Another mech stood, at least fifteen feet tall, with its rusted frame covered in jagged plating. Unlike the first, this one wasn’t humanoid—it moved on six reinforced legs, insectoid in its motion, and its primary weapon was no rotary cannon.

  It was a plasma cannon. A big one.

  “That much larger.” Priest pointed towards the cannon.

  “Thanks for the info,” said Gravel.

  “Wait . . .” mumbled Hunter. “That’s no antique. That’s a Spider, sponsored by the Republic. Old model, but still. Why is it here?”

  The Republic, a militarized giant extending its reach across star systems with a mix of economic dominance and brute force, had clawed its way up from the ashes of the Old World, dragging along a few questionable fashion trends and an unhealthy obsession with chrome-plated everything. Its first leader, Onma Fun, had branded it as a beacon of order and stability that would stretch across lawless wastelands in a hundred years. It had been more than a hundred years since that promise; no such luck. If anything, the battleground had merely shifted from those with guns to those in suits.

  So of course they introduced more guns to counteract the political warfare! The latest iteration of elite forces with the most boring name conceivable, the Enforcers, wielded cutting-edge tech. Their war machines—like the six-legged mech currently sizing them up—were the pinnacle of modern combat engineering when they were first released.

  One thing that was actually on the briefing: this planet wasn’t supposed to be on the map. It wasn’t supposed to be within the Republic’s jurisdiction.

  Gravel sighed. “Our contractor has some real explaining to do.”

  With a sharp whir, its plasma cannon adjusted, locking onto the trio.

  Then it opened fire.

  A blinding white-hot blast tore through the foliage, disintegrating trees and sending a shockwave through the ground.

  Gravel darted away. Hunter hit the dirt. The beam scorched the earth. Ash and molten debris rained down. Too close.

  “Not cool!” Hunter coughed, rolling to her feet. “That thing doesn’t do warning shots.”

  “Typical Republic. Shoot first, ask never,” said Gravel.

  Priest tapped a command into his wrist device. “Energy signature confirms it—fully charged and military-grade. It has enough firepower to blow up a mini-tank.”

  “Great,” Gravel muttered. “How do we kill it?”

  Hunter’s gaze darted to the cannon. “That thing has a charge cycle, right? I fought against one when I was conscripted. We bait the next shot, then hit it when it cools.”

  Gravel sighed as Morkanium crawled its way onto his chest, and spread around like vines on a tree bark. “I’ll do it.”

  Gravel had lived with this mutation for nearly two decades—eight years longer than the crew had even existed, but he’d never used it to tank a plasma ray. Against weapons of caliber, he’d always chosen the option any sane person would: run. The crew knew Gravel could absorb heat, laser fire, and even standard plasma bursts. But this? This was concentrated plasma on a whole other level—it was over 5,000 megajoules. Per shot.

  He should be able to withstand this amount of energy, in theory. He’d tested it in simulations.

  Priest and Hunter scattered with careful movements to not trigger the mech’s lock-on system. There might have been a batter solution, but they couldn’t think of one now.

  The mech’s plasma cannon let out a high-pitched whine as its core pulsed with blinding energy.

  Gravel growled as loudly as he could, “Shoot here, you overgrown toasters!”

  A heartbeat later, a searing bolt of blue-white plasma erupted from the barrel, streaking toward them like a miniature sun.

  It hit Gravel square in the chest.

  For a split second, everything went white.

  Time unraveled in jagged pieces. The roar of Infernal’s Fall, heat peeling at his skin. Hunter’s strangled gasps as the vines closed around his throat in Haret—the first time their paths crossed. The rough cheers of the crew as they christened their new ship. And before all of it, shadows of faces he barely remembered.

  Then came the impact—a tidal wave of force and heat that should have turned him to ash. The acrid stench of scorched metal filled the air with a burning tang that clawed at Gravel’s throat. His body locked up, the blackened material of his mutation drinking in the raw energy like a bottomless pit. His vision blurred and his nerves screamed.

  He fell to the ground.

  When the plasma dissipated, smoke curled from his skin. The jungle floor beneath him had been reduced to molten slag, and the air crackled with residual static. Gravel exhaled, steam venting from his mouth.

  “Holy shit,” Hunter whispered, hiding behind Gravel.

  Priest, emerging earlier from behind a boulder, was already scanning him. “Your mutation held. Energy absorption confirmed.”

  Gravel flexed his fingers as he sat, joints popping like firecrackers. The power thrummed inside him; wild, untamed. His muscles felt heavier; charged. He clenched his fists, and the energy surged through his arms, crackling like bottled lightning.

  A slow grin spread across his face.

  He rumbled, “You see that? I ate that shit like—” His grin faltered.

  A sudden wave of exhaustion crashed over his body. His arms jerked as residual static danced over his skin. His limbs felt like lead, his chest ached like he’d been sucker-punched by a freight train. His mutation had held, sure, but now he felt the cost.

