Thunder tigers roared, tearing across the skies toward the Guild ironclads. Shuriken fire glittered amongst falling snow, catching the lightning on their edges, turning all to broken, spinning glass. Hana and Kaiah peeled left, swooping under an ironclad’s bow, Sukaa heading right with another Morcheban black. Yukiko and Buruu soared over the shuriken storm, accompanied by a swift Everstorm buck named Tuake, the pair splitting off in different directions, headed toward the Honorable Death’s inflatable. The topside ’throwers opened up, catching Tuake along one wing and sending him spiraling away, roaring in rage. Yukiko narrowed her eyes, one hand wrapped in Buruu’s mane, the other pressed against her stomach, fingertips skirting the hand-flares stuffed into her obi.
They hit the inflatable, tearing through reinforced canvas, the air behind them filled with shrieking hydrogen, the popopopopopop of ’thrower fire, roars and Raijin Song. Yukiko drew out a flare, striking it against her breastplate. Flame bloomed in her hand, bright and hot. The warmth on her face made her shiver, sparks trailing through the falling black behind them.
Just a flick of her wrist.
Just to let go. Let it fall. Watch it burn.
Him burn.
Like this?
YUKIKO …
She wavered, staring into the light in her fist.
… He’s their father, Buruu. The father of these babies inside me.
HE IS A DESTROYER. ALL THIS DEATH. THIS PAIN. FROM HIS HANDS.
I know.
YET YOU FORGIVE HIM? AISHA. DAICHI. AKIHITO. KASUMI. EVEN YOUR OWN FATHER. ALL OF THEM DEAD BECAUSE OF THIS WAR. AND HE LEADS THEIR HOST.
I never said I could forgive him.
YET YOU STAY YOUR HAND.
No, Buruu. Hiro still dies today.
Yukiko tossed the hand-flare away from the torn inflatable, the light spitting and spinning down to the ruined earth below.
I just want to tell him why.
*
Kin dropped down behind the cooling system and collapsed into a ball of pain, clutching the hole in his thigh. He was sweat-soaked, the ambient temperature almost enough to scald his bare flesh. But despite the heat, he felt a terrible chill, greasy and nauseous, his hands shaking like autumn leaves. Hard to breathe. Hard to think.
You’re going into shock.
Shinji dropped down next to him with a soft grunt, arms wrapped around his broken ribs, the clicking chatter of his mechabacus muted with the palm of one hand.
You’re going to die in here …
Kin hauled himself up on all fours, head down, dripping sweat, struggling to breathe. Fingers curled into fists. Vomiting on an empty stomach.
“Are you all right?”
“… Hai.”
He could hear Guildsmen’s boots, patrolling on overhead gantries and walkways. Kensai must have some inkling as to what he was thinking—there were only a few reasons why he’d have fled into the vents. He had to get those explosives to the transmission. Quickly.
“Where are the charges?” he breathed.
“Up there.” Shinji pointed. “Tight squeeze.”
Risking a glance from his vantage point, Kin saw the explosives welded to the diffuser array, twelve feet above the ground. The cooling system filled the entire floor above the engine room; a twisted sprawl of pipes bubbling with coolant. The air hung thick with steam, the roar of engines and thunder of the Earthcrusher’s tread underscoring a sea of hissing iron.
Shinji leaned against an inflow pipe and stifled a yelp, his skin sizzling where it touched the metal like cuttlefish on a skillet.
“How the hells did you get it up there?” Kin asked.
“We planted them before anyone fired the engines. We never expected to move them.”
Kin heard approaching footsteps, rasping metallic voices. There was no time, not even a spare minute to look for an alternative. Every second brought the patrols closer, brought the Earthcrusher nearer to Kitsune-jō. Every moment wasted was a moment another arashitora or Kitsune soldier or, gods help him, even Yukiko herself, did something suicidal to stop its march.
This was why he left the Iishi, why he left her behind. This is why Daichi sacrificed himself. So Kin could be here, at this moment, the power to bring the Earthcrusher to its knees just a few feet away.
“Give me your membrane,” he said to Shinji.
“What are—”
“Just give it to me.”
Shinji complied, grasping the thin, gleaming fabric and ripping the arms off, the torso, the legs at the thighs. Kin could see the bayonet fixtures in Shinji’s skin, the cables leading from the boy’s mechabacus into his flesh. And wrapping the webbing around his hands, knees, feet, he crawled from behind the pipes. Down on his belly, thigh ablaze, hands shaking, beneath the potbellied bulk of the diffuser array and into the space between it and the wall.
The air rippling, too thick to breathe. The chill in his gut evaporating in the narrow, scorching space. Back pressed to the wall, wincing at the furnace heat, slithering up to his feet. And then, whispering a prayer to whoever was listening, he pressed his hands to the metal and began to climb.