In this strait place a thousand

May well be stopped by three.

Now who will stand on either hand and keep the bridge with me?

–Macaulay, Horatius at the Bridge

Ork Slayer–as he generally did when plans were set and there was only the wait–was thinking of his sister. She had been a strong, forward woman who cowed lustful trogs with words more telling than blows. A caring mother and working father to him, after their SINless parents had sickened. She'd even clipped his ear whenever he'd taken insects apart to see how they worked and wriggled. He'd loved her, of course. She'd been right to tell him such creatures were harmless–a waste of his exceptionally precious time.

He knew of secret laboratories in Philly, Atlanta and the Mojave, where scientists tirelessly studied the harms of metahumans and how they might best be destroyed. His calling should have been to such research, he'd often thought, had he not been born on a dirty, failing homestead north of Chico. He'd had to secure his own intellectual development, through a few old books by W. Luther Pierce, W.S. Lind and Robert Howard. Ignorance and trideo lies made good men worse than trogs; knowledge and imagination, above all, would bring a solution to the metahuman problem. It was imperative that extermination be sped towards its end, by some means, if he meant to work solutions for the Reds and Nips within a single devoted lifetime.

His sister had been raped and murdered in a filthy alley, within a year of their move to Chico. There'd been little the cops could do against SINless trogs, except drive through their slum arresting any meta on the street and shooting into their homes. Ninety percent of crime in Chico was SINless trogs and gangs, they'd told him. There had been nothing they could do for his sister; nothing he could do at all.

A world of senseless problems, that somehow rejected any place for him. Crammed with ignorant, dirty trogs, who laughed at him with their filthy families. Rutted more huge broods of trog-spawn out of their sweating bovine breeders. And then strolled down the nearest alley to defile human women, defile everything pure that men made and owned.

Head of a vanished family, he'd had to make a place for himself. Make a bigger family. Remake a nation. He'd read the real history. California had been the richest state in America, forests filled with clean air and cities with freedom. Before the trogs, the Tir, the elf-ruled Megacorps and Redskin-loving UCAS had ruined her. For humanity's survival, all would have to go.

History had taught him that agents of genocide generally died in bed. The world knew in its craven heart, they were its saviours. While ignorant half-men followed the beast, heroes went forth to face the monster at the gate. The Tir invasion that had united all Calfree against their foes, the flood of weapons that he would turn against the decadent daisy-eaters themselves, very soon–all of it confirmed his destiny of slaughter and salvation.

It did pain him that destiny had never granted space for seeking his sister's killers. He'd never feared any sub-human brute, since the night he'd carved up his first trog in an alley; that thought was absurd. He'd no regrets about women–what could be more brutish than submitting to soft embraces, with screams of murdered sisters in his ears? The world was a black, bloody battlefield, and knowing that truth was his power. Noble, every woman he'd saved, had begged him with their eyes for what women desired but he'd never been moved.

Saving women had always taken a special place in his mission. He'd had to make them strong, to fight back the brutes. Stronger than his strong sister had been–not wilful whores who walked down midnight alleys alone. He'd always found out women who'd been defiled by trogs, or had the courage to claim they'd been. He'd killed all female weakness and mercy in them; he was proud of the fighters he'd made. What their words of agony had made of his men.

True Californians, they would die for that American vision and freedom that was manifest in himself. The cause that would scour every invader from Calfree, with the light of its bloody dawn. For his sister's death, he chose to be nothing but a slayer.

Sweat bound his armour to face and body. Noble's diversionary attack from the south lookout post had already begun. Alison Blanche, the little blonde shaman who'd seen her sister killed by ork gangers, was on his right side. Redhaired Peggy-Jo Holstein, whose father had already given all for humanity, was on his left. Heaving a launcher onto her broad and leathered shoulder. The blood of the sentries in the north lookout post–were under their feet.

The pathetic Halfer, who'd thought he could save his woman's life by leaving a door unlocked and fiddling with some security cams, had TRAITOR carved into his cooling forehead. Mercy for weakness was unforgivable sin; he had known since he was sixteen that only the strong survived. Now, it was time to show his strength.

(Quietly, Alison prayed for Great Mother to have mercy on all the monsters and lost souls her comrades would kill today. Above all, to protect the hero she looked up to with her huge blue eyes. She was weak, too weak to save her sister. Only strength could save this awful world, only her hero was strong, and so his words were a righteous saviour's…)

"We are here to cleanse this city. Tomorrow, we shall hold Redding. Next year, we will drive Tir's princes to the slaughter, crushing the lamentations of their devilish women. Kill anything in your path, and you will be worthy of tomorrow's dawn. Now."

-0-

Ork Slayer's chosen happy few charged onto the square. Pouring from cellars, alleys and vans in the city behind them, dozens of NC fighters brandished Colt rifles and RPGs. Screaming the names of their dead comrades, their women, and their blood-soaked chief. They had fought the monsters from Redding to San Francisco, and they had lost–but they could not lose today. They were the only heroes left and their cause was just.

An NC sniper, who'd shot dozens of trogs from Chico's tallest spire, took out a machine gunner in front of City Hall–before a sniper from the shadows blew out his brains. Gunfire lashed down from the Defenders' last of three lookout posts on the east side, crossing with bullet-blazes across the wide brick face of City Hall. The Native Californians fell back to the edge of the square, like circling wolves with heavy weapons.

A child was screaming somewhere, until a missile blew the bell-cupola off City Hall and drowned it. Havoc roaring loose from every gun-barrel, choking the air with cordite and the death's touch. Ork Slayer recalled his first real battle, when the world had seemingly slipped onto one side. He'd cut down that trog street gang and their spawns even then, however–set the world right–and now he was serene. Nothing disturbed his superhuman, world-shaping hate for monsters of lust.

Silencing the west lookout post took a missile, and a tattooed mage rushing in to hurl a fireball. Before a sniper took him out too. Holstein, the other missile team, and even the RPGs were down; infiltrating the city had cut down the heavies they could field to begin with.

