Chinese quadruped tanks look like squat, headless horses. About the same size as their equine inspiration, they were fast, cheap, and deadly. The People’s Republic had made tens of thousands of the metal beasts, and they had seen action around the world. Chinese commanders loved them, employing them in maneuver teams of three. Filson hated them.
Their bullet-shaped chassis was built around a 25mm autocannon. The gun was multi-feed, usually packing three flavors—sabot, programmable high explosive, and canister. Dealer’s choice.
Right now, in the crumbling Metro, the Quad was dealing HE rounds.
Very effectively.
“Shit!” Filson yelled as he dove behind the biggest chunk of debris in sight. The steel-reinforced concrete exploded like a bag of flour, but absorbed most of the round’s blast. Filson kept rolling, desperate to find cover.
He slammed into the tunnel wall. Knees and elbows screaming at him.
This shit sucks with no battlesuit!
But the pain was not his top concern. He was out of cover. Out of luck.
The Quad tank was still coming, its body angled to the side. It fired twice, disintegrating two Maulers.
Filson raised his rifle at the Quad galloping toward him, knowing it would be futile. He emptied the magazine anyway.
The satisfying kick of his weapon expired. The tank swiveled back to face him.
Staring down the black maw of the tank’s autocannon barrel and lacking even a bayonet, Filson threw his rifle at the approaching tank.
“Fuck you!”
A Mauler crashed into the tank’s front legs before the cartwheeling rifle got there. The tank nosed into the ground with a loud crash. Filson’s rifle sailed over the Quad as it tumbled ass over teakettle, the Mauler clinging to its thrashing front legs.
Filson’s shoulder sang with pain as he was yanked to his feet. It was Hatch. The Mauler sprinted to the other side of the tunnel, dragging Filson behind him.
More bruised knees.
The tangled Quad and Mauler were a loud, banging blur of metal. Quads were useless off their feet and were made to be adept at righting themselves. They could do so in a blink.
Unless a Mauler was interfering.
Hatch knew that allowing the walking autocannon back on its feet was a death sentence for Major Filson and the retreating column. He had given the Mauler orders to stop it. No matter what.
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With one arm clamped to one of the Quad’s forelegs, the Mauler used his powerful lower body to kick and disrupt the tank’s thrashing hindquarters.
Hatch reached cover on the other side of the tunnel. Releasing Filson, he tossed the tank-entangled Mauler two grenades.
Reaching up with his free hand, the Mauler caught the two incoming grenades from Hatch, then wrapped himself tightly around the flailing weapon system’s flanks.
Hatch dove on Filson.
The grenades exploded in quick succession. Metal shards pinged and clanged off Hatch. Dust and grit fell from the ceiling, and an oily, chemical smoke filled the air.
Hatch stood up from Filson and ran to the writhing remains of the Quad tank.
The explosion had knocked its two front legs off and opened a large hole in its armored chassis. But it was still moving and capable of killing, rear legs convulsing as it tried to stand. Whining, grinding noises poured out of the stricken machine.
Hatch approached the tank from the side, avoiding its gun line, and put half a dozen rounds into the gaping hole.
The tank went quiet.
Filson picked himself off the ground and limped over to Hatch. He felt like someone had worked him over with sandpaper baseball bats, and the right side of his face was covered in blood.
“Nice toss,” Filson said, stepping next to the soldierbot.
Hatch was silent, scanning the breach area through his rifle scope.
“How many more grenades you got?”
“Two, sir.”
“Set them up here in tripwire mode. They won’t stop anything. But they’ll serve as early warning.”
“Roger that, sir. Also, First Sergeant McGowan reports that the column has begun to enter the sewer line. He requests you join ASAP.”
“Tell him we are on our way, but not to wait. Press on.”
“Roger that, sir. Done.”
Filson walked over to the remains of one of the Maulers while Hatch set the grenades. Picking up the dead soldierbot’s rifle, Filson checked the magazine and then looked back at the destroyed robot in pieces on the ground.
“Grenades set, sir,” Hatch said, stepping next to Filson.
“Give me the channel to One Six.”
“Sir, all Maulers on the street were destroyed. There is no relay man anymore.”
“I understand.” Filson looked up from the mangled Mauler on the ground. “Do it.”
“Roger that. Go, sir.”
“One Six, this is Zero Six, over.”
Filson looked at his feet as seconds ticked by.
“One Six, this is Zero Six, over.”
Filson rubbed his eyes.
“Sir, First Sergeant McGowan insists I let you speak to him.”
Filson nodded without raising his head.
“Go for Zero Six, First Sergeant,” Hatch said, transmitting.
“Where the hell are you, sir?” McGowan yelled.
“On the way. You get going.”
“Negative. Not leaving without you.”
“That’s an order, Top.”
“Fuck you, sir. Come give it to me in person.”
“We’re moving. Filson out.”
Hatch straightened slightly as he closed the channel.
Filson stared up at the breach.
“The thing is, Hatch, I led him here,” he said, even though he was really talking to himself. “Feels like I should get him out, or stay with him, you know?” The smoke had cleared from the opening. Filson could see faint, indifferent stars in the sky above. He tried to think of something to say. About Merko. Or to him. Seemed like the right thing to do in that quiet moment before he rejoined the Raiders. The silence was—
Shit! Silence!
Filson gestured at Hatch, turned and sprinted toward McGowan and the Raiders.
Hatch matched his pace easily, swiveling his upper body around as he did to cover the breach with his rifle as they raced away.
Filson knew why it was so quiet.
Nothing was following them. No Quads and certainly no infantry or Centaurs.
The PLA was lining up their artillery.
