He left the privates, heading for the destroyer; he was close enough to make out lettering on the bow. The wet wind blowing in from the sea carried the taint of liquid propellant. Rude stopped by a hawser and cleat to listen. He heard noises from the dark destroyer. He blinked into the black night hoping to see the gangway. He took quiet steps moving forward; minutes ticked by. He had hoped to hear the privates falling into the sea, but no such sound came to his ears. There were no voices from the destroyer, only the occasional scuffing sounds of cautious steps.

Sloshing water below the dock slapped the hull of the destroyer like a slow heartbeat. With an Enman charge imminent, their goal the destroyer, Rude was in the wrong place at the wrong time. As he walked slowly forward, Rude wondered about the retreat. Perhaps, the Consortium was handing over the destroyer, planning to light it up once the Enmen were onboard. Rude stopped and crouched by another cleat; a slamming door carried his attention up the hawser to the high rail. No sounds followed. Looking north, Rude could just make out the ghostly form of the gangway. This would be a night to remember, thought Rude, providing he and Marq made it out alive.

The sound of energy weapons came suddenly from the south; the Enman charge had arrived. Rude could no longer dally; he ran north, calling his friend's name, “Marq! Marq!”

Detonations followed the energy fire south of him, but he knew the Enmen must turn north to reach the destroyer. The liquid propellant storage offered neither cover nor egress. Then, errant fire struck the hull of the destroyer. With the gangway in view, Rude was forced to cover in an aisle between stacks; the gangway was just across from him. He crouched and looked south, but saw no Enmen. Ducking back, Rude considered his next move. He turned to look along the dark aisle between stacked containers. A short distance west, something moved. He held his breath and watched.

It was not an Enman. Rude could make out the camouflaged pattern of Consortium armor. A soldier sat with his back to a container, hugging his knees, rocking back and forth in terror. Rude sprinted to the soldier and crouched. He placed a hand on the shoulder of a scared comrade and spoke gently, but urgently.

“Soldier,” said Rude.

A startled face, wet with tears, lifted; it was Marq. Eyes wide, Marq reached up to hug his friend. “Rude,” he said. “Rude, you're alive.”

Marq sobbed once, then sat back to wipe his face. Rolling to his knees, Marq laughed and leaned close to see his friend's face.

“It's me,” said Rude. Just then, a detonation sounded south of them; they paused to listen. Rude continued, “The Enmen are just south of us; they want the destroyer, so, you and I are going west.”

Rude led Marq down the dark aisle, hoping the maze of stacked containers had not been infiltrated. He felt along the container walls, keeping his friend close behind. Then, in the silent maze, an iron ladder passed beneath Rude's hand. He stopped and turned to Marq, leaning close to whisper.

“We're going up,” he said. “Then, we lie flat.”

Marq went first, Rude followed. On top, they stretched out of their bellies. Sounds rang clear from their vantage. Rude whispered, “Now, we crawl. Follow me.”

The guttural cries of the Enmen were below them, to the east. Victorious Enmen raced to the moored destroyer. Crawling, they came to a ladder on the west side of the stack. They went down, and ran south between stacks, approaching the offloading crane. At a resurgence of berserker cries and random shots, Rude found another ladder and pushed Marq up. They lay still, listening. The destroyer was well behind them. Ahead was the cul-de-sac that opened to the sea. Enmen were close, but not below.

Marq asked in a whisper, “Where are the reinforcements.”

Rude whispered back, “Command pulled out.”

Marq opened his mouth to reply but was silenced. A deafening klaxon sounded, and dark clouds brightened far to the south. The klaxon was instantly recognized as the clarion warning of a Dreadnought. Clouds disappeared in a white-hot steam as the Dreadnought dipped low, its white and red lights pulsing slowly, its floodlight sweeping the southern docks.

“What now?” asked Marq.

Rude peered into Marq's frightened face, and looked back south. As the Dreadnought moved slowly north, energy pulses rained down on the docks, the ships, and the buildings without discrimination. A wall of cleansing destruction marched north; absolute apocalypse in a burning shroud.

Marq's mouth hung open in disbelief as catastrophe approached, Rude shook him. “Marq,” he called until his friend blinked and turned his way. “We're going to drop down and run like hell. Run for the sea. We'll swim south. You with me?” Marq blinked wide stupid eyes. Rude asked again, “Are you with me?”

They dropped silently into an empty cul-de-sac and raced for the edge of the dock. Dreadnought hell was coming fast. At the edge, two men leaped into the air; there was neither skill nor style; they only had to fall into the black ocean below. They leaped for their lives, filling their lungs with air, and hurling themselves at the sea in desperation. Then, came the slap; icy water closed in around them as hell on Terra passed over. An envelope of cold-pressed sound embraced them.

Above was the reflection of harsh firelight. Rude blinked, shook his head, and watched air bubbles rise. His momentary disorientation bled away in those rising bubbles, and Rude followed them to the surface. It was fortunate that cryolite was buoyant; Rude found Marq floating, unconscious, on his back. Even below the docks, heat from the burning waste was harsh. Both fire and water produced an incessant roar as Rude shook Marq.

Spitting sea water from his mouth, Rude called loudly, “Marq! Marq!”

Marq's eyes rolled, then opened; he coughed and gasped; Rude stilled his sudden thrashing. Marq's wits returning, he rolled his head to look at Rude, and eyes locked. It was by the skin of their teeth, but they were alive. Rolling to his back, Rude gave Marq's armor a victory thump.

