***I***

As energy beams continued to melt holes into his sheet metal abode, Indrik continued to return blind fire at the aggressors every ten seconds, for that was the time needed for the coil to heat up between shots. That's why model Z.08 was classified as single-shot, because by the time it recharges you might be dead.

At some point the amount of blaster fire had subsided, perhaps, due to ammunition depletion. The researcher's own supply was on low too. The blaster in the right hand had capacity to fire two more shots while the one in the left had one. Three in total. At this point sustaining suppressive fire was pointless. It was time to act.

At the same time as bolts of blue energy zoomed over his head, he managed to take a quick peek at the cossacks' position. To his surprise, there was only one russisch still in action, making shots from the cover of a pile of scrap. The one he got earlier didn't seem to move at all on the floor. Where the third one was he didn't have time to check.

Indrik made a few calming inhales and exhales. It was now or never. The artificer popped from cover and took a gamble. First shot missed, the second scorched the sleeve, but the third struck its mark, hitting one of the power cells in the revolving-blaster's cylinder and making the weapon explode in the wielder's hand.

But before that, cossack made one final well-placed shot. The deadly energy zap hit Indrik right in the forehead. Both Voigtlanders fell to the floor and then the body followed suit. A shot like that could easily pierce the lobe bone, and obliterate the brain matter within. That is, if the obstacle was bone and not a metal plate sourced from a discarded armour piece.

True, the energy bolt could not penetrate it, but it did heat the steel up to a considerable degree. The researcher shrieked in pain as he scrambled across the floor to reach the water bucket, dunking his head into it with a hiss sound while vapour formed.

His reemerged dripping face twisted in shock, simultaneously, upon seeing his foe. The cossack stood unfazed like a statue. The arm that held the blaster was scorched, yet unharmed, for it was not of blood or flesh. It was a metal prosthetic now free from the glove and sleeve that hid it from whom only smouldering scraps remained.

The steamborg casted away the damaged death-utensil and unsheathed his saber with his sleeved arm.

Enough is enough. Indrik had it with these God-damned russiches in this God-damned workshop. He rose up and marched towards the augmented soldier, on the way picking up the wrench Otiliya discarded. The red heavy-duty wrench was once again in his hand and once again the researcher is facing the same foe, but this time odds are in his favor.

He didn't wait for the cossack to make the first move, swinging the wrench in a wide arc. The strike was parried by the blade's guard in punching motion and then retaliated with a lateral swipe from the right. The artificer went low, blade scraping his forehead plate.

Response was swift and brutal. Seizing grip with both hands he lunged the tool's heavy head right into the abdomen. The impact made a squishy sound, filling the surrounding air with a stench of decay. Dear God, the strike must have ruptured the stomach.

There was finally some sort of reaction from the stoic muscovite as he slightly bent over and staggered backwards into the workbench as random items scattered to the floor. The cossack balanced himself on the edge of the table and swung wildly to presumably keep Indrik away.

This only fueled the researcher's boldness. He walked backwards a few steps, gaining distance, and then like a wildcat pounced on his prey. The wrench swatted away the incoming blade while Indrik used his body mass to shove the russisch onto the table surface. Then, like a maniac, he hammered on the saber arm, targeting joints and fingers in a relentless assault.

When the sword fell down, he was too quick to ease, for something cold and hard hit him right in the face, followed by a punch to the gut which knocked wind out of Indrik. As well as a spit of blood and a tooth or two that got loose. Bastard hit hard.

The steamborg advanced with one arm dangling limply while the other was outstretched in a deadly grasp. The researcher barely dodged.

Indrik was enraged. He wanted that other arm broken ass well. Thus he wrapped his own arms around it, with a practiced, violent jerk he dislocated his own shoulders. After that he threw himself backwards onto the floor, dragging the russisch with him.

Upon contact to the ground, the kinetic force activated the pressure plate on Indrik's back which in turn triggered the pneumatics. The powerful jolt was enough to not only realign his joints, but also unjoint the prosthetic he clinged to.

Yet the muscovite bastard refused to stay down, trahing and twisting, trying to get loose from the artificer's hold. Worse, he lost the wrench in the scuffle. Otiliya's words about using the speech of Solomon as a weapon came to him. If only, he knew not a single combination useful for combat- Wait! He remembered the incident at Hartmann's apartment.

Indrik ripped open the cossack's coat, revealing a curais-like plate that seemed to cover only the upper chest area. Not able to carve in metal, he used the blood that trickled from below the stylized mask, using it to draw the rune circle. Then he located a glass vial containing, at the moment, unrecognizable herbs and sprinkled it's contents across his handy work. The dried herbs clang to the blood.

When he invoked the words of power, the russisch began to rise into the air as the body began to spin, like the table at Hartmann's place all those years ago. Faster and faster till the flailing man bursts into flames that at last moment flickered to green. At the end, only ash and burned metal remained.