They'd even taken fire in their rear. Shotguns from storefronts and handguns from corners–the treacherous scum who called this town their rathole. Firebombing two more buildings behind them had supressed that distraction, although it was clear that Redding would not be worth saving until it had been thoroughly cleansed.

Two Stoner-Ares MGs were still pouring fire on them–City Hall stood blackened and resistant as a battleship. The speed of the Defenders' response was unexpected, but not un-allowed for. Ork Slayer nodded to the brunette NC woman with a drone rig, crouched behind the same swiss-cheesed Ford Americar. He was glad yet again of having read W.S. Lind–father of Fourth Generation Warfare–who'd so prophetically in 2014 called dark-skinned gang-thugs 'orks'.

-0-

As Noble's razor-edged sword slid past her windpipe, Sarah knew she was going to die. Again. The fall of Colma, the Armoury, the Embarcadero…but nothing had hurt like the gun against her brow as the marines took turns to rape her. Knowing she would live, weak and worthless, with that terror bound to her limbs through midnight hours and helpless years. Yet she hadn't fought and died, however it had hurt–nothing was more worthless than death. There was no worse fate. For Hrafna, Susan, Tomas and everyone but her miserable self, she could not die.

Clutching her neck wound, she hammered her titan elbow into Noble's face. Troll reach was useless against a sword. She had to close. The NC adept dodged a knee-strike that would've broken her neck. Pulled back her sword-hand past her lovely white cheek in the finestra stance, then volleyed stabs through Sarah forearm and scalp like a chaingun.

"Better than you, monster." One blue eye flared like a hawk's wings as she lunged, "Not going to lose!"

Sarah planted her back foot–blood was pouring down her chest. Then the cool relief of Healing washed through her. She stared up at the window where green light shone from Takahashi's palm, before three NC gunmen flung grenades up the wall like stones through windows.

The blasts silenced gunfire from the rear second floor, as the NCs rushed through the back doorway. More gunfire rang out within–that unending discordant torment that shredded nerves of flesh down to wires of steel. Before even steel broke, or else blood-splattered eyes howled with the laughter of beasts, as bullets rained on steel and brick. From blast-shields and doorways the Defenders fired back, the NCs fired on, and the adepts battled.

Blood flew from Sarah's body, like a defiant bull in the ring. A punch caught Noble's face. Ki Armour and Pain Resistance kept her upright, but it threw her back. Before Sarah could rush in, she had to smack a spitting rifle from her head; four of Noble's men had hung back to surround her. After all their captain had fought through, they weren't taking a single chance with this trog slot.

Sarah punched through a skull, as the first shots tore her arm. Then an FN HAR bullet suddenly pulped one man's eyeball across 400 yards of square and street–for Will Casper, loping relentlessly to the fight, 400 yards was close-up work. An NC's shot smashed a Stuffer Shack window behind him, and the cashier's shoulder. Casper didn't hear her cries or see anything but the falling targets under his gunsights.

For Hawk on the hunt, there was nothing but the prey and empty sky. In the grip of the Totem that had brought Private William Casper through a half-tour of the Lambeth Containment Zone–to the edge of toxicity–the shaman-sniper watched the troll and the human battle on. If the troll woman killed her enemy, he would Heal her, and only then. If she fell, he would shoot the NC slot down–perhaps Hawk would have him shoot them both. But the troll ought to get a chance for proving she wasn't prey. That she was worthy to survive.

Noble saw nothing but the monster she had to slay. Her head rang, her men needed her, but the only good trog was a dead trog. Ork Slayer would never have left a single monster to rape and kill, and he had saved her worthless life–she had to be worthy. More than the spoilt teenage daughter of respectable wageslaves, who'd just once gone clubbing down the wrong end of Sactown. Left bleeding on the sidewalk, that dawn had hurt her blackened eyes. It had hurt more, knowing that she'd would never, never know why this had happened to her. Why her own body and her life would never be hers again.

With a howl, Amy Noble kicked off the wall. Flew up above Sarah's head. Her sword flashed and plunged through flesh; a kick wrenched it free in a bloody gout. Noble touched down, as Sarah dropped to one knee; spun and kicked again at her hideous jaw.

Such things didn't happen to strong women, not to SINers–it had made no sense. Until her saviour had shown her the world's truth, how naïve she'd been. How ignorantly culpable for her own rape, when monsters invested the world and respectable SINers did nothing. She'd emptied her executive father's bank account for the cause of justice; left her false family for a true one. Her saviour had taught her to fight back. She'd screamed and cried, at the videos showing the nature of the beasts, for days on end–but facing her nightmare had finally scoured weakness from her soul. She saw nothing now but rapist monsters, and there was nothing she had to do but slay them.

Sarah knew what had been done to Amy–what the marines and Shavarus, had done to her–but it was Hrafna's ravaged face she saw, as the sword went back one last time. As her forearm came up, as the sword stuck in it, as she seized a tiny wrist and wrenched the weapon away. She felt no pain, nothing but cold, as her life pooled around her feet–but Fighter, her shifu who she loved more than she hated, had taught her Kung Fu and never giving up. However easy it was to die, a hero could never stop fighting.

"I'm sorry…" Sarah whispered.

She stared into Amy Noble's fearless, hateful blue eyes, then brought down her Killing Fist. She covered the NC woman's body with her own as she collapsed, in a silenced and futile embrace.

-0-

"I was a Shadowrunner, but I will not vanish in the Shadows today, I will not run. I swear I will fight with you to the death–death for these Humanis mad-dog fraggers we're putting down, today! Don't fear their howling. Hold to your posts. Look out for your chummers! Fight your damnedest, now, or there'll be nothing but death and shame after today–today is the gate we have to hold for Redding, with the chummers we have! I'm fragging glad you're with me, all of you."

Even before the shots from Tomas' falling gun, Hotspur, Paladin and Anya had ordered every Defender to their posts. All had gone, without confusion or hesitating. Redding militiamen, Calfree mercs, metas from Colma and the Valley. Some untrained, some unbloodied, some untrusted–but every one had trusted them, and gone to give for Redding's tomorrow whatever today demanded. It was an unbelievable moment, through the storm of fears in Harry's heart.