“Is it over?” asked Marq.

“I think so,” replied Rude.

Marq asked, “Can we go home now?”

Rude laughed, then answered, “The retrieval point is south. You up for a swim?”

Marq laughed and said, “My armor is full of water.”

Rude replied, “Feels weird. Right?”

“Since we're floating,” said Marq, “we should let the current carry us.” He turned his head to see Rude, and asked, “It's going south, right?”

Rude said, “If we don't swim, we'll just slosh around in the same spot.”

“I'm warm on top and cold in back,” said Marq. “Can we do the backstroke?”

“Sure,” said Rude. “We're done here.”

Marq spit water, coughed, and said, “Rude.”

Rude answered, “Yeah.”

“Thanks,” said Marq.

“It's okay, Marq,” Rude replied.

“No, but, no,” said Marq. “You came for me. I mean, there I was being a total chicken shit, and I told them at the beginning, I wasn't meant to be a soldier, but I was set to be a stain on the bottom of some Enman boot, and,” Marq said, turning to Rude only to get a face full of water. “And, you saved me. That's twice, man. I have a life debt.”

“Stop,” said Rude. “You're making me blush.”

“No, really,” said Marq. “Wherever you go, I'm your shadow. I'm your man. Whatever you need. I mean, but I draw the line at servitude. Rude? Are there things in the water?”

“Things?” asked Rude.

Marq answered by continuing to ask, “Big things? With teeth?”

Rude said, “Maybe we should find a piece of the dock and paddle south.”

“Yeah, man,” said Marq. “Let's do that. I feel like something's checking me out.”

Marq rolled over and swam. Rude followed. The surface was awash with floating debris, and it wasn't long before the two of them hauled themselves atop a large swath of joined planks. “Ah the smell of creosote,” said Rude.

They lay side by side. Rude paddled with his right hand, and Marq paddled with his left hand. Lapping water kept their faces wet, but they snorted and maintained their bearing. To their right was fire raising smoke into the sky. To their left was black ocean, a thin orange line offering the hope of dawn.

Marq said, “Hey, Rude.”

“Yeah,” said Rude.

Marq said, “Zero-digit day.”

Rude replied, infused with his friend's happiness, “Zero-digit day.”

“What's our next move?” asked Marq.

Rude considered, answering thoughtfully, “West to the Povre.”

“You think we'll have enough creds for a loft?” asked Marq.

“Hardly,” said Rude. “I need to find the P. I. and we need to go north.”

“What's north?” asked Marq.

“A tree,” said Rude. “I hope.”

“Why a tree?” asked Marq, surprised. “Wouldn't a loft have more to offer? I mean, they got lights, and heat, running water, beds.”

“I buried some things by a tree,” said Rude.

“Okay,” said Marq slowly. “You've always seemed secretive; not that I'm complaining.”

Rude said, “You don't know the half of it.”

Marq replied, “I know. Right? When you going to fill me in; that's what I want to know.”

In the dim and smoky light of dawn, Rude and Marq crawled to land below the southern docks. They joined a group of sodden heroes waiting for transport. Consortium ships flew high, assessing the damage with bright floodlights. Fire vehicles busied themselves with blazes to the west, while twenty wet heroes shivered in ash. Some had removed their armor prematurely. A young private looked up from the group.

“Should have kept your armor on,” said Marq.

Angered, the soldier looked away. Rude and Marq sat apart from the group. Another soldier looked around, and said, “We got here late. Then, the Dreadnought just started firing at everything.”

A third soldier made eye contact and said, “We were top back when we had to jump in the ocean. We came in from the city, but it was over.” He looked at Marq, asking, “How many did you light up?”

A smirk on his face, Marq replied, “How many do you see?”

The soldier snorted disdain at Marq's jest, turning to Rude. “How about you?”

Rude answered, “Wasn't really counting; just trying to find my friend.” Rude paused to tap Marq's armor. “And stay alive.”

Marq added with a smile, “Just everyone that got in his way.”

Rude looked west, seeing covered firefighters silhouetted against flame. They walked behind the suppressant drones. Southern flames were dying out, while the north still blazed. In the skies, medical ships were flying in from the city, and on the waters, fire ships attended sunken wrecks. It had been one hell of a night, and Rude's body still trembled. If he never fought another Enman, it would be too soon. It was far from over; he would get no sleep, but he fully intended to push through zero-digit day, then get as far away from the military as humanly possible.

Marq yawned and asked quietly, “Are they going to make us walk home?”

Rude answered quietly, “Medics are on the way.”

Marq hugged his knees, rocking to and fro, and mumbled into his arms, “Man, I could sleep forever.”

Rude replied, “Zero digit day. If you fall asleep, you might wake to another four years.”

Marq looked up and gasped. He asked in earnest, “You think the medics will give us stims?”

Rude was patient. He was exhausted, but he would endure the wait. Medical ships were landing, and Rude noticed other sad survivors grouped here and there. Many heroes had died during the night; Rude was glad to see the few who made it. Floodlights swept over his group and a ship settled nearby. He could imagine the rest. Medics would replace armor with warm jumpsuits, each body would be checked, wounds treated, and all would be recorded. Transports would settle and soldiers would be rounded up for transport back to Thael. Early sunlight was just slicing through the darkness; it would be a long day ahead. Rude took a deep wavering breath and rose to his feet as the medics ran forward.