They ran down the treacherous stairs as the skadi ran up. There was no caution from the skadi; they had no need for subtlety now.
The weapon in Vikram’s hands was heavier than the one he’d held last time. One part of his mind looked at its specification and noted the weight, the heft, the resistance of the trigger whilst the other listened to the mounting skadi steps and wondered where Pekko had got their guns from, if he had bribed a skad, or if the Rochs had supplied them.
They had one advantage, being upstairs and the skadi being down, and knowing the place as the skadi did not, but it would only be an advantage whilst the enemy kept the attack inside.
“Everyone take one of these.” Pekko passed gas masks to the others and threw one at Vikram. He pulled it over his head and wiped a sleeve over the smeary visor.
They waited, halfway between their base and the surface. They took up positions overlooking a landing where the corridor spilled into a narrow funnel. They would see the skadi approach before the skadi could see them. They waited.
He could hear the shallowness of the others’ breathing. A tiny cough from Drake, suppressed. Pekko fidgeting with the safety catch of his gun.
He heard pounding boots. The sound drummed like Vikram’s own heartbeat. Like Juraj’s crazed escort of rafters on the night of the firefight.
They were coming.
The first man appeared. Black gear, mask, rifle. He hurled a canister and retreated. A swirl of gas rose up, the canister hissing as it expelled its contents. Drake touched her mask nervously. Vikram felt his chest constrict and forced himself to breathe.
Without warning Pekko opened fire, screaming as he did so. Skadi emerged through the dispelling gas. When Vikram started shooting he felt nothing but inevitability, as though he’d walked a full circle and found himself exactly where he had started: home. He squeezed the trigger and the gun flashed and the bolts slapped into the heads of oncoming men.
You don’t make your own luck, he thought. That’s all a lie.
The confined space exploded with ricocheting gunfire. The sound was phenomenal. There was no light, no true darkness. A whirl of grey shadows, moving, running, flying to the ground where they stopped, dead or injured. He heard Nils hiss and knew his friend was hit but Nils kept shooting. Vikram did not see the eyes of any of the men he killed, except one who looked straight in his direction as though he could see Vikram, really see him, not just the mouth of his gun from his concealed hole.
He did not count the men as they funnelled into the death-trap. He reminded himself that each man was a skad, without any comprehension of the worth of a life. He reminded himself he was fighting for his own life and that of his friends. Then his mind went blank and his muscles took over.
They heard the sounds of the skadi running up other stairwells, only to discover that the way was blocked with rubble and there was no route up except via the five of them.
A point came when they realized all the shots were coming from their side and ceased. They waited and listened for a second wave. It didn’t come.
Nils’s breathing came heavily through the quiet. Vikram heard mutterings between Nils and Ilona as they examined the damage. None of them yet dared to move from their stations, fearful of a skadi trick.
“What’s happening?” whispered Drake. “Why are they withdrawing?”
Vikram could only think of one reason. He looked at Drake and she looked back at him, scared.
“Why would they go?” she said, not bothering to keep her voice down now.
Nils and Ilona came out into the open.
“They’re not going to get any more of their people killed,” Nils said. His arm hung useless at his side, bloody and clumsily bandaged, but he appeared otherwise unhurt. “They don’t need to.”
“Where’s Pekko?” asked Drake.
Vikram was alerted by the sound of footsteps. Turning, he saw the other man was already running back up the stairs. He swore and pelted after him.