaches me fast, baton raised. I sidestep, catch his wrist, and redirect his swing into the gut of the second one. Both stumble. I pivot, drive the butt of the staff into the first’s kneecap, shattering it clean.
A flash of movement to my left—someone’s got a stun baton drawn. I duck under the arc and slam the edge of the staff into his ribs. The pulse fires point-blank.
He goes down screaming.
Behind me, the door hisses open.
“Kenron!” Kristi yells.
I grab her arm, tuck her close, and we dive through the threshold. The door seals behind us with a low metallic growl.
Silence.
Darkness.
We’ve made it to the hub.
The walls breathe.
I swear to the gods, they do. The entire chamber pulses like a synthetic heart, lit with dull red glow from vein-like conduits snaking up from the floor. In the center stands a control console the size of a dining table, its surface shimmering with pre-launch data. Nanite dispersal arcs. Target recognition scans. Countdown clocks that haven’t been triggered—yet.
Kristi limps toward the console, leaving a faint trail of blood on the floor.