He'd given his speech in pieces and bits, while leading the section that rushed all civilians to the cellar. Dragging one nurse who'd gone into shock, hearing the NCs' cries and guns so close around. Hrafna carried another woman and prayed to Racoon as she ran, with Pup loping close at her heels.

Selene had seized her old HK G12 rifle, rushing to join Sarah and barely a dozen other Defenders at the rear door. Tomas had to be there too, even if he wasn't answering comms. Anya couldn't raise Casper in his church-tower hide, either, or two of three lookout posts. She'd confirmed Susan's team were still hopelessly cut off.

Angel had raced with a marksman squad on the top floor. Paladin and Arai led the rest to the front–rolling out blast-shields, throwing down tables, smashing out windowpanes with their gun barrels. Within a minute, the storm of fire had risen on both sides. Men and women, orks, dwarves and trolls, sprayed bullets over windowsills and sandbags. Until ears rang and jaws ached with gritting.

Hotspur rushed forward–grabbed Ilsa's waist as they nearly collided–into the dull but biting smell of blood. Bullets punched brick walls until the building shook–and then they felt the bell-cupola blowing up overhead. The hall was no bunker; a few missiles would level it.

"Anya!" Hotspur called into his comm, over the havoc, "Find the missiles, RPGs, send cam feeds to the marksmen and Ilsa. Angel! Take the heavies out or pin them down!"

"Shall be so, boss." Anya's digital voice shook with feeling.

"No hey pedo, comandante!"

Upstairs, Angel already had a missile-hefter's cropped red hair in his Remington's sights. He'd never liked killing women–but he recalled what these men still meant to do with Gabriela, his elf lady. Angel's finger twitched and blew out the red head in less than a moment. The merc snipers near him, with an ork hunter from Colma and two North Calfree woodsmen, kept up a deadly fire.

Ilsa threw a Flamestrike across the square. She ducked back under the window as Harry dropped down beside her, still commanding.

"–nobody think about slinging RPGs back at the city! Anya! Send a Shelter in Place to every comm in Redding. Tell all the patrols in the city to hold fast, protect the people. We can handle these fraggers with what we've got! Ilsa! Firewall?"

"It would not stop RPGs." Ilsa flicked through cam feeds with one hand and conjured fresh Watcher spirits with the other, "I need command of every summoner in the building, now."

Hotspur made the call. Before the remaining NC heavies could break from cover, Anya and Ilsa had located them all. A flight of fire and nature spirits burst out like living missiles. NC shamans desperately worked banishments, but the targets were sniped, scorched or jinxed into firing wild. Under the clamour, Ilsa and Hotspur shared a more-than-comradely grin.

"Hey, that drek with you and Paladin, and Arai? Doesn't seem to matter so much, right now…?"

"Seems, Hotspur. Nothing matters more than this battle, this heroic moment–except everything that comes after it."

Ilsa slung another Flamestrike. Paladin was grimly aiming burst-fire through the next window, with no time for meaningful glances, beside a dwarf and a human volunteer firing AK-97s. Behind, a troll fired from a blast-shield's cover over their heads. One of Anya's drones had been smashed by an NC sniper already; her surviving Sundowner was still plunking out shells with a steady and wordless vengeful frenzy.

Arai and two mercs were squatting on their other side, professionally staggering their reloads. Hotspur knew exactly how Arai had to feel about Takahashi, caught on the other side of the hall when shooting had started, but Arai seemed only stoic. Even as a hostile Flamestrike blasted the merc next to him–the man flopped down black and screaming, as medics on hands and knees scuttled in.

Hotspur had already directed his squad to act as medics and ammo runners, with a few to guard the cellar. A grizzled ork from Colma pounded in, dumped a crate of AK mags, then thrust more Ares ammo from his jacket at Paladin.

"I'm sorry for this." Paladin snapped in the mag and fired as he spoke, "We told you this place would be safe."

"Guess that's why the drekheads want to wreck it. Always the way. Ach, hope springs eternal?"

Hotspur's attention was arrested by sudden howl of tyres. A Bulldog van, at speed that meant a rigger, not a driver, was hurtling onto the square. But the square was covered with anti-ramming bollards, thanks to Tomas–frag it, he owed that ork a drink–

Then the van screeched to a stop, and NC gunmen brawled at the prisoners inside to get out. They stumbled onto the square, hands bound. Most of them human woman, from the Valley farmlands, every one of them ragged, beaten and death-eyed.

The machine guns in front of City Hall fell silent. A man in shining armour stood up, sword raised high, brought it down. The NCs grimly rolled forward behind their human shields, firing as they advanced.

"Angel!"

A wall of smoke bombs burst before the NCs. What couldn't be seen, couldn't be sniped–before he could switch for a thermal sight, Angel knew it would be too late. He screamed out tortures and blasphemies.

"…Astral." Hotspur stared out through the black clouds, at yellow flickers of terror and hellish blazes of bloodlust, "ILSA–!"

Her Fireball was already bursting in the NCs' back ranks. Almost every spirit they could summon had been spent–all of the rest now went howling through the smoke, blasting down flame. Attackers screamed out as they fell. The hindmost dropped back, laying down covering fire that even struck their own hostages. But it wasn't enough; sweating in their body armour, roaring through their blood, the NCs were closing–

"–HOTSPUR! STUN GRENADES!" Anya screamed in his ear.

Her drone had already launched its full volley of Renraku flash-bangs; Harry had one and instantly threw it. The few human shields left were shoved down with NC rifle butts, as the attackers–to close for the machine guns–broke into a final charge with one savage roar.

A towering earth spirit rose at their head, roaring protection over the rushing, sweating gunmen. Paladin and Arai saw the red veins of eyes, but autofire dashed off of Stoneskins and Force Shields. Alison, the little NC shaman, had almost burnt her spirit out with Healing and protective spells. Ilsa saw her aura blazing, sickly but pure, with the cause she truly thought just. Arai fired on her, as Ilsa threw magic–but it all burst vainly on Ork Slayer's armour, as he scooped the fainting shaman up.

