"The pneumatic feed is stuck!" Rian yelled over the ear-splitting shriek of high-pressure air bleeding through the rail-mortar's main valve. The engineer scrambled across the slick iron deck of the flatbed car, his remaining good arm locked around a heavy valve wrench while his ruined cybernetic shoulder hissed like an angry viper. Sparks rained down from the severed casing, spitting blue fire against the frost-rimed steel. "Fix it or we're all turning into pink mist!" Vance roared, firing a rapid three-round burst from a captured corporate carbine toward the upper ridge. The bullets ricocheted off the shale with sharp, angry cracks, forcing the advancing wave of corporate security guards to dive behind jagged outcroppings of dark rock. But the momentary hesitation wouldn't last. More boots crunched on the gravel trail above, and the unmistakable metallic clack-clack of automated targeting optics locking onto the flatbed

"The main locking pin is thermally fused to the casing!" Rian screamed over the screeching pressure release, his single good hand trembling as he hammered a rusted iron wedge into the seam. "I have to sheer it off manually, or this entire carriage goes up!" "Do it!" Vance roared, firing another blind burst up the slope. "Now, Rian!" With a deafening crack that echoed off the frozen canyon walls, the iron wedge struck home. The massive pneumatic piston of the rail-mortar shuddered, blew its final seal in a towering geyser of oily vapor, and slumped forward like a dying beast, its lethal barrel dipping uselessly into the mud. "It's spiked! The gun is dead!" Rian yelled, collapsing back against the cold iron deck, gasping for freezing air. "Fall back! Into the culvert, now!" Kael barked, using his steel pipe to pivot sharply as the first wave of corporate shock troopers crested the ridge with weapons ra

"A paperweight won't stop the artillery shells they're already loading into the mobile batteries up on the ridge," Miller said, his boots clicking frantically against the damp concrete as he paced the length of the drainage conduit. "Listen to that. They aren't trying to fix the rail-mortar anymore. They're starting the retaliatory barrage. Every wooden structure in this valley is going to catch fire before the sun clears the crags." Kael dragged himself up by leaning heavily against a rusted support beam, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. "Then we don't give them a single standing wall to shell, Miller. You heard the explosion. They know exactly where we made our stand. The entire town square is compromised." "Compromised?" Miller stopped pacing, turning to stare at Kael with a look of hollow disbelief. "That town hall holds forty years of tax registries, land titles, and birth records, Kael. If I burn those books, the

"It's their history or their lives, Miller. Pick one," Kael said, stepping forward with a sharp limp that forced him to catch himself against the edge of a mahogany desk. His face was pale, slick with cold sweat from the fever brewing in his torn thigh. "The corporate patrols aren't going to check who owns the south pasture before they burn it. They're going to clear the valley down to bedrock. If you want these people to have a future, stop mourning their past." Miller's hands trembled over the rusted iron bucket. He looked down at the top volume—the original municipal charter signed by his grandfather seventy years ago, its gold-leaf lettering already peeling at the corners. Around them in the sub-basement, the muffled thump-thump of incoming corporate mortar shells rattled the floorboards overhead, shaking dust and mortar grit down into their hair. A distant plume of black smoke billowed past the narrow high window, smelling sharply of burning pine and

Kael uncorked the glass bottle with his teeth, spitting the lead seal onto the soot-stained floor before pouring the clear, reeking fluid straight across the stack of municipal charters. The sharp smell of kerosene immediately cut through the damp cellar air, stinging their eyes. "Do it, Miller," Kael commanded, his voice tight with pain as he leaned heavily against the mahogany desk to keep weight off his wounded leg. "Before the roof caves in." Miller stared at the soaked paper, his jaw working as if he wanted to argue, then snatched a box of matches from the clerk's tray. He struck a match against the rough edge of the box, the sulfur flaring bright in the dim gloom, and dropped it into the iron bucket. Fwoosh. A sudden tongue of hungry orange flame leaped upward, illuminating the vaulted brick ceiling and painting long, dancing shadows across their faces. The heavy leather bindings of the ledgers