The Winter Palace

The Weeping Millions

With everything in her, from the darkest pit in her heart, she ran. She was a gazelle, the fastest runner of the three by far; she'd make it at least five seconds before the other two.

The Whistlers hit their mark: soft orange flashes burst on the horizon, followed by massive booms. They'd keep the soldiers on the base too busy to shoot back...

Can't stop.

A cloud of dust erupted ten feet in front of her—a mortar? She plunged through it. The dirt and snow sought to blind her, but she kept her eyes wide open.

Can't stop to see if I'm blind.

Bright dashes whistled over her head, then drifting, slowly danced toward the sky: tracers from a machine gun turret, its gunner missing spectacularly.

Can't stop to ask if I'm still alive.

Dash-Dash-Dash's volley of Whistlers popped and boomed in the distance ahead.

Great Scott. For two Whistler salvos to strike successfully was a miracle.

The Glaive base—what she could make out—was a smoking mess.

A thousand yards away—

She kicked her foot right under a bramble, and was thrust face-first into the snow.

Psst. Psst. Psst. Psst. Snow was tossed up all around her... they were firing back. She jumped up, wiped the wet from her eyes, ignored the sharp burn on her face. She took a step, and it was as if her femur had transformed into a double-edged sword: searing, acute pain from top to bottom.

She planted her heel into the ground as hard as she could—she needed that pain right now. Move!

No time...

She ran, hoping her leg would work itself out.

Rounds impacted the ground, all of them at least a hundred feet away. They didn't know what they were shooting at yet.

Carmen wiped her eye, scanned the horizon for her target. The Red Duke was on his knees, alone his palms covering his ears. Fifty feet to the Duke's right, a grey-streaked mech wobbled, its pilot still incapacitated by the flash-bang rockets.

Her field of vision transformed into bright orange lines; the snow exploded. She glanced up, kept running—it was the plane they had seen earlier, the Lisunov, tracer rounds spewing from a hole in its passenger door. It was too low to keep up that rate of fire; the plane disappeared behind a tower.

Probably a nearer miss than I thought.

Smack! Her feet hit the pavement as she ran toward the Duke.

Fifty yards—

Salvador Innes, the Duke, lean and broad-shouldered, now walked in circles, trying to open a black leather gun holster at his hip. She saw him undo the clasp, revealing the black rubber hilt of his famous nickel-plated Makarov. It was engraved by Mossimo, gifted to the Duke the day he had conquered Glaive. She got in range, jumped, roundhoused, was pretty sure she knocked his jaw out of joint when she connected.

He twisted, fell, landed on the palms of both hands, jumped back up surprisingly fast, but she was ready. She drew her Ka-bar, and she brought it down through his shoulder patch. The first sound she heard was hisa scream, throaty and deep, ashen and horrific. She let go of the knife and palmed the hilt as hard as she could, jamming it deeper, then punched it with a closed fist. His face went purple.