Ilsa finally threw up a flamewall and darted back from the window. The machine gunners were scrambling through windows, from their sandbagged nests, in the half-second they had to reach new cover. Hotspur was screaming to them–FALL BACK!–everyone was retreating. Except for Hotspur himself, sword drawn, with Arai and Paladin, her David, at his right and left. Before the doors, as the huge earth spirit swept aside the flames and smashed them down. Combat boots poured into Redding City Hall; over sandbags, into windows, through the gap.

-0-

At the battle of Kohima–Arai recalled, as a smartlinked twitch set his gun to full auto–men had traded machine-gun fire literally from opposite sides of a tennis court. The British had disbelieved that anything human could have lived in the trenches that Japanese soldiers had fought from. War, like love, made man sometimes a god and sometimes a beast. He was a soldier and war laughed at his strength–but there was no shame in a soldier's death. No longer for his nation and her gods, but for this fragile cause that such a different band of comrades stood ready to die for. Nothing but his rifle, and his eye. His love held his life, and for love's sake he welcomed death in his heart.

His Nissan Optimum roared fire up at the earth spirit's craggy face. Its underbarrel shotgun drowned out shattering doors, and booming feet. Paladin poured bullets against the spirit's right side–and it burst with a noise of clashing rocks, fist still upraised. Hotspur leapt through its fading dust, slashed up, down and across–a rifle flew away with spurts of blood, the first three NCs through the door were down.

Arai was smiling. Paladin grinned like a madman as bullets flew wild round his head. An NC was hefting a grenade within his vision, he shot the man dead. In a righteous cause, in the sight of God, before the woman he loved and could never be with again…how could man die better?

Forcing their way through fire, beating at each other with rifle butts, the NCs came on firing–but brokenly enough that the Defenders had time to fall back. One man stumbled and was shot on the ground, a dwarf struggling to drag back a wounded ork was shot with her…Ilsa and the others reached the shelter of doorways, desks and blast shields at the back of the foyer. Bullets ripped through Arai's side; he swiftly fell back with Hotspur and Paladin.

The attackers were circling Ilsa's firewall, piling through side-windows. A militiaman lobbed a short-fuse grenade, hard and fast, but Ork Slayer was faster.

Sprinting ahead of his men, he snatched the grenade in mid-air. Threw it back at the doorway. Ilsa flung herself into the floor, though it would be useless. Wishing she'd looked up instead, one more time, into Paladin's eyes…

A troll from Colma surged up, pushing a merc back. The blast tore across his chest and the arm that shielded his face. He fell, but it took a lot to kill trolls; he'd had the luck he deserved. Ilsa's head was ringing, against the cold floor, as AK bullets filled the doorway beside her.

Hotspur had already charged at Ork Slayer, sword raised. But another earth spirit roared up between them–and NCs gathered at the windows were already firing on him. Hotspur darted back across the foyer, diving into cover with blood down his leg. Paladin and Arai had backed up already, firing all the way.

From opposite side of a foyer little wider than a tennis court, the furious NCs and desperate, bloodied Defenders dug in. Firing blind with only a weapon stuck out of cover, smartlink or none; flinging grenades and bearing the blasts until eardrums bled. Cordite greyed the air, walls battered from head to foot seemed ready to burst. The din alone would have maddened a poor soul–but every struggler had surely been mad as long as Calfree itself, to come to this room in hell.

Then Ork Slayer charged–leaping up the stairs, from the lobby to the upper floor. Bursting open a door and vanishing, with the half-dozen minions who'd rushed after. Hotspur didn't get it at first–and Ilsa was busy blasting the earth spirit off Paladin–but within a second, he did. Once the marksman squad were silenced, all the NCs who'd fallen back from the charge could come on. They'd be overrun without mercy; Harry saw in savage eyes and spit-filled snarls that the lucky ones would die first.

That was if–as five huge, roaring NCs with bats and machetes charged the Defenders, and Ilsa's Fireball burst on adept Ki-shields–they hadn't been overrun already.

-0-

A bullet punching at his helmet-mask was Ork Slayer's immediate welcome to the second-floor landing. It would have stunned any lesser man, but he was an adept–milspec kelvar, mystic armour and even his shaman's wardings rendered him nigh invincible. He still flicked up his sword in the path of another shot, dashing it away, to show his strength.

The angel-faced gunslinger kept twin Rugers blazing from his fists, down the landing. A cursing NC woman thrust her rifle past Ork Slayer and answered fire. The Runner ducked back through a door.

Floorboards groaned like tortured souls, as Ork Slayer stepped slowly down the passage. He stopped by a small side door, suddenly thrust his sword through. The NCs all heard Angel Florez cry, saw the blooded sword, heard a body fall. Little Alison Blanche quietly shivered like a mouse in a vice.

"If that spineless trog told the truth, to spare his vile family, the traitors' Matrix and comms centre is that way. Jessup, Yancy–guard this junction. Brown and Blanche, Dominguez, Peters and Blake–follow me."

(Alison thought of the abducted families. The human shields, the children…soulless monsters that could only grow to be killers, drug-dealers, rapists…but saving the world could be so hard)

"Peters was shot in the head, chief, on the stairs. We'd never have made it without Alison's magic." This from Jane Brown, the brunette NC rigger-decker; novahot champion of their mission to flood the Net with truth. Her headset buzzed urgently, "…no! Noble's unit are down. We need to clear this floor, our comrades outside–!"

"Calm yourself. A trace of mercy, unneedful thought, a moment's delay–mean death in battle. Follow me."

Jane and Alison submissively followed their idol of strength. With a little more uncertainty, the gunmen also obeyed their orders.

Striding into the Comms hub at Ork Slayer's command, Jane swiftly sat before a cyberdeck and jacked in. Within the Matrix, a claw of blue light instantly gripped her face…her body spasmed, blood poured from eyes and ears.

"Hm." Ork Slayer turned from Jane's twitching meat, "The broadcast will necessarily be by radio alone, then. Dominguez, Blake. Set up the traitors' radio installation for a national broadcast, on every frequency. Their execrable propaganda was a dagger in our side; turning their greatest weapon against them will be gratifying."

Gunfire from the foyer rose over the silence. Both NCs waited for the other to speak.

