Chaos swirls around Atlas.
Gruff Rim Praetors bark commands, Blue ripWing pilots chatter as they race out of their hangars toward the barbarians. Long-range weapons fire between the two navies. Flak screens deploy. Slender corvettes and fast torchShips meet first. Waves of smaller fighter craft merge and spit fire at one another. And then Fá’s wrecking balls unite their fire andstart to kill Rim capital ships one at a time.With Atlas guiding them, it seems so cold and sinister that I begin to hate the very idea of war.
I cannot let this stand. The leech is doing its work. The pain is nearly gone now. My body feels like mine again, but I do not know if I can walk much less fight. I can’t change the battle. Not now. I will have precious few moments before I’m cut down by the Gorgons. What can I do in those moments to make a difference?
My eyes fall on Diomedes.
I can save him. Carefully I check the path to the escape pod doors down by the crew pits. Are they connected to the Cestus? No. I see manual levers.
I can save Diomedes, and then maybe I can save myself. The gravity isn’t too heavy. I can carry him. I have to be sure enough the poison is out of my system. Soon the Gorgons are busy with Rim troops trying to get through the bridge doors. I wait for Atlas’s attention to focus on an important firefight, and I slowly get up.
My legs and arms feel like lead. Ants chew behind my eyes. I take a step. Atlas turns.
I lunge for the grenade on Zagria’s belt, thumb the detonator, and hurl it at Atlas. He turns and slaps it back toward me. It passes over my head and detonates down below. I fling Zagria’s razor at him. It takes him through the left shoulder.
Lunging for Diomedes, I trip over Zagria’s leg and fall. Scrambling across the floor, I grab Diomedes’s foot and drag him off the command deck. We tumble down the stairs together. I sway up, grab his jacket collar, and pull for all I’m worth. Atlas shouts at his men to hold their fire. I’m close to an escape pod door. Boots pound behind me. I haul the release lever up. The door hisses open. I’m hit with a stun munition beneath my right shoulder blade. The limb goes numb, but the force of the shot hurls Diomedes and me into the pod. I’m about to launch it when a whip snares my left ankle and I’m jerked back onto the bridge. I slap at the door controls as I pass. The tips of my fingers brush them. The pod door closes. With a loud series of clangs, the pod clicks into place and fires down its escape chute with Diomedes inside.
I hope he can evade the battle outside, recover, and make his way back to his forces. But with no one to pilot the pod, with that maelstrom raging outside, I know he’s as good as dead.
The Gold Gorgon who snagged my foot with his razor turns me over. His face is half gone from the grenade. He beats my face until I swallow a tooth then he frisks me and jerks out the leech. He drags me back to Atlas, pins my head sideways to the deck with his boot, and puts his razor to my temple.
“Tox leech. They missed it. Waste him?”
“Not yet,” Atlas says.
“He’s a fucking sympathizer.”
Atlas ignores him and calls to the others. “Don’t forget the scalps.”
I see the world sideways. Blood pools at Atlas’s feet from his wounded shoulder, but the man only stops conducting the battle when theDustmakerhas soaked up too much damage to contribute any more. He turns on me as Obsidian and Ascomanni troop barges swarm Rim ships like lice.
“They’ll be through any minute,dominus,” a Gorgon calls.
“They’ll have more than us to worry about soon enough,” Atlas says. He squats in front of me.
“I needed Diomedes alive, Lysander. You just killed him by sending him out into that.”
“What have you done?” I snarl.
The metal boot presses harder on my head.
“Avenged a litany of transgressions.” He sighs. “Truth be told, Atalantia ordered me to kill you both. But what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Bring him. We’re done here.”
He drops the Cestus to the deck.
The Gorgons plant charges at key junctions around the bridge, and follow behind us via the executive passage with a haul of scalps. Exiting the lift, we cross the private hangar to the shuttle they rode in on. “Halt! Put your weapons down!” a voice roars. A line of Dustwalkers bars our passage. Atlas seems unconcerned. His men toss down their weapons. “On your knees!”
Atlas and his men obey.
“It’s not Helios!” I shout. “It’s Atlas.”
The lead Dustwalker’s eyes widen in apprehension. Then her head disappears above the lower jaw. All but three of the rest are mowed down before she hits the ground. The remaining Dustwalkers leap away like grasshoppers and come apart midair, victims of flawless squad shooting. Atlas picks his weapon back up and stands.
“Ignis!”a familiar voice calls from across the hangar. My heart drops.
“Lunae!” Atlas calls.
I turn to see my squad of ten Praetorians melt out of the shadows. They move toward us in tactical formation and lower their weapons. My heart grows cold as Rhone, Markus, Demetrius, Drusilla, and the rest of the Praetorians Rhone handpicked to accompany me on theDustmakerdoff their helmets. They’re grinning ear to ear, and not at me. Atlas greets them all by name.
