Filson stood in the crumbling Metro beneath the northern breach. The air, still thick with dust and powder, had been further poisoned by heavy smoke from the battle. It stung and scraped his eyes as he tried to keep a headcount of the Centaurs and Lobos making their way down to the tunnel floor on a hasty ladder of Maulers.

  He was out of his battlesuit, so he had no Ike, no HUD, no coms, no nothing. But he was certain he had not seen Merko yet.

  He pushed the concern out of his mind as he barked orders. It was imperative to keep the unit moving. They were running out of time.

  “All Centaurs, dismount! Out of your battlesuits. Now! Lobos, all armor and exos off!”

  The Raiders were slow to comply. They looked in disbelief at their raging commander as he paced back and forth in his bodysuit.

  Designed to enhance connectivity between Centaurs and their battlesuits, the skin-tight, electronics-laced garment was made of a shiny, fibrous material that magnified bioelectricity and gave the wearer a reptilian appearance.

  He might as well have been naked.

  Centaurs were trained from day one that there was only one reason to ever get out of their battlesuits—if it was on fire. Only then, if the fire suppression system had totally failed, could you even consider dismounting.

  Dismounting a battlesuit turns a Centaur from a magical melding of man and machine, an impervious hybrid war beast controlling weapons with the mind and wielding death and destruction on a grand scale, into a thin-skinned blob of soft flesh. The battlesuit is more than just armor; it is purpose. Without it, there is no Centaur, just a vulnerable human freak with electronics implanted in a weak body.

  “Goddammit! I said dismount!” Veins bulged from Filson’s forehead as he balled his fists and yelled, bloodshot eyes watering, carving tracks down his dirty cheeks.

  First Sergeant McGowan looked even crazier. The tall black man, eyes redder than Filson’s, face caked in dust, overalls streaked in the enemy’s dried blood, stalked around yelling at the men.

  “You heard the major! Dismount! Drop armor! You wanna die in this nasty-ass Metro or you wanna live? Dismount!”

  Ratcheting and hissing noises filled the dark, dusty tunnel as the Raiders and Lobos got out of their gear.

  Filson checked his watch. Their tiny window of opportunity was closing.

  “Hatch!”

  “Here, sir.” The robot stood just behind him, where he had been all day.

  “Try him again.”

  “Raider One Six, Raider Zero Six over,” Hatch said, transmitting on his internal radio at the same time, and using one of his Maulers up on the street just outside the breach to relay the signal.

  “This is One Six,” Merko’s voice came over the speaker. The sound of gunfire nearly drowned out his voice.

  “I need you to get back here ASAP, Evan.” Filson spoke loudly and slow. “Time is up.”

  “Believe me, Six. There is nothing I’d rather do!” A loud explosion overwhelmed Hatch’s speaker, then the transmission went dead.

  Filson waited half a second, then shouted, “Get him back, dammit.”

  “One Six, do you read?” Hatch’s head cocked as he spoke.

  “Yeah. Sorry. Those Quads pack more punch than you think.”

  “Break contact, Evan. Now!” Filson leaned closer to Hatch as he yelled. “Get back here. I can only give you a few more minutes. Then we have to leave.”

  “Roger that, sir!”

  Filson shook his head.

  “You able to triangulate his location?” He asked Hatch. “How far is he from the breach?”

  “Approximately 500 meters, sir. Plus or minus a hundred meters.”

  Too far.

  “Do not lose contact with him. Even after we get moving. Understand?”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  Filson had assigned a five-Mauler fireteam as rear guard of the breaches. In fighting positions at street level, they would delay anything trying to follow them down into the Metro. The small team could do only so much. But at the very least, they would serve as early warning.

  That they could maintain relayed radio contact with Merko was a bonus.

  Filson looked around for Mauricio.

  Gotta keep this fucked-up subterranean retreat moving!

  “Lobos, give your armor and weapons to the Maulers!” First Sergeant McGowan cupped his hand around his mouth and yelled instructions. “Centaurs, I want all battlesuits slaved to a Mauler! Everybody keep your utility flashlights. Move! Move! Move!”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The Maulers stood around the group of increasingly un-armored humans, accepting weapons and armor components. Soon, their strong metal arms were piled high.

  As Centaurs stepped out of their battlesuits and issued the slave command, the empty armored machines stomped over to a group of Maulers off to the side and stood silently next to them.

  Comfortable that his unorthodox orders were being followed, Filson pulled Mauricio aside.

  “How far away is the closest north-running sewer or water line?”

  “Fifty meters. Maybe a little more.” Mauricio said.

  “Okay. You and Top will be in the lead. Take us to the closest north-running line and lead us through it. Make sure it gets us north of the Mapocho.”

  Mauricio’s face pinched.

  “Sir, these lines were not built for… for human traffic. It will be—”

  “It’s this or we die!” Filson fought the urge to yell at the Chilean. This shitshow was not his fault. Without him, they wouldn’t even have this chance. He calmed his breathing. “You understand?”

  Mauricio took a deep breath.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Thank you.” Filson checked his watch, then turned and yelled to his first sergeant. “Top, I wanna get moving! Circle ‘em up.”

  “You heard the man!” McGowan’s voice boomed through the Metro tunnel. “On your commander! Now!”

  Filson took a few strides toward the center mass of his unit. “Listen up. I’m only gonna go through this once. We’re gonna double-time north. In about fifty meters, humans will follow Top and Mauricio through a sewer line back to friendly lines. Hatch and his guys will do what they can to cave in the line behind us, to create an obstacle and hopefully reduce any overpressure. Then all Maulers and slaved suits will follow Hatch further into the main tunnel.”

  Reluctant to look back at Hatch, Filson looked at the ground and cleared his throat.

  “Like I said, it’s a sewer line. It’s gonna get nasty. Probably single file the whole way. Assist the wounded and keep moving. Mauricio tells me it should be a pretty straight shot. But I can’t tell you how far we have to go. So get your mind right.”

  Filson checked his watch. He looked up at the group of Centaur battlesuits and Maulers. Would it be a big enough signature?

  He looked at his first sergeant. McGowan was staring at him with narrowed eyes.

  Resigned to the situation, Filson asked his question.

  “Gimme a headcount, Top.”

  “One Centaur, three Lobos and two Maulers not accounted for, sir.”

  Merko.

  Filson glanced at his watch again and then back at McGowan. Every man and robot in the Metro looked at their commander. Top raised one eyebrow, prompting him.

  Filson couldn’t say it. He just nodded.

  “Move out!” McGowan yelled. “Wounded in front! Let’s move!”

  Filson looked at the ground as the band of weary men and robots got moving. The Maulers moved slower than usual, laden as they were with weapons and the Lobos’ armor plating. Behind them, Centaur battlesuits followed purposefully, offering no clue they were empty inside.

  “Sir.” McGowan put a hand on Filson’s shoulder and leaned in, talking in a low voice. “It’s the right call. Not a damn thing you can do for the captain. Can’t make the whole unit wait for—”

  Gunfire erupted above, just outside the breach. Booms rang out. Dust and grit fell from the tunnel ceiling.

  Quads!

  “Go! Go! Go!” Filson yelled at McGowan. The first sergeant sprinted toward the front of the motley column, dragging Mauricio with him.

  “Sir, Raider One Six is calling,” Hatch told Filson.

  “Give it to me!”

  “I say again,” Merko’s voice blared from Hatch’s speakers. “Two quad tanks approaching the breach. Don’t know how they got around us. They—”

  A loud squelch interrupted the transmission.

  “Lost signal, sir,” Hatch said. “Also, be advised—the surface rear guard is down to two Maulers.”

  Filson shook his head in frustration. Out of his battlesuit, without its communications suite, heads-up display and ability to mentally command it via his implants, he felt lost. Powerless. How did people ever fight like this?

  Another boom echoed through the Metro, and more grit and dust filled the air. Filson and the Maulers crouched.

  Filson glanced toward the retreating column. They were already lost in the shadows.

  “Tell your lead Mauler to let us know when they reach the sewer line,” Filson told Hatch as he looked around.

  “Yes, sir. What are you doing, sir?”

  Filson had taken a knee behind a large chunk of concrete and rebar, weapon on his shoulder.

  “We’re the rear guard now. Get your guys ready.”

  The five Maulers closest to Hatch reacted immediately to his wordless command over their channel, dispersing to individual fighting positions around the tunnel.

  “Shouldn’t you be joining t—”

  “Just let me know when your guy tells you they are at the sewer line.”

  “Sir, I don’t—”

  A loud crash and bang rang out from the breach. Pieces of Mauler rained down from the opening, clanging onto the concrete debris and floor less than twenty meters from Filson and the rear guard.

  “Sir, Captain Merko has re-established radio contact,” Hatch said, crouching next to Filson.

  “Patch me through!” Filson said, peering up into the breach through his rifle scope. “One Six, how far out are you? You need to be in this Metro tunnel ASAP!”

  “I don’t see it happening, sir.” The battle around Merko distorted Hatch’s speaker.

  “I don’t care what you see happening!” Filson yelled, his anger reverberating off the Metro walls. “I want—”

  “Shut the fuck up, please, sir!” Merko spoke quickly. “The Quads are already here. The treads are maybe three minutes away.”

  A loud hiss and boom sounded above. Smoke and debris billowed down through the breach, followed by robot fragments. But they were Quad, not Mauler.

  “Hell yeah, Trejo!” Merko yelled to a comrade while still transmitting. “We got the nearest one, Zero Six. But there are several more. If—”

  “Evan, I am ordering y—”

  “If we tried to run for it, we’d be mowed down. We’ve got beautiful overwatch on both breaches here and can hold them off for a bit. But if we quit, there’ll be nothing stopping them. We’ll hold them off as long as we can.”

  Another explosion rocked the street above, and Hatch’s speaker squealed before falling silent.

  Filson shook his head in rage.

  “Sir, the column has reached the sewer line,” Hatch told him.

  “Give me—”

  “Shit. That was a close one,” Merko’s voice came out of Hatch’s speaker again, gunfire ripping in the background. “They’re getting a bead on us.”

  “Evan, listen. You—”

  “At ease, sir. You know I’m right. You tell Suave his Lobos hung tough. Didn’t blink. Same for the Maulers. Whoever cancelled their contract was an idiot. They are real soldiers. I loved being a Raider. One Six out.”

  An explosion engulfed the breach, sending concrete and rebar shrapnel through the tunnel. Something struck Filson in the face. It was a glancing blow, but knocked him over, sprawling behind Hatch, ears ringing.

  Powdered concrete filled the air, coating Filson’s throat as he tried to catch his breath.

  He saw Hatch kneeling above him, rifle to his shoulder, firing.

  Filson wanted to stand and fight, to get word to the column ahead that the enemy was in the tunnel, but his body was responding slowly, as if disinterested.

  Looking to his side, he saw his rifle. He rolled toward it. Fighting off a wave of vertigo, he raised himself to his hands and knees and then to a kneeling position.

  Still disoriented, but cueing off Hatch, he raised his rifle, peering through the thick smoke.

  Shit! A Quad tank.