He fell, tumbling like Jack down the hill. Something jarred in his arm. He cradled it to his chest. “You said yourself. I’m not going to make it.”

“Did I?” There was a clicking sound. Tracey almost didn’t recognise it as a gulp. “I don’t remember.”

Tracey rubbed at his face, trying to scrub away the dirt. The palm of his hand stung. His arm throbbed. He wiped his oozing nose on his wrist. He could smell something over the dank, dusty stench of the basement. It smelled like meat cooking. “Do you smell that?”

“Smell what?” said Joseph. “Can’t smell anything.”

“Yeah.” Tracey kept his hand over his nose. “Probably for the best.”

“Why? What is it?”

“Nothing.” He tested his arm. It bent, but when he reached out a shock of pain jolted up to his shoulder. “I think I’m stuck here.”

“You could call for help.”

“I already did.” He worked his arm, hoping it would get better if he stretched it, but it hurt more and more the more he moved it.

“Right.”

Joseph brought a hand up in front of his face, flexing each finger-joint in turn. “Is that my hand?”

“Yeah.” Tracey flexed his own fingers. It hurt.

“What happened to me?” said Joseph. “Why am I a robot? I don’t—I don’t remember what happened to me.”

Tracey could hear a hissing, crackling sound coming from somewhere within Joseph’s armour. The last of his cooling system giving way. He pressed a hand to his mouth and tried not to retch.

If he could get out—which was unlikely, with a busted arm—maybe, just maybe, he’d get back to base before the Blues got him. And then what? He’d live to die another day, blown into chunks or fried by a nerve-shell.

Or he could die here, cold and alone in what was left of a basement with what was left of an iSoldier.

The sizzling was getting louder.

Joseph let out a yelp. “What?” He was panting, in-out-in-out, rough gasps of air. “What—why can’t I –” He was staring at his hand—but he wasn’t. His eyes were roaming about in their sockets, unfocused. His optic nerve had severed.

Staggering over, Tracey knelt beside him. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t see,” Private McCray choked. “Oh God, I can’t see.”

Tracey took a deep breath. He tried to sound calm. “It’s alright, Private. You’re fine.”

“Why can’t I see? I remember—fighting. There was a blast. What happened to my eyes?”

“You got hit,” said Tracey. “You’ll be okay. I promise. I’m a medtech.”

Maybe Joseph believed him, maybe he didn’t.“What was it? Nerve shell?”

“Yeah. One of those bastards.”

“I can’t feel my legs, are they –”

“You’re going to be fine. Just need some fixing, that’s all.” His voice was getting rough. God, he was thirsty. “I called for help, remember? There’ll be more medics here any minute now.”

“Yeah.” Dark fluid seeped out of the corner of Joseph’s mouth. “Listen, do me a favour and don’t tell Sergeant Reid I cracked up over this.”

“Don’t worry. I can keep a secret.” Tracey clutched his injured arm to his chest. The air around them shimmered. “I’ll tell him you were stoic and manly throughout.”

Private McCray laughed. He choked. The crackling was getting louder. “What’s that noise. Feels like—air bubbles inside my skin.”

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.” Tracey could feel the heat coming off the armour on his face.

“Sounds like—sounds like steak cooking. Steak cooking. My Dad used to make it on Sundays. Days. Every and chips. Always—well done.” He rasped. “Smells good.”

“Yeah, yeah I know.” Tracey hoped he sounded soothing. “You just relax now, Private. Help’s coming.”

“Not supposed to relax too much. When you’re concussed, you’re supposed to stay awake. Awake.” A rumbling was building on the edge of Tracey’s hearing. “You have to count.”

“Count?” The light was going away, as if the sun was setting—or a shadow was looming.

“Between the thunder. Ever been struck by lightning?”

And he was gone. A light went out behind his eyes. Nothing left but the hissing and popping of his innards gently cooking themselves. Tracey prodded at his face, trying to get his eyes to close. He could only get one shut. The other hung open, like he was winking. He used the last of the charge in his probe to force the helmet.

It was just half an iSoldier, leaking steam and fluids onto the filthy concrete.

Tracey backed away. He found his canteen. His fingers shook as he unhooked it from his belt and slowly drank.

He could hear a distant roaring. There was no sense conserving water. He finished it off, guzzling what little was left. It spilled tepid down the front of his vest.

A minute passed in the building haze, fingers slipping on the damp plastic of his canteen, watching motes of brick dust dancing in the last rays of light till they were blotted out for good.

The roar of the Beast was almost upon him. Clawed feet tearing through steel and concrete, churning up the city to feed itself. It had to be just outside, it was so loud, but the noise kept on building, building till it hurt, till the whole world narrowed down to just the roar and the hurt.

He screamed into it till his throat was raw. He couldn’t hear himself screaming, couldn’t hear a thing until it stopped.

It quieted so suddenly he staggered, almost fell. He opened his eyes, squinting in the sudden light, in the dust-cloud than enveloped him. It had cracked open the building. It loomed over him, bigger than anything he’d ever seen. The low thrumming of the engines was distorted, as if he was under water. He unclasped his hands from his ears and found smears of blood in his palms. He hadn’t even noticed.

A figure, stark against the light. Another, and another. iSoldiers. On the march.

He heard faint underwater sounds of metal dragging on concrete. They were dragging away what was left of Private McCray to be recycled. Something like hope fluttered in his chest. Maybe they’d come for him after all.

The nearest iSoldier was staring at him through the dusty, warped gloom the world had become. “Identify.” His throat was raw, he could barely get the word out. He swallowed, coughed, tried again. “Identify!”

It raised an arm. In its wrist, a blue glow.

The shot was pure, searing agony, every nerve-ending in his body screaming at once, until he was gone, blank, empty –

He came to with cold concrete at his back, and noted with dull surprise that he was still alive. For a split second there was elation, elation at somehow clinging to consciousness despite everything –