(This is the story text from the corresponding Radio Cataclysm podcast episode. If you prefer audio, you can subscribe here. Read and listen early on Patreon.)

“Double-cross.” Bunting spread his cards out on the table, showing a hand of red diamonds.

“Hm?” Bob looked at him as if just realizing he was there. “Oh, damn. How about best three of five? Double or nothing.”

“It's your money,” said Bunting. “For now, anyway. I'm cleaning up tonight.” He gathered the cards and started to shuffle.

“Too rich for the likes of me,” said Murkle. “You two carry on. I think I'll read in my bunk.”

“You all right, Jaut?” Bunting asked.

“I'm just a bit distracted,” said Bob.

“Thinking about Corrigan?”

“What? No, Corrigan got what he deserved,” said Bob. “He was a danger to us all. No, I'm worried about my men. They may not understand the complexity of the situation. The necessity of the execution. John is a veteran of the war, but he was never in any formal military. The Pyroclasts are more of a cult than an army. Burts is a soldier, but he's got a rebellious streak a mile wide. The other two have no discipline at all, though Steven has been showing a great deal of promise lately.”

“You need to go check on them?”

Bob tapped a finger absentmindedly on the table. “One more hand,” he said. “Then maybe I'll just say goodnight, if they're still up.”

The room was silent. The tension was palpable. Everybody was waiting for somebody else to make a move.

“It's like the calm before a storm,” said John.

“My stomach's in knots,” said Steven.

“You can still back out,” said Zeck. “Last chance. We'll tie you up. You can say it was all our fault. The Colonel seems to like you, after all.”

“Yeah,” said Steven. “That scares me more than anything.”

Zeck looked at his watch. “Almost time. Now or never. Time for one last ride, Burts.”

“What about the shocky thing?” said Burts.

“That part's simple,” said Steven. He handed Burts one of the EMP grenades. “Once you pull the pin, it's still not armed. You have to twist the halves in opposite directions. Twist it counterclockwise and it goes off straight away. Turn it the other way to set the timer. See those little marks? Each notch is one minute. You can set it for as little as one second, or as much as ten minutes. I'd recommend ten minutes, and hope that's long enough.”

“Why wait?” said Burts. “Why not do it right away?”

“Because it'll also kill the horse,” said Steven. “No need to worry. It's all programmed and ready to go. Here's what you do.” He pointed inside the horse's torso, at a loose tangle of wires attached to a circuit board. In the middle of the board was a plastic button that read 'esc'. “I've installed a 'go' button to make it quick and easy. It's the escape key off an old keyboard. Seemed clever when I thought of it. When you hear me knock shave-and-a-haircut, that's when you set the timer and press the escape button. The horse'll take off like a bat out of hell. These packhorses top out at two-hundred KPH, so it should be fast enough to get you in the clear before the EMP goes off. Once that happens, the horse will stop in its tracks, if it hasn't already, and the cargo hatch on its belly will pop open, letting you out. If you can move, try to get away from the horse, just in case it explodes.”

“Explodes?” said Zeck.

“It's unlikely,” said Steven, “but there's a chance its power source could blow. Now that I say this out loud, it's sounding less and less like a good idea.”

“No,” said Burts. “It'll work. It has to.”

“Hopefully the Arterian hovercraft is still hanging around,” said Zeck, “trying to find a way into the forest. Or watching the borders for us to come back out. With any luck, they'll detect the EMP burst and pick you up. I can't believe that's the scenario we're hoping for, but here we are.”

Burts climbed into the horse's cargo hold. He fit well, all things considered, hunched over on his knees. “I've never been much for speeches or goodbyes,” he said, and pulled the hatch closed.

“Everybody else know what they're doing?” said Steven.

“John and I will grab the horses from the corral,” said Zeck. “John will get them into position. I'll signal you by setting off my EMP, which will hopefully shut down my yoke and a few of the leftover horses. You signal Burts to get his horse moving, and I'll grab the spider scrambler from you so that you can use your own EMP without wrecking the device. By then, John should have had a chance to use his EMP. Then all we have to do is get back to our three horses and we'll be on our way.”

“You make it sound easy,” said John.

“I'm a nervous wreck,” said Zeck. He checked his watch. “It's time.”

“You can go to bed if you like,” said Sheryl. “You probably should get some sleep tonight.”

Irving sniffed and sat upright. “I wasn't sleeping,” she said.

“The flames are getting low,” said Sheryl. “Not much left now.”

“Are you going to stay up?” said Irving.

Sheryl nodded. “Probably for a while, even after the fire burns down to the coals. I don't sleep much these days.”

Irving nodded wearily.

Sheryl peeked at her watch. “Ouroboros sometimes likes a treat around this time. Would you like to give it to him?”

Irving's eyes went wide. “I don't know if I should,” she said. “He's- He doesn't really know me. Shouldn't we stay with the fire, anyway?”

“We'll be quite near,” said Sheryl. “And it will only take a minute.”

Irving leaned toward Sheryl. “If I can be honest, he scares me a little bit,” she whispered.

Sheryl smiled kindly. “He's meant to,” she said.

“I'll go with you, though,” said Irving. “And watch you feed him. Maybe I'll learn something.”

Sheryl nodded. “Here.” She scooