"So Lee got himself killed," Starhawk said. "And by a civilian! He's a disgrace to all of us."

"What's next?" Zeeda asked.

Starhawk mulled the question as the two watched a live feed of his fallen carrier Red Shade streaking toward Capitol City. She billowed fire and smoke. Most of the layers of nullsteel wrapping her hull had already boiled away in the atmosphere, and with the ship's guts exposed to the pull of Surface she plummeted without hope of recovery.

She wasn't built for atmospheric flight—no true starship could travel at speed without nullsteel covering every exposed surface, but the stuff didn't hold up against heat and friction. Red Shade fought to maintain her collision course, straining against the might of gravity. As long as she held her angle of descent the massive inferno of wreckage would hit its target.

Pilots attempted to deploy from Red Shade's bays but either crashed trying to take off or got perforated by flak once they were airborne. The crew had already launched all of its escape pods, some of which were damaged, raining in the carrier's wake along with debris that peeled off during entry. Those left aboard the ship were dying, dead, or soon to be.

"We can't stay. The Fleet's right on our heels and their orbital guns are almost in range. We don't have the map, but we can't stay." Starhawk opened the comms to his officers. "Any of you grubs got boots on the ground?"

Flak cannons from Capitol City targeted the escape pods and aircraft while heavier projectiles shredded what was left of Red Shade's hull. She lost power and tumbled in complete free fall. Another salvo from the city had her crumbling to pieces. The remains of the ship plowed into the forested hills south of the city, far short of causing any damage to the dome. Escape pods and debris peppered the area with smaller impacts.

Captain Gruce responded with shrill panic in his voice. "Got a squad of three armors with me, uh, two miles from the south side of the dome. Lost a lot of grubs, boss. What about extraction?"

"You get me that map and we'll talk about extraction," Starhawk said. "Jensen Lee's dead. The map's saved to his suit. It's still got tracking—Zeeda, give him a beacon."

Zeeda nodded and tapped some commands into her console, pinging the location of Jensen Lee's nullsuit for Gruce. The marker blinked in the center of the city.

"Can we get some air support?" Gruce pleaded.

"I'll make you a front door. Just get to the dome."

#

Hargrove's phone rang in his hand as he paced the empty holding room and he eagerly flicked the call open.

"Buttercup?"

"Is this Hargrove Levene?"

A male voice, no image.

"Yes," Hargrove grunted. "Who's this?"

"I'm with the Volunteers. We're a privateer outfit—"

"I'm not interested thank you, goodbye."

"We'd like to accept your application," the caller blurted.

"What? I never applied for anything."

"Well, yes, but if you did we would be happy to accept—"

Hargrove hung up and put the phone in his pocket. Only hours had passed since the story about him broke but that was the third recruitment call he'd gotten. He should never have talked to that damn reporter. It seemed every privateer outfit in the city somehow had his personal contact information—and they all wanted Hargrove the humble pirate killer to be their poster boy.

He was no fighter. What he did went completely against his nature, against everything he believed in. He never wanted to kill anyone. Maybe Lee deserved it, but Hargrove felt queasy thinking about the way the helmet felt in his grip as it bludgeoned bone and skin. He shuddered with revulsion.

After city emergency workers rescued Hargrove and the other evacuees from the collapsed tunnel, armored police officers quickly ushered them to a high-security bombardment shelter deep beneath the city. Hargrove's sudden celebrity status landed him in a room of his own—the officers separated him from the other evacuees, marched him into the room, and locked him in. They said it was for his protection, ignoring his protests.

Hargrove just wanted to find Buttercup. He'd checked for her name in the evacuee roster, and reported her missing after finding nothing, but she was only one among hundreds of others lost in the chaos. If she was there she would have shown up, but none of the shelters had her on record. She had to be in the city somewhere.

He knew she used to live on the streets—maybe she thought there was somewhere better for her to hide, some safe place. Or maybe she went back to the hotel after Hargrove left. Needles of doubt stabbed at his conscience. He couldn't have stayed behind. If it came to bombardment the dome would never hold, and he wouldn't do her any good buried in rubble.

If Buttercup was left behind he could bet others were still up there too. If not other civilians, at least some city workers and guards would have to keep certain things running. The network was obviously still managing calls. Maybe someone up there would find her and help her.