  The spider-like mech took another step, its six legs hissing with hydraulic pressure as it adjusted its stance. Its plasma cannon began cycling again, the whine of its charging core sending a fresh chill down Gravel’s spine. He clenched his fists, preparing for another hit, but his gut screamed at him—this thing wasn’t going down easy.

  Hunter and Priest jolted from their hiding spots, shooting at the mech with their primary weapons—Hunter with her laser gun and Priest with the plasma beam from his cyborg hand.

  Priest said, “Scanning its weak points. Shoot the joints for now.”

  “Guys, we gotta run.” Gravel shook off the dizziness. “I can’t tank another shot without my organs turning into soup.”

  Priest’s fingers moved over his wrist device in rapid strokes. “The drive.” He flicked through his scanner. “Signal is faint. Twenty meters north, inside that structure.” He pointed at the crumbling remains of a bunker, half-covered in moss and vines. Right next to the killer mech.

  Gravel had asked Priest no less than three times to convert from metric to imperial measurements. He never did.

  The mech’s cannon flared again.

  Gravel craned his head toward Priest. “Split?”

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  Priest replied, “Split.”

  The trio split, dodging as the mech let loose another searing blast. Gravel barely avoided the shockwave as it obliterated a nearby tree, sending burning shards of wood flying in all directions.

  They sprinted toward the bunker. Hunter’s breath came in ragged gasps, and even Priest’s usually calm demeanor was cracked by an iota of concern. Gravel lagged behind by a couple steps.

  The mech pivoted, its targeting systems locking onto them. Another charge cycle began.

  Hunter gritted her teeth. “Priest,” he barked. “Give me something. Anything.”

  Priest’s scanner flickered. “Fuel cells. Back legs. Weak points.”

  Good enough.

  Gravel tensed, ready to act, but stepped back as he saw Hunter moving.

  She slung her rifle over her shoulder and reaching for something strapped to her belt—a sleek, matte-black tube with glowing blue seams. She flicked a switch, and the tube expanded with a sharp clack, forming a compact but deadly launcher.

  Gravel’s eyes widened. “Is that—”

  A micro-fusion spike missile a size of a gun. A one-time use projectile that should cost her more than her old squad’s entire gear budget. It should’ve been an overkill otherwise, but her over-preparedness had saved them more often than not.

  Hunter only flashed him a confident smile.

  She dropped to one knee and locked onto the mech’s back legs.

  The eight-legged mech’s cannon whined like a kettle left on too long; its charge cycle punctuated by a series of unnecessary beeps and flashing lights. Hunter silently counted the seconds, tracking the pattern—one, two, three—before shifting her weight. It was luck that this mech was still an earlier version that still had an audible charge cycle that she could react to.

  It was moments from another shot—one they wouldn’t escape unscathed.

  Hunter exhaled slowly. One shot.

  She squeezed the trigger.

  With a muted thunk, the missile shot forward, leaving a faint blue trail in its wake. It buried itself deep into the mech’s back leg, right above the fuel cell casing. For a split second, nothing happened.

  Then—BOOM.

  The explosion was sharp and precise, a focused detonation that sent a shockwave through the jungle. The mech reeled, its two damaged legs buckling beneath it. Hydraulic fluid and sparks sprayed from the wound as it stumbled. Its plasma cannon jerked upward, but immediately rotated to try and lock in their targets again. This time, it missed Priest by a few feet.

  “Looks like that thing skipped leg day. Priest? What’s its status?” Gravel asked. Priest’s visor could gauge the damage with reasonable accuracy, and it would return results in the best way he knew—statistics.

  Priest’s visor lit up, the electronic display engaging as if in response to an unseen command.

  [Damage Analysis Overlay: ACTIVE]

  Target Integrity: 89% → 49%

  Critical Damage Detected: Right rear hydraulic stabilizer

  Fuel Cell Containment: Compromised—leakage detected

  Movement Impairment: 60% reduction in stability

  “Its movement is impaired,” he said.

  Hunter grinned, tossing the now-empty launcher aside. “That should keep it in place.”

  With the mech struggling to stabilize, the trio sprinted toward the bunker. The entrance was just ahead, with vines twice as thick as those on Earth draping over its rusted doorway. Priest reached it first, keying in a command to his wrist device. The old security panel flickered to life, struggling to process his override.

  Behind them, the mech forced itself upright with a stifled mechanical sound—though it shouldn’t have made any sound at all. Something had probably broken. Its plasma cannon dimmed, switching instead to rapid-fire railguns mounted along its chassis. Seemed like the instability meant that it would take a while until it could use its cannon again.

  A burst of metal slugs tore through the jungle, shredding trees and punching craters into the earth. Gravel grabbed Hunter and shoved both of them flat against the bunker’s outer wall as rounds slammed into the structure. Concrete and rusted steel groaned under the assault.

  Then—a beep.