"…C-chief? Maybe after we won this fragging fight?"

"Such ignorance. I need only proclaim my victory in this battle to end it! When all California hears that we have gained control here–that righteous purity has triumphed over damnable MIXTURE!–then Humanity will rise up from Redding to Los Angeles. Every filthy trog will hang from every lamppost. All the megacorp moneymen and bloated, elf-loving statesmen who have raped this beautiful country since her very birth will perish for it. Tir and the NAN will be swept away. Redding will be ours. This shall be the triumph of humanity; our dawn of salvation. You are traitors to that dawn, by every moment you hesitate."

It was the longest speech either man had heard their leader give; they'd followed him unquestioningly, after all, to the beautiful brutality they loved. And now to death–now they aimed their guns together at the madman who killed them both before a trigger was touched.

Ork Slayer stepped over the bodies and saw to the broadcast equipment himself. Alison sunk to her knees, shut her eyes, and mercifully prayed for their false souls. Her devoted spirit was truly precious–Ork Slayer had time to reflect–and she, not the trog-polluted Noble, would worthily bear his children soon. Distasteful as it would be, he needed a means to drive on the slaughter of trogs even beyond his death.

-0-

As a berserker adept went for him, huge blonde beard trailing spit–Hotspur sheathed his sword. Back-kicked under the brute's descending club and into the midriff, then rolled back. He had to get to the upper floor and help Angel, right now.

"ILSA!"

A Haste spell instantly flooded his stiffening limbs with light. She'd seen him pointing up, she'd understood–even with four berserkers charging to geek the mage, before Arai's sword slashed out and Paladin came on with cyberspur and fists–she'd trusted he had a plan. Without ever seeing the Wallrunning he'd mastered through those beautiful months with Susan…in a world where he'd never met Susan, chip truth, he'd have made one voluptuous redhead a satisfied woman. Her trust was one more of a thousand reasons he could not fail.

The roaring berserker came on again, but the attacker was shielding him from NC bullets, for a second. Hotspur took one breath, focused his ki, then leapt away. Martial Defence slid his body low between three bullets, among perhaps six hundred–but then he was leaping onto the wall, rushing round low to the ceiling–the gunfire almost slackened from pure astonishment. Then he ducked behind the stairs, clinging with all power to their underside. Flipped end-on-end over the rail, onto the landing. Caught breath, threw his shoulder into the door–

–and bounced off. The little NC shaman had warded it shut, after her hero had passed.

A torrent of gunfire instantly lashed up at Hotspur, stood without cover on the stairs. Ilsa threw up a desperate flamewall, but the NCs didn't need to aim. No escape but the window on the landing–and getting through it faster than two-dozen shots was the most desperate moment of Harry's life.

Hanging from the ledge outside, by his one arm without a bullet in it, Harry had no time to consider that he was fragged, fagged and slotted. All he could do, before a gunman picked him off, was focus every scrap of Ki in his good arm. Fling his whole body up and round, smash feet first through the next window along, crash down in the landing on the warded door's far side.

Then whip his Browning up with Hasted speed–firing on the stunned NC gunmen down the passage, as he threw his body flat against the wall.

Two dead NCs. Seven shots. Emptying his gun at adept speed was the only way he'd ever hit anything…but, chip truth, hadn't he got to be kind of a badass shadowrunner?

Croaking laughter was bloody agony. He kicked in an office door, sank down, and swiftly slapped a medkit onto his arm. Breathed out–then shot away from the wall, as the straight-sword blade stabbed through at his back.

-0-

His katana, trusty as a brother of steel through so many fights, flashed from his back to shine before his eyes. He rushed side-on into the hall, into the spinning thrust of the fragger in the mask. He dashed the sword aside, dodged the armoured knee-strike–clashed blades one-handed and flung a Killing Fist against that iron grille of shadows. He smelt blood on iron, but the straight-sword was free. He leapt back–blood soaking his headband redder than red–crouching low and breathing hard, like a tiger in a pit. His knuckles were bloody pulp; he'd almost broken his hand.

Ork Slayer stood stance-less, erect and impervious as a dragon of iron. Hotspur needed no astral vision to sense the holocausts of hate blazing red from steel-masked eyes. Senseless, insatiable, unending.

"Hotspur. The pissant boy whose idiocy gave a good human woman to the monsters. A plaything to torment, corrupt and break to the roots of her spirit…such a foolish waste. Every morning when she looks on your face, doesn't she feel how you failed her?"

"SHE LOVES ME! YOU DICKLESS FRAGGER! SHE IS STRONG! She's a hero, she's worth ten thousand sorry monsters–!"

"Worth a better man than you, Hotspur? You come from the selfish, childish games called shadowruns, and the brothel-beds of Hong Kong. To face a devoted life. A stronger man. Whatever I am, I will be the saviour of Calfree tomorrow and you will be nothing. None more worthless than the fool who fights, fails, dies. The world will strive to forget your shameful existence; bury remembrance of a foolish boy who dreamt he was a hero."

"Tomorrow, if I die, my wife will beat you like a drum. Think about that–unless you're too scared of death to even face the though. I have a hundred chummers who'll geek you tomorrow if I fall, and they'll finish everything worthwhile I ever did–in this place! This whole city will resist you to the death. Humans, orks and elves. Builders, healers, soldiers, they will kick you out of Redding again, and they'll face the Tir stronger than you can dream! Susan will lead them…or else we'll die together today…now, why the frag I should fear death? I'm just angry that the peak of my street-rep, the best thing I might ever do, is going to be geeking a pitiful piece of drek."

Serpent-fast, Ork Slayer lunged. Hotspur felt the huge strength of the blow that would've shattered him, as he slid aside and stabbed overarm. No openings in Kevlar and steel, except the mask-grille. His point scraped flesh, but the mask flew back. The straight sword came up and clashed again. Sent his feet, even buttressed with Ki, scraping back along the ground

Monstrous strength. Speed like his, and Haste was wearing off–armour that might even shatter his katana if he struck home, and a hideous implacable will. Even the corridor favoured a straight stabbing sword over the katana. If their blades slipped out of lock for a moment, one blow would finish everything.

