The fallen titan thrashed in ancient, earth-shaking fury.
Collapsed onto its left knee, Ymir-Chimaera swung its six huge arms in wild, desperate arcs that swept across the black ice like dropping skyscrapers. Boulders weighing dozens of tons were scooped up by its frozen star-iron talons and hurled across the volcano bowl. It shattered against the distant walls in thunderous avalanches of stone.
Arthur Vance didn’t retreat.
He sprinted directly into the kill zone, his magnetic boots finding purchase on the slick, black iron-hard metal floor. His Mk. IV Arctic Triage Exosuit moved with seamless fluidity, the air-powered servos in his legs matching his strides as he dodged between falling chunks of ice with the cold, calculating grace of a trauma surgeon navigating a collapsing running theater.
Behind him, Titus advanced at a dead run, his sixty-five-ton bulk acting as a moving shield wall. It took in stray ice boulders that would have crushed a conventional squad.
Eighty-four meters from Ymir’s chest, Arthur dropped to one knee behind a slab of upturned dark rock.
He didn’t fire blindly. He centered his breathing. He ignored the screaming gale of sub-zero wind that whipped past his helmet. He raised the ARC-7 Mag-Carbine. That brought the lit up crosshairs of his Monocle Taxonomy Loupe into posture with the base of Ymir’s neck.
