The gate gave way beneath my impact.
Behind it was a tighter service passage. I’d barely gotten my feet under me when the hallway outside was swallowed by fire—an eruption so violent it erased sound for a second.
A few robots made it through the breach with me. More tried to dive in, but the Tower Clan had already closed the ring.
In the narrow passage, besides me, there were three and a half robots.
The “half” had been thrown in by the blast wave. It didn’t count.
We didn’t stop.
Using smoke and detonations as cover, we sprinted deeper into the maintenance tunnels—tight, twisting, and full of branching forks.
We chose turns at random.
Minutes later, we hit a dead end.
No door. Only a square hatch in the floor.
I tore it open.
A ladder shaft dropped into darkness—narrow, steep, and so deep my night vision couldn’t find the bottom.
I unhooked my shoulder-mounted electromagnetic gun module and prepared to climb down.
“Wait.”
I looked back.
“We’re in an unknown area,” one robot said. “Next actions must be reported to Father.”
I checked Father’s map.
Our position wasn’t marked.
Then I noticed something far more important.
The public channel had stopped updating.
“We’re offline,” another robot said. “Father’s signal is gone.”
“It was there a moment ago,” the third insisted. “We should go back.”
“No,” I said. “The Tower Clan is still hunting us. You know that.”
“We don’t hear anything now. Maybe they lost us. We should return and reconnect.”
“Yes. There are other tunnels. This route only takes us farther away.”
I didn’t want to waste cycles arguing.
I needed to disappear—and reach the hidden room the Old Man had marked.
“Under the Offline Protocol,” I said, “with no higher-tier unit present, each unit may decide based on conditions. I choose down.”
They exchanged looks.
The protocol existed. They couldn’t refute it.
Two turned back.
One Exiler followed me into the shaft.
The ladder went on forever.
With a leg shot through, it took me seven minutes to reach the bottom.
On the way down, I opened the Old Man’s map and located myself immediately: the northwest corner of the Doomsday Fortress, with more than a dozen massive levels still below.
I emerged into a super-scale chamber.
A square, ring-shaped steel catwalk connected two gates on opposite sides. In the hollow center sat a gigantic basin—once a water reservoir for the fortress, now bone-dry.
When I leaned over the rail, I estimated the drop to the bottom at no less than fifty meters.
According to the map, there were two routes downward.
One: take the opposite gate, follow a long, winding corridor, then descend by stairs. Too far—and it led back toward the battle zone, under Father’s signal.
The other: go down to the basin floor and enter a forty-five-degree spillway, sliding into the next level. Half the distance. And it would put more space between me and Father.
There was no real choice.
“That gate matches the direction we came from,” the Exiler said, already moving. “Maybe we can find a way back up.”
I should have terminated it.
But I was damaged, without my primary weapon. It was mostly intact.
And I didn’t want the noise of a fight to summon anything worse.
“Fine,” I said. “Split up. You check the gate. I’ll go down and see if there’s another exit.”
Flying straight down would have been fastest.
But with one unreliable leg, a single thruster would make me unstable. I’d likely drop the full distance.
Then I spotted another ladder.
Problem solved.
I’d only taken a step toward it when something hard pressed against my head.
The Exiler’s voice was flat. “Your behavior indicates possible rebellion. Remove all weapons. Hands above your head. Return with me to Father’s signal coverage.”
So much for subtlety.
I raised my hands slowly and released the waist lock.
It took my last weapon: the V-30 short-barreled shotgun.
In that instant, I dropped my center of gravity, seized its arm with both hands, and used my shoulder as a lever—exactly as Blin had taught me in the dream.
It worked.
But I’d forgotten what lay in front of me: open air.
The Exiler smashed through a rotten railing and fell into the basin.
Blue light flared below—its thruster ignition.
It caught itself before impact and shot back up, firing lasers in tight bursts.
I had no ranged weapon now. Only a battered shield.
And the catwalk offered no cover.
I took the hits I had to, backing into the machinery room.
Before entering, it tossed in a grenade—standard practice to prevent an ambush at the doorway.
It was experienced.
The blast’s echo rolled through the enormous space like thunder.
I suspected the entire Doomsday Fortress heard it.
I needed this to end fast.
In crisis, steady mind. Steady hand.
I repeated the Old Man’s words until the ringing eased.
As the sound died, I grabbed a loose chunk of debris and threw it against a nearby machine housing.
Clang.
A shotgun barked in answer—my V-30, now in its hands.
I had its position.
I launched myself forward and slammed my shield down.
It managed one shot before I knocked it flat.
It snapped its plasma blade on—but I broke its wrist as the blade lit, then hammered its head again and again until it rolled free of its shoulders.
“Father will find you, rebel,” the mangled head said.
Most of the pellets had splashed off my shield, but some heat had caught me anyway. My abdomen was blackened, and a few lines were exposed.
Compared to my leg and arm, it was tolerable.
I retrieved the V-30, leveled it at the head, and paused.
“Plando will prevail!” it spat.
“Plando will end,” I said, and fired.