Serenity didn't last long. An iron grip seized Indrik by the rucksack and pulled on it. The lone strap snapped, hurling the researcher to the floor where his gaze met the new assailant. Did the third cossack finally decide to show up? But no, it was not it.

The man before him was cossack, yet his appearance was disheveled beyond belief. The papakha was gone. Weapons seemed to be too. From the collar and both sleeves the coat was completely drenched in blood. In fact, the russisch was splattered with the crimson fluid. There was also a strong familiar aroma of burned meat.

No... It can't be. It was the fourth one that the former tunnel-rat steamed when fleeing the maintenance ways. How is this possible? Makaravich was lying dead from the one burst, yet here the walking corpse stood late for the main event.

The Black Cossack didn't linger, for he had his bounty secured in his arms, stumbling away to the mangled exit.

Dazed and spent, the researcher had not the vitality to chase the thief. Instead, frantically searching for a projectile in desperate gamble. Once again his hand found that red wrench.

He moved his hand backwards, preparing to sling the utensil, until he finally heard it: the sounds of a struggle that were deaf to him until now. With a look over his shoulder, he saw them- Otiliya and the other cossack locked in a desperate grapple where the latter was gaining the upper hand. A lone hopeful thought emerged. She hadn't deserted him after all.

Indrik was at a crossroad. His life's work or an insufferable woman he had met just hours ago? Why was there even contemplation? The choice was obvious, yet, for some inexplicable reason, his body turned around and launched the wrench at the bastard on the top of the scuffle.

The steel object found its mark with a satisfying crunch. The head tilted and the body froze in place. Wasting no time, the wolfborn caught the tool and bashed the head in so more. Before Indrik could chase after the fleeing one, a burst of energy beams crippled the runner's legs and he with the research fell, face first, to the ground.

The laundress walked up beside the artificer with a looted blaster in hand. Relief washed over Indrik as he trudged towards the fallen, but stopped when he passed the cossack he had downed first. A curiosity washed over the man. What was the deal with these men?

The body was rolled facing up and then the exaggerated facade of the steel mask was lifted. Indrik stubbled back in shock.

The skin was of necrotic grey, eyes were misty light-greys and the nose must have come off with the mask, leaving behind only two bloody slits. That was the face of a man that has been dead for days or even weeks.

With a frantic haste he tore loose the coat and whatever other layers obstructed his goal till the abdomen was bare. It was a horrible mess of stitching, tubing and wiring. At core of it all lay a still active mid-industrial tier power-cell and a familiar round slot occupied now by dust only. What was the meaning of this?!

The researcher's internal question soon was answered by a slow mocking clap. In the orphanage's entrance stood a man dressed in green-gray military officer's uniform and accompanied by eight masked soldiers armed with coil-rifles. Not a single one of them bore any identification markings.

"Indrik Bazulein in the flesh. What a "pleasant" surprise..." The unknown militant pronounced the artificer's full name with a hint of displeasure.

Then the officer drew his coil-blaster and finished off the crawling undead cossack with a blast to the head, gesturing to one of his men to take the rucksack. Then as theft of Indrik's property continued the man resumed the conversation: "Hmm, remained operational longer than expected. The zubrili at Moscow will love to hear about that. Oh, where are my manners? I forgot to introduce myself. I am Kapitan Nikolayevich Andreyevich Mikalanavich."

The researcher was flabbergasted at such stupidity: "What's ze meaning of all zis secrecy, if you will just reveal your name like zat and let your experiments roam freely through the streets in full uniform, muscovite?"

Captain Nikolayevich chuckled: "Oh, ochen' prosto! I just desire to be polite at the man's last moments. As for the latter? To spread a message." He lifted his arm up and the soldiers took their aim at Indrik and Otiliya. "Shame we couldn't extract more from your efforts, Mr Bazulein. Thank you for your contributions to the Empire."

Before they could shoot the two Rigans to bits, another similar soldier rushed into the scene. "Komandir! Komandir, the Tuetonics are on their way! They will be here in the matter of minutes."

Captain's face grimaced: "Good riddance... We move out! Pin them down with suppressive fire and then finish them off with granatas. Bystreye!"

Before the energy beam barged managed to tear the dumbfounded Indrik apart, Otiliya pushed him into cover. Then there was the distinguishable "ping" sound as pins from grenades were removed and tossed towards strategic locations. One landing near the steam engine behind them.

The explosive blast threw the researcher across the room. His body ached all over. He felt dazed and nauseated. There was fire all around and he could see through his blurred vision that the building itself had begun to crumble.

This was the end... It had to be. There was no strength in him left, he had lost everything. The only thing he could do is to close his eyes and wait for the inevitable doom.

As consciousness started to fade, someone gripped him under his armpits and started to drag him away.