Hunting goblins through pitch black caverns in Canton would always be the worst fight of his life though, he somehow knew. It would have been much worse, if both Douglas and Owens hadn't firmly told him; close spaces called for different weapons.

Hand flashing from his sword hilt to Ork Slayer's wrist, he fell straight backward. Kicked up to fling the armoured warrior over his head, with a crash like apocalypse. The Slayer came up too fast, slashed down. hammered down Hotspur's one-handed block to cut his shoulder to the bone.

But his off-hand was on the combat knife that had rested in his boot for years, to kill cave goblins and viler monsters. He aimed at the armour joint where leg met groin and stabbed up with all his strength.

Ork Slayer staggered back with a groan, stamping and slashing. Hotspur rolled back and leapt up, even with his knife lost and an arm hanging limp.

"BLANCHE!" Ork Slayer roared for his healer. Hotspur knew he would be dead if that tiny blonde weighed in. He swiftly backed up, sword held out, as Ork Slayer came on with burning eyes.

In the comms centre, Alison Blanche was lain out on the floor. The bloodied shell of what had been Jane Brown stood over her, datajack still trailing. An ork-like growl from her lips;

"My name's Anya Kotto, fragger. Your kind killed my Kenji, killed my people–!"

Redding gunmen filled the passage behind Ork Slayer now, but their shots struck armour vainly. The NC chieftain charged on Hotspur without a word. Nothing could have captured his fury; almost nothing could have been deadlier than an adept set on death.

An steel glove caught the katana; the sword sunk in Hotspur's abs. He had to drive a Ki-filled kick into his enemy's groin wound. Dash the sword down in a gout of his own blood. Then drive his katana–as if slamming his wrists against steel, screaming through the blow as it finally drove home–through mask, head and helmet. All his focus and his power, with his life pooling round his feet.

It seemed nearly everything worthwhile in his life, he'd done with his guts threatening to spill over his boots. Not the best time, perhaps, for heroic deeds, but the essential one. Hatred had made Ork Slayer one tough fragger, steel-souled…but had Sharon Fawkes' dumb kid walked through all those bullets for nothing but pride? For Susan, his great love–burning up with his life–but wasn't love even bigger than that…?

Pulling Harry up from the bloody floor, Takahashi swiftly deployed another medkit; without his Heal, Harry's blazing two-handed thrust would have been scotched by his shoulder-wound. He and Angel's marksman squad had figured that they'd no chance against Ork Slayer on their own. They'd already stabilised the sword-stabbed Angel himself, for the Docwagons that were on their way.

On the lower floor, the Defenders gazed through smoke and ringing silence at the scattered bodies. Over their own dead, the devastation of City Hall. To the City outside–filled with the terror and death that they'd sworn to defend it from.

Harry hadn't learnt about the Tet offensive at any school he'd never set foot in, but Ilsa, Arai and Paladin were all thinking of it. The 'beaten' Vietcong had all but wiped themselves out one huge suicide offensive, but the shock alone had broken the old U.S. past recovery. From the pure spite that been all his vision, Ork Slayer would gladly have died to break the spirit of Redding.

A light broke through the blood in Harry's eyes. Flashing on the radio set. He hauled himself up, staggered through the bodies, and flopped bloodily onto a chair. He took a half-minute to gather his voice, then spoke to the whole of Calfree. His chummers, who'd tried to hold him back, fell silent.

"…together. All of us united…nothing in this world of drek will ever defeat us. The so-called Native Californians hurt us today. They said they opposed Tir Tairngire–but what they did has done nothing but aid the Tir. Aid the war Tir Taingire has begun already, to take our homes from us by terror and force. Chip truth, though–we're not moving from this city. Give us your strength and skills, your nyuyen and your guns–give everything for your dreams, chummers, it's the only way to fly! Humans and orks, elves, trolls and dwarves, together; we'll build stronger, we'll do whatever it takes, we will fight this war that Tir began, to the end. Together, we can make our home, your Calfree, a place–agh!–a place worthy of our chummers who gave their lives for it today. Hotspur, Redding's Defenders. Stay arctic, Calfree. Stay free."

"–frag. Tell me someone fragging recorded that–!"

"–the whole country just heard you say that, drekhead–!"

Hotspur switched the broadcast off and settled back in his chair to bleed, as Anya uploaded audio and video across the Matrix with blazing alacrity. The Tir Peace Force Matrix division were swinging into hostile action already.

-0-

The NCs who'd covered the frontal assault, from the edge of the square, now watched Selene lead the Defenders who'd destroyed Noble's rear attack to strengthen the ravaged foyer. The attackers were mown down where they stood or as they ran, and the supporting gunmen were turning to flee themselves. When two armoured vans shot around, crashed into the curb, and disgorged a terrifyingly beautiful woman with a yellow scarf and iron spikes on both fists. Followed by about two-dozen gunmen of all metatypes, a grim black elf wielding a shotgun and SMG, and an Emperor who took off running, through all of the gunmen without fear, to the hall full of dying fighters he might still possibly save.

Norton didn't perceive Fighter flying into the stunned skinheads on his left, the killers who had threatened her husband and her home. Bone-shards crunched under her flying kick–her boots smashed through two more bodies, one hand touched the floor–feet flashed out to kill and kill again. Rage mightier than her muscles, flying through the monsters' drekky bodies. On Norton's right side, Elorn efficiently shot down several NCs. Bummer and Lazarus pulled down others, running beside their master. Hailey and the militiamen chose to spread out with medkits and reassurance through the city. Massacring of the convicted hate-cultists who'd attacked Defenders and defenceless without mercy, and would've done nothing more with freedom than murder metahuman children, didn't require their help.

Fighter was chill with that. She told herself, stamping down on the last thug's neck, that all the deluded fools and conscripts had surely run from the NCs, or been murdered by them, before Ork Slayer had gathered his fanatics for this stab from hell's heart.

