stretches, and Mordecai had to work hard to keep the vehicle from turning over.
Another curve—and then machine gun bullets crashed into his windshield. They missed him but flying glass slashed the right side of his face. The technical that had fired the machine gun was turned sideways to block him—he wasn’t going to be able to get past it. It was either jump free, crash into the technical, or . . .
He took the third option, and turned sharply, driving thevehicle right through the middle of the Sludge Packer Bar and Grill.
He smashed through the front of the building, so that splintered panels flew past, and one sharp timber stabbed through his broken window, jabbing into the seat between him and Bloodwing.
She huddled under the dashboard as the vehicle crushed and crashed its way through the bar, running over several drunken Marauders, driving right through a booth where four startled men were throwing down their playing cards and diving aside—and continuing explosively out through the back wall of the Sludge Packer.
Behind the bar, he remembered, was just a cliff—a short escarpment, really . . .
The technical was flying headlong down the escarpment now, in a jagged-edged cloud of broken synthawood and shattered glass and several body parts. There was just enough of a slope for his wheels to find some purchase, and the vehicle didn’t nose over onto its back, as he’d feared . . . it bounced, parts of it flying off, and then crashed onto the roof of a shack. Someone inside screamed. The Bandit technical.
Stalled.
The vehicle was stuck, smoking, in the wreckage of the shack. And the wreckage of the shack was lying across the first acid moat. He could hear the acid seething, bubbling, eating at the bottom of the flattened shack; acrid chemical fumes rose up around him. In moments it would burn its way through, and he’d be dumped into the bubbling corrosive fluid.
Mordecai cursed as he tried to restart the technical with his right hand, while with his left he controlled the machine gun, blasting the sentries running toward him up the lower road.
Then the technical started, and he put it in top gear, gunned it hard. The wheels spun but then took hold in the wreckage, fishtailing before straightening out on the lower road. He let out a long, relieved breath as he left the acid moat behind and managed to get the armored truck turned—but not before shearing into the support timbers of a guard tower; the tower fell, the guard howling with fear as it came down, crashing back into the acid moat. The man shrieked piteously as he fell into the flesh-eating fluid.
Mordecai veered around the snapped-off supports of the fallen guard tower, then drove headlong down another slope—and straight toward the nearest gate.
Only, the gate was closed. It looked heavy, too. And there were two SlagSlugs worming toward the gate, ahead, one from each side.
He jerked the wheel hard right, angling toward the place he’d come in, past a SlagSlug, then cut hard left and jammed through a scaffolding and a fence, thumping out onto the tundra, past the wreckage of the drone, straight toward the ravine where he’d left the outrunner. The technical was slowing down, jittering, and he seemed to be followed by something that clinked and whined close behind. He looked in the rearview mirror, saw he’d brought a length of fence wire with him, along with half a dozen posts and one sentry tangled up in the wire, being dragged, the wire skinning him alive.
“Whoa, glad I’m not that guy,” said Mordecai, wincing.
He knew there’d be pursuit within a minute or two, maybe cannon firing at him, and the technical was slowed by all the debris. But he’d almost reached the hidden outrunner.
There—he could just make out the ravine in the moonlight, up ahead.
Mordecai pulled up near the ravine, keeping the vehicle idling. As Bloodwing flapped out past him to wait at the outrunner, Mordecai got out and ran back to the man
Another curve—and then machine gun bullets crashed into his windshield. They missed him but flying glass slashed the right side of his face. The technical that had fired the machine gun was turned sideways to block him—he wasn’t going to be able to get past it. It was either jump free, crash into the technical, or . . .
He took the third option, and turned sharply, driving thevehicle right through the middle of the Sludge Packer Bar and Grill.
He smashed through the front of the building, so that splintered panels flew past, and one sharp timber stabbed through his broken window, jabbing into the seat between him and Bloodwing.
She huddled under the dashboard as the vehicle crushed and crashed its way through the bar, running over several drunken Marauders, driving right through a booth where four startled men were throwing down their playing cards and diving aside—and continuing explosively out through the back wall of the Sludge Packer.
Behind the bar, he remembered, was just a cliff—a short escarpment, really . . .
The technical was flying headlong down the escarpment now, in a jagged-edged cloud of broken synthawood and shattered glass and several body parts. There was just enough of a slope for his wheels to find some purchase, and the vehicle didn’t nose over onto its back, as he’d feared . . . it bounced, parts of it flying off, and then crashed onto the roof of a shack. Someone inside screamed. The Bandit technical.
Stalled.
The vehicle was stuck, smoking, in the wreckage of the shack. And the wreckage of the shack was lying across the first acid moat. He could hear the acid seething, bubbling, eating at the bottom of the flattened shack; acrid chemical fumes rose up around him. In moments it would burn its way through, and he’d be dumped into the bubbling corrosive fluid.
Mordecai cursed as he tried to restart the technical with his right hand, while with his left he controlled the machine gun, blasting the sentries running toward him up the lower road.
Then the technical started, and he put it in top gear, gunned it hard. The wheels spun but then took hold in the wreckage, fishtailing before straightening out on the lower road. He let out a long, relieved breath as he left the acid moat behind and managed to get the armored truck turned—but not before shearing into the support timbers of a guard tower; the tower fell, the guard howling with fear as it came down, crashing back into the acid moat. The man shrieked piteously as he fell into the flesh-eating fluid.
Mordecai veered around the snapped-off supports of the fallen guard tower, then drove headlong down another slope—and straight toward the nearest gate.
Only, the gate was closed. It looked heavy, too. And there were two SlagSlugs worming toward the gate, ahead, one from each side.
He jerked the wheel hard right, angling toward the place he’d come in, past a SlagSlug, then cut hard left and jammed through a scaffolding and a fence, thumping out onto the tundra, past the wreckage of the drone, straight toward the ravine where he’d left the outrunner. The technical was slowing down, jittering, and he seemed to be followed by something that clinked and whined close behind. He looked in the rearview mirror, saw he’d brought a length of fence wire with him, along with half a dozen posts and one sentry tangled up in the wire, being dragged, the wire skinning him alive.
“Whoa, glad I’m not that guy,” said Mordecai, wincing.
He knew there’d be pursuit within a minute or two, maybe cannon firing at him, and the technical was slowed by all the debris. But he’d almost reached the hidden outrunner.
There—he could just make out the ravine in the moonlight, up ahead.
Mordecai pulled up near the ravine, keeping the vehicle idling. As Bloodwing flapped out past him to wait at the outrunner, Mordecai got out and ran back to the man
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