“I didn’t want this to happen. But that doesn’t mean I can skip it.”

“What do we do?” I ask.

Jim gives me back my hand. Surveys the work site—taking in the worried faces of his elderly coworkers. His face is grim when he turns back to me. A saw blade slides out from under the forearm of his exoskeleton.

“We fight,” he says.

In the winking shadows of the half-finished building, the old men stand side by side, dirty jeans and flannel work shirts wrapped in titanium exoskeletons. Scowls on wrinkled faces. Their blades and saws are out, whirring like cicadas under the biting heat.

Jim and I join them as a wave of Priders pushes down the rest of the fence. They’re trampling into the site, grabbing improvised weapons off the ground. Pipes, boards, and pocketknives. Lyle’s people are fighting back. Not the erratic, robotically efficient fighting of a Zenith but old-school brawling. Sharpened reflexes fueled by real anger.

The police officers who were patrolling outside are coming in, too. Stepper-wearing riot cops, pushing forward in a line with plastic shields up. Batons out and guns holstered, for now. Obsidian statues crashing into a line of amps, just a bunch of kids with heads full of government cheese. The kids aren’t trained as well as soldiers, but they strike fast and bounce out of harm’s way quicker than fleas.

The Priders are surging in around the cops, pushing one another forward in a faceless crush of human limbs. It’s a tidal wave that pushes the line of old men back. Makes fighting nearly impossible.

Jim shrugs off a tubby guy with a tough-guy mustache, arms swinging. Another guy gets hold of me, and Jim accidentally runs his blurring saw blade over the man’s forearm. The guy gapes at the red slash and it gapes right back at him. The crowd eats him up and he stumbles away clutching his arm.

The horizon rushes in until it’s a wall of stinking sweat and body heat and shouting faces. Jim and I retreat slowly, side by side, shoving violent demonstrators away from us. Punching only when we have to. Jim’s saw blade spews bluish smoke as he waves it at Priders dumb enough to get close.

Then rocks and chunks of gravel start falling in on us. Priders out beyond the fence are throwing them from a safe distance. The stone rain adds to the confusion, hitting amps and Priders alike. A jagged hunk of concrete cartwheels past Jim’s leg, a tangle of wire barely missing his calf.

We keep backing away until we can’t.

At the scaffolding alongside the base of the building, we run out of ground. Behind us, stripes of warning tape crisscrossing a three-story drop to the subbasement. In front, a boiling wall of anger advances. Regular people gone insane, buttressed by stepper-wearing cops in body armor.

The sharp shoulder of Jim’s exoskeleton digs into my arm. The world is closing in around us. Not even a Zenith could save me now.

“I’m sorry, Jim,” I say. “I guess I was never meant to protect Eden.”

“All a man can do is fight,” says Jim. “You fought.”

A flash.

It’s so bright and vicious that at first I think it came from inside my own head. My ears ring and my skull thrums with it, vibrating like fine crystal. I mash my palms against a concrete wall and brace myself against sudden vertigo.

I gag, then vomit.

Screams. I think I can hear screams through the ringing in my ears. Shoulder muscles knotted, I drag my face away from the wall. Lift a numb forearm and wipe drool from my mouth.

“Jim?” I ask, leaning against the wall, letting the gritty surface anchor me to reality. I can barely hear my own voice. The atmosphere seems leaden, too thick to transmit sound. I smell fire.

Blinking away dust, I’m able to focus on the ground.

A Rorschach blob of yellowish vomit stains a piece of dirty plywood at my feet. I watch a glistening drop of blood heave itself from my face, dropping toward the center of the earth. A tacky wetness creeps down my cheek, a slug trail from temple to jawline.

“Jim?”

I turn to Jim and there is no Jim. The warning tape is gone.

The reality of what this means settles coldly over my shoulders. My head bobs idiotically as a surge of grief claws its way out of my chest. “No,” I say, and I can’t hear the word, only feel the fluttering vibration of it in my throat.

On my knees, I clamber to the edge and look into the subbasement. Another drop of my blood leaves my temple and escapes into the world, pulled away in a shining arc. I see only dust falling down the shaft in a silent waterfall. Down, down, down. My retinal brightens the image. There’s Jim at the bottom of the shaft, lying on his side in fetal position. One arm is outstretched, still reaching for balance. His body is coated in chalky dust from head to toe, a bas-relief.

There is no blood. It looks like he fell asleep down there.

For some reason I think about his trailer. Two miles away. Sitting empty and still, hot water heater ticking to itself in the closet. Sunlight groping through the blinds, doggedly starching the pages of old magazines on the coffee table. Cards still laid out in an unfinished game of solitaire. Empty now, empty forever.

I stand up and swallow a cough and look out on the site.

At the front gate, a plume of smoke swirls madly upward. The crane’s latest bundle of rebar oscillates over my head, buoyed by the upswell of dusty wind. In the haze, elderly men lie sprawled like fallen mannequins, exoskeletons frozen in whatever position they were in at the moment of detonation. Inside each exoskeleton, an old man struggles. Mice caught in particularly complicated traps. The machines have stopped working, frozen, but the men inside are alive.

Some of the Priders are crouched for cover. Others are getting in kicks and punches while they have the chance. Amps are holding their heads, moving sluggishly. Even the cops are struggling to get out of their steppers.

A bomb. The Priders must have let off a bomb, the kind that makes an electromagnetic pulse. The EMP passed through us all like the ghost of an explosion. But where the pulse finds electronics, it generates a surge of current that can freeze a motor or make an implant so hot it burns your skin.

I smear blood and dust across my face trying to wipe it clean. My hands won’t stop trembling, but I’m still alive. Whatever they set off wasn’t strong enough. But I imagine the next time this happens, they’ll do the job right.

Only one person stands.

Lyle Crosby moves across the parking lot like a ghost, sidestepping fallen bodies and swinging Priders. That plume of dirty smoke sprouts behind him as he strides toward me. The laughing cowboy is shielding his eyes with one hand and advancing fast and confident. In his right hand, he has a pistol out and swinging. The explosion must have gotten his attention.

He spots me through the dust.

I throw myself forward, staggering, running for the fence. But somehow my feet are tangled together and my palms are out and skinned as I fall headfirst. Sliding through the dirt, I’m already climbing onto my knees.

“Jim fell,” I say. “Jim’s hurt—”

Crouched, I turn and see Lyle standing over me.

Three, two—

Lyle’s knife-handed strike catches me in the side of the neck before my trigger can go off. I land on my stomach in the dirt, diaphragm muscles seizing, head buzzing with pain. He casually walks past me, leans over the gap, and peers into the subbasement.

“Damn,” he says.

Hands on his hips, Lyle surveys the work site.

“EMP, huh? Them Priders are crafty. But it didn’t have to be this way,” he says. “I did everything I could. Coddled you like a goddamn baby. You wouldn’t fight to save your own life. And now look at you. Look at Jim. Eden was never going to last, Gray.”

I choke out the word. “Lucy.”