Two survivors of Noble's unit had actually made it back the south lookout post, holing up with the bodies of Tomas, his brother, and the sentries they'd killed. After a harrowing wait to take every monster with them that they could, black smoke suddenly poured through the building. Filled with wet-fur stenches and terrifying shapes. Both thugs stumbled out, one even dropping his rifle. Will Casper shot him through the knee and his comrade in the head, cold as clay pigeons.

The last NC had meant to scream humanity's defiance at the stump-legged rat, and the trog cowards behind it. That died in his throat as he saw Casper's very good friends, Bummer and Lazarus, at his sides. Fire in their eyes, spit in their jaws.

"Survival of t' fittest. Law of t' jungle. Weren't that thy game, tha bastard? Go on, boys."

The big NC man beat the hellhounds off for a minute, until a jaw crunched down through his forearm. Even the gathered orks who knew Tomas was dead turned away from his screams, but not Casper.

Then a pretty young ork with a bandaged head surged past him, shaking with terror but shouting bad dogs. Hrafna shot the NC thug through the head, with a Browning left on the battlefield. The eyes she turned on Casper and the orks with him were furious and hard.

"Law of the fragging jungle? Nature red in tooth and claw doesn't torture helpless fraggers, for terror, revenge and hate! Not even humans are that dumb–it takes toxic evil. Kill to protect your chummers and your families, like the bear, the wolf and the boar, but never do what you know is wrong, just 'cos this drekky little fragger tells you to do it!"

Casper was lost for words. He'd never seen the young shaman who'd been scarred and left for dead by the NCs as anything but weak. Now he thought that he had never seen dewdrops lit with sunrise, or a kestrel flashing over childhood rooftops, that looked so beautiful as Hrafna did.

Old City Hall was smoke-black, filled with shattered glass, and scarred with bullets and missiles. The Defenders picked through the bodies scattered over the square, for the human shield prisoners who had fallen stunned or feigning death. Most of them had survived, and might recover, including the abducted families of the dead sentries. All the NC bodies, including Ork Slayer and Amy Noble, were hauled out of town and hidden in a pit; the same burial they'd planned for every metahuman in Calfree. Norton, Paladin, Alison Blanche, and Sarah for Noble's sake, went out alone to speak a short prayer. The worst of the Native Californians had been humans, not monsters.

Alison, almost the only surviving NC (She had been at Ork Slayer's side two bloody years; she was sixteen), had a long talk with Paladin. She told him she would give her life to God, trusted in his atonement, and sincerely hoped she was never released from prison. Susan hugged her, wept into her golden hair, and promised to message her weekly.

The twenty Defenders who had been killed in the three lookout posts and the assault on City Hall were buried together. Tomas' cousins, his old militia and his surviving brother Rick all got howling drunk with Harry. Rick, a quiet ork before the murder of both his brothers, sat in a silence worse than the grave. Sarah, still limping and weak from wounds, but still alive, touched the lid of the coffin very tenderly.

Through his headache, Harry told the tremendous crowd everything he had known of Tomas, everything they'd all known and loved. Arai gave the Kohima epitaph, When You Go Home, laconic as ever. Even Norton could say only a little about life from death and greater love. Twenty chummers had died who would absolutely rather have lived. All they could do was to be there for them, as the rifles cracked, and soil thumped down on hardwood.

-0-

Before that–almost as the last shot was fired–people had come slowly to City Hall from every part of Redding, first in knots and then in drifts. To seek healing and safety, to see if their fathers, brothers and sisters were dead or alive. To gaze on the scarred but standing hall; there, Sarah Rosenblum had killed the NC captain. From that spot, Hotspur had made his leap. They would tell the fresh volunteers who would trek freely now from all Calfree to Redding, answering Harry's call. They would tell their children, so long as the coming assault of the Tir Ghosts and Peace Force left even one of them alive.

Almost at once they began to rebuild. Higher fences, stronger walls; windows and gaping holes filled. The blast-stains and smell of death scrubbed away by the hundreds who simply turned up to do what they could. As soon as he could stand, Harry was directing the recovery. Twelve sleepless hours later he collapsed again; everyone firmly told the hero of the day to slot off and rest.

The moment had passed when it all rested on him. Norton was striding everywhere, organising with astonishing coherence and rousing every spirit. Elorn was clearing up blood and brick-dust unstintingly as anyone, almost the only elf among the Defenders–freely and wordlessly accepted. A lot had changed, since they'd come to Redding. Had to change, in the time they had left.

(Bob Reeder, the troll who'd blocked a frag grenade, was already back on his feet and showing off his scars to the hundreds of parties who wanted to hear about his narrow escape. Arai had intercepted Ilsa and inquired; hadn't she thought of mind-controlled an NC gunman into shooting their own hostages?

Ilsa responded that it would have been a risky but possible means to avoid the stigma of Redding's Defenders shooting helpless civilians; however she had not had the spell prepared. Arai mentioned that Saito's Imperial Marines had invariably shelled any school or home where the MPA had hidden, to teach the futility of such cowardly tactics. Not that the metas had learnt, before he'd left 'Frisco. He'd personally considered just shooting through the human shield, and it might have saved a few lives-but Paladin would have stopped him, and Takahashi wouldn't have forgiven him either.

As Arai strolled pensively away, and Paladin forced his way through the crowds towards Ilsa, the mage realised that she had somehow been forgiven.)

Susan had already crashed out, staggering back to the hotel room she and Harry rented–several times, they'd even spent the night there. As he wearily checked in with the wide-eyed teenage clerk, Harry wondering what Paladin and Ilsa were doing by now. He could faintly hear what Angel and his Gabriela were up to on the floor above. The desperate moaned-out vows of 'still-alive' sex…sounded all too familiar.

Susan's clothes were distributed between the bed and the shower. She woke with a mewing noise as he stumbled in, rolled onto her back with a brave, beautiful smile. Tired as she was, reached out a hand to him and patted the bed beside her.

Harry slumped down in a chair, threw his sword down, and tried to smile.

"We're wrecked, angel. In the morning–"

"Mm…wha' you done with my husband?"

"…what about you, Susan?" He didn't meet her smile, "You… massacred ten spent, beaten men in the middle of Redding. We didn't fortify City Hall enough; we didn't stop a small army before they were right on our doorstep. They went after our peoples' families…! You know Tomas is dead?"

