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And I can’t stop them.
    I run for the Cherub , knowing that it’s the only thing that can keep me safe. It’s the only thing I can depend on.
    My ears are filled with an insistent ringing, and sounds are still beyond me.
    I throw open the door to the inner corridor, the automatic out, my finger pressed up against the trigger, as close as I can without actually pulling it.
    No movement. The corridor is clean.
    I’m halfway to the exit when I see the Feral. It’s lying on the floor, blood pooling around it. But it’s not dead. It’s squirming, weak from the loss of blood, its eyes wild. I don’t need to kill it. Nature will do that for it. But I can’t risk it lashing out at me or shaking a drop of blood at me, so I stop and fire three bullets into its head, knowing that the gunshots will likely alert any raiders nearby.
    I move as fast as I can, while skirting the Feral blood, pressing myself against the wall, feeling it scrape against my cheek.
    Then I’m at the door, then out of it, and I look up to see the Cherub .
    Flying away.

I see the Cherub flying away without me, and my fists clench and I want to raise the gun and shoot at everyone and everything. My ship. My home. Gone.
    And I have no way to get to it.
    And there are raiders in the Core. And if they find me they will kill me. Or worse.
    And I need to get away.
    And I’m mad at myself because my rage is fighting against my survival instincts. The instincts win. Because I can rage all I want if I survive this.
    My mind races. I need to get away. I need to move quickly. And I need to avoid running into Ferals. All this noise is liable to attract any that are hungry.
    I think about the only other vehicle in the Core. I run for the Ferrari.
    I keep the automatic down at my side, ready to raise it and fire at any raiders that come across my path. I get near the dead Feral and leap over it, desperate to get past it. My foot comes down at the edge of the blood slick. Too close. And I slip. And slam into the floor and my skin is crawling as I imagine the Feral blood all over me.
    But when I turn myself around, I’ve missed it. All except my boot, and I can deal with that later. I push away the fear. Push away the anxiety. And get back to my feet.
    The door at the end of the hallway opens.
    I raise the automatic.
    A man comes through, large, carrying a rifle of some sort. He doesn’t look like one of the boffins. I sight down at the central mass of him and pull the trigger three times, mindful that I’m down to three bullets. The bullets throw him back, but I don’t stop to see if he’s down for good. Instead I’m running through a different door into the place the boffins call the Garage.
    The “Ferrari” is a modified jeep the boffins—Sergei and a few of the others—have been converting for use on rough terrain. It’s an ugly beast and nothing like a Ferrari at all. Did I mention that their sense of humor is awful? But one of them had this picture from the Clean, this sleek, shiny red car. A Ferrari. And they had it pinned up while they were working on it. Inspiration from a machine that even I had to admit dripped of power and sex (and I’m deeply committed to the Cherub ).
    I used to give them shit for working on it, hell, I thought it was stupid. Why rig a ground car when we had all these airships at our disposal? Why get any closer to the Ferals than you have to? But now I’m grateful for it because I can no longer take to the sky.
    I’ve watched Sergei enough to know how the Ferrari operates. He hooked it up with an ignition button to make it easier to operate. And it’s fueled up for the road tests they’ve been doing on it.
    I throw up the door that leads outside, then jump in and toss the automatic on the seat next to me. Slam the door shut. And hit the button.
    Nothing.
    I slam it again. And again.
    With a lurch the engine fires up and coughs a few times.