Maybe. Hargrove didn't leave things to chance. He checked the time on his phone. A sergeant was supposed to meet him ten minutes ago to discuss his release. Hargrove had made it clear he wanted to be moved with the other evacuees immediately, but the officer guarding his room insisted he was ordered to keep him from leaving.

Hargrove knocked against the door, three loud thumps of his fist.

"Excuse me!" Hargrove shouted. "You said your sergeant would be here ten minutes ago."

"I told you what he told me," came the guard's muffled reply.

"I'm beginning to resent being held against my will like this."

"It's for your own protection. We didn't know about Jensen Lee until he wanted us to—there could be others. Maybe even in the shelters. Until we know for sure, you're staying here. It's our job to protect you."

"I'm not afraid! Someone I know is missing and in real danger. I won't sit inside here while she's out there alone!"

"I'm sorry, sir, but—"

"That's enough! Let me out!" Hargrove pounded on the door with rapid strikes of his fist. "Let me go! I won't be held here any longer!"

He couldn't hear the guard's reply over the noise, so he let up for a moment and a new voice shouted orders with an edge of steel.

"Step away from the door!"

Hargrove automatically backpedaled until he felt the wall. The door slid aside and a navy-uniformed police sergeant much less imposing than his voice conveyed walked in. He was barely five feet tall, with narrow shoulders carrying a head too large for his body. Round bulging eyes squinted fiercely up at Hargrove as the officer marched toward him.

"I'm Sergeant Mallory. What do you want?"

"Immediate release," said Hargrove. "I have to go back to the city."

Hargrove was surprised at the confidence behind his words—he hadn't decided what exactly his plan was, but he knew he needed to get out there.

"You can't. They've got artillery in orbit. Why do you think we're all down here?"

"I have to. Someone I know—she's up there still."

"You can't go up there. There are pirate escape pods crashing all around the city, not to mention the debris, and it's only a matter of time until the pirates breach the walls. She's probably in one of the other shelters—"

"She's not in another damn shelter!" Hargrove yelled, furious at the officer's dismissive tone. "I already reported her missing. I spoke to her just before the comet passed. She went for a walk and never came back. You have to believe me, she's still up there somewhere. I can find her and bring her back here."

Sergeant Mallory gave Hargrove a dubious top-to-bottom appraisal before replying, "You're an idiot."

"You have no right to keep me here!" The big man's voice shook with indignance.

"Actually, we do," Mallory said. "The Governor declared a state of emergency. Besides, if you've already reported her missing we've got people on it. There's no sense putting yourself in danger. What do you think you're going to do that our officers can't?"

"There were over three hundred other people on the list of missing and your officers are spread all over the city. I won't just hide down here and hope someone else finds her!"

Sergeant Mallory sighed at Hargrove's refusal and with great reluctance said, "I'll talk to my Lieutenant."

#

Captain Gruce made short low leaps through the forest in his nullsuit, keeping below the treetops for cover. Twigs and branches snapped against his armor. The gravity nodes in his boots tugged him back to the ground so he didn't hang in the air too long—the city's guns had already sniped one of his armors. The moron made a flying jump high above the treeline, trying to catch up after falling behind.

The hills provided them cover, obscuring them from view, but little protection from the instruments of death raining from the city. They leaped breakneck through the dense forest up the slope of the hill. Once they crested the top they'd be even more exposed. His men were used to operating in nullo, not on the ground, and he knew it was going to be a bloody sprint to the city.

Two-Gut Gruce had seen enough combat to know he was cannon fodder. The plan to retrieve the map from Jensen Lee's nullsuit was a suicidal effort, same as Red Shade's attack against the station. But he made it out of that blazing wreck alive and left her smoldering in the dust. Long as he didn't get stupid he'd keep on breathing that sweet scrubbed nullsuit air.

"Whistler, tighten up your formation," Gruce snapped. Whistler's squad had itself spread thin on his left flank.

The map on his HUD tracked the other two squads of four left in his command. Those eight plus his remaining two men and himself were all that survived the drop and the blitz to the top of the forested hills. Eleven battle-scarred brutes against the civilized world.

#

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