"I know. I'm sorry. I know he was your chummer. I'm sorry. But we're both still–"

"Please don't say it. You know he was married? His wife walked out ages ago; he spent too many weekends with his tiny militia, training to protect Redding from the Tir. He would joke about it all, but…he's dead. He gave his all for this city, his chummers, us. He was my chummer and he's fragging dead…!"

Harry pressed his fists against his face, silently heaving. Susan couldn't move from the bed. She could feel Harry wanted nothing from her but silence, because nothing right now would do any good.

"…we've lost people before." Harry gasped, a long time later, "Still fragging hurts, I fragging knew it would…this is war. We could lose everyone, when the Tir come, frag it…and we'll probably still be alive to see them dead. Why do we always live, and our chummers die–you feel the same thing, don't you, love? They call us heroes when we practically fragging killed them."

"…Harry, I know what you mean. You feel like if you were dead and Tomas alive, it'd be better. For Sandra, Enrica, Iraj, I felt that, but I couldn't from the day we got married. Speeding back from the dam, hearing it all on comms, I was so scared I'd see you dead. I'd have fought them, Harry, killed every fragger I could. But when I went down, I wouldn't have ever got up again…I couldn't go on without you, and they would have taken me. You know how the NCs used rape. To destroy their own people's humanity, to tear down strength, hope, will, everything in here…like all those poor women, like I can't ever forget. The men I killed would have killed you, Harry; they would've left me alive without you for rape. I will geek anyone in the world to get back safe to your side, my husband. I think I could bear any loss, every pain, so long you're alive and with me. I've been weeping with broken families and all our chummers for hours. We'll weep together again tomorrow, but all I can do right now is need you, my love."

"…am I meant to be scared? Well, I'm fragging scared. You beautiful monster."

Susan rolled off the bed, went to Harry on her hands and knees. Draped her body over his legs where he sat, still shining with little drops from the shower. She looked like some exotic temple dancer at the feet of Conan the Barbarian, though only the grim set of Harry's jaw particularly resembled the Governator.

"I'm sorry, love. We could have lost everyone today, Harry–but you fought and won. Maybe no one else could have done it. Nobody else can do the things you do. You feel so much for your chummers, even the ones we lose, I love that in you even as it hurts…but it must not kill you. Even you can't save the ones we've lost, my hero, only the living. You told me you held a gun to your head, after Hong Kong–never again, Harry, don't even look down that path! Not even if I'm killed, or raped, I could almost bear it I didn't know you'd turn on yourself…I think I wouldn't fear death even a bit, if I knew you would live."

"…angel." Harry's fingers were bound in her hair, his eyes wide but resolute, "I promise you, for your sake…I will never kill myself. I was afraid for you too, I'm such an idiot, I'd rather die than see you dead, or…hurt…but I promise. Whatever happens. Can you promise, angel, if anything happens to me…just to live? If you won't be able to rise, don't get knocked down–hang up your gloves if you have to. Just live on, strong and beautiful as this."

"…Harry, martial arts are my life. What am I, if I don't fight?"

"So much. So, so fragging much, babe." His fingers massaged down her neck; her eyelids dropped with a gentle sigh.

"I promise…I'll try to live. I'll never stop trying. And I'll never be with another man, until we find each other in some future life. You ruined me like that, tiger…there's nothing in this world we're in like the bond between us. Live and love, even without me…I won't haunt you or anything if you sleep with Ilsa. I think you'd both like that."

"Ah, er, um…Paladin…?"

"I was meddling there, wasn't it? And it didn't work out…he still wants her to get married and quit shadowrunning, and he knows she doesn't. Don't get big-headed about it or anything, but you were right about that. You get good ideas sometimes. Hey, I might have mentioned your ultimate threesome fantasy to Ilsa…"

"What? The one you almost smacked my head off over?"

"Yeah, of course I was ticked off then, but for you and Ilsa I'd actually be down for it. She said stuff like that tends to get twisted up, though, and she'd deal with her own crazy life."

Harry knew he couldn't win. Susan would do exactly as she thought right, and he loved her for it. He stroked her hair in silence; tried to face the pain that had never stopped howling through him, for her sake.

He would never share a drink with Tomas again; never face the Tir beside him at all. Tomas would never be the next mayor of Redding, never come out with another speech or idea worthy of no less, and never light up his eyes with laughter whenever Harry told him so. He shouldn't have died, it hurt like frag. That was it.

Friendship and love in the Shadows were fatal as Scylla's jaws, but Harry had been doomed from the start. He was a shadowrunner, and the drive behind every mad, heroic or idiot thing he had ever done–he had never seen it more clearly–was the heart of a fatherless white human boy in a metahuman slum. The dream of saving the world, the desperate need to be loved.

Had shadowrunning really been the best way to reach those goals, or just the one he saw on the trids? What else could he possibly do…?

"Susan…practically everyone in this city knows us. Not just our names…they've forgiven us a hundred frag-ups, trusted us to defend their city in every way. We know them…I think that makes Redding our home. I really will do whatever it takes to protect that."

"You finally get it, dummy," A teasing eye flicked up, "This was never just another shadowrun."

"I mean, we could stay here for good. Face off the Tir, somehow…Susan, if we settle down, you could work with survivors, teach martial arts to orphans…Susan, they'd be like your kids!"

Susan's eyes rolled up towards Harry's face, like colliding planets. But he couldn't read her thoughts and he was talking rather than trying.

"We shouldn't bring another poor kid into this drekky world. I shouldn't, I couldn't. You weren't sure about it either, right? But you'd make a wonderful mother, Susan. You'd put any dumb kid on the right path! You'd love teaching them Kung Fu. All of them would love you. Baby, don't I get amazing ideas, sometimes?"

Susan adored Harry's grin so much, she couldn't tell him. She thought she wanted her own child, and his. He would be as good a father as a man, she knew it; but if she spoke, he would not understand.

She could only lead him gently to bed and fall asleep in his arms. Harry whispered, with a sound like a sob, that he loved her, would not leave her, was glad to be alive.