  Priest shoved the door open. “Inside! Now!”

  They scrambled through just as another railgun volley slammed into the doorway. Gravel spun and slammed the reinforced hatch shut, locking it with a heavy clang.

  However, the panel flickered—damaged from the assault. The auto-lock wasn’t engaging.

  “Damn it,” he growled, yanking open the maintenance panel beside the door. A tangle of old wires and half-corroded circuits greeted him.

  Priest’s scanner lit up. “Manual override’s shot. Move. I will force an emergency lockdown.”

  As Priest switched position with Gravel, Gravel handed him his Morkanium knife. He ripped out a dead relay, bypassed a fried security lock, and jammed the knife between two exposed contact points. Sparks jumped as the system fought him.

  [SECURITY OVERRIDE ENGAGED]

  The lock ground into place with a deep, mechanical thud. A second later, reinforced barriers slammed down over the entrance.

  The only sound was their ragged breathing.

  Gravel paused, his hand shaking slightly as he wiped sweat from his brow. “I almost thought that was it,” he admitted.

  Hunter, leaning against the bunker wall, simply nodded. “Your bravado’s not on point today.”

  “We’re not taking another seventy million ducat mission after this. At least not for the rest of the year.” He flashed a half-grin.

  A beat passed.

  Behind him, Hunter returned Gravel’s grin with a smirk. “You know what, boulder boy? You were pretty cool back there.”

  “Nah.” He smirked back. “If anything, I was pretty hot. 1000 degrees Celsius hot, to be exact.”

  She leaned in and made the face of an inquisitive child—eyes open wide like a deer, mouth slightly parted. “I still can’t believe any property—even a man-made one like this—is able to absorb that much energy.”

  A single, dusty light bulb shuddered to life. The light pulsed unevenly, casting a pallid, sickly illumination that did little to dispel the shadows. Then it turned off.

  “Not the time to be curious, Hunter,” Gravel replied.

  His comm crackled to life.

  “Well, well,” a familiar voice crackled through the static. “Let me guess. Getting all cozy in an abandoned bunker? Should I leave you two alone?”

  Gravel exhaled slowly. “Fang.”

  Hunter rolled her eyes. “You mind cutting the chatter for a few minutes? We almost died.”

  Fang’s tone didn’t lose its edge, but it was more controlled. “Sorry; didn’t know that. But we can all cry about it later—right now, we’ve got another problem. A serious one.”

  Gravel pinched the bridge of his nose. “You mean, aside from the giant murder-spider outside?”

  “You’re not the only ones being harassed. Something’s jamming my approach. I can’t get a clean landing, and I’d rather not find out how many missiles the Republic stuffed into that thing.”

  Priest had already stood, observing the funereal space before them. The air was stale, thick with dust and the faint metallic tang of oxidized steel. The walls were lined with rusted conduits and darkened panels. Their surfaces slick with moisture that glistened faintly in the absence of light. He dimmed his visor so his enhanced vision could get to work—a perk of being half-Vorlani. Vorlani had scotopic vision, and even though Priest didn’t inherit much of that, he could still see better than normal humans.

  He found a switch, but before he could study it more closely, it emitted a click on its own.

  The light wavered unevenly, casting a pallid, sickly glow that barely grazed the edges of the shadows.

  He walked back to them. “The Republic never sends just one mech. Keep walking.”

  Hunter pushed off the wall and adjusted her rifle strap. “I’m surprised this place still has power at all,” she murmured. “Who maintained it? And why?”

  “Not the time for conspiracy theories,” Priest was right behind her, fingers dancing over his wrist device.

  “You have to ask questions when you’re in these kind of places,” she replied.

  Gravel stayed at the rear, sweeping his gaze over the narrow hallway. “Priest, where to?” He asked, keeping his voice low.

  Priest tapped a few commands. “Schematics show a main server room deeper inside.”

  “Any other surprises we should worry about?” Hunter asked.

  Priest’s brow furrowed. “Do you count automated defenses as a surprise?”

  Hunter groaned. “They really left traps in an abandoned building.”

  A sudden clunk echoed down the corridor. Everyone tightened their grip on their weapons.

  A faint mechanical whirr followed—a servo motor spinning to life, metal shifting against metal. Then the hallway lights flickered, weak at first, then stronger, bathing the corridor in an eerie, pale-blue glow.

  “Motion sensors, though very faint,” Priest muttered. Something knew they were here.

  Gravel exhaled through his nose. “I’ll tank.” He took the lead, pushing forward. Morkanium surged over his skin, coalescing in slow, deliberate waves.

  A shape dangled in the middle of the passageway, swaying slightly in the stale air. At first, it was just a silhouette—limbs limp, head slumped forward. Then the lights flared brighter for a split second.

  Hunter subconsciously took a step back. “Whoa! What’s that? Hold on . . .”

  Gravel sucked in a sharp breath. “That’s not a trap.”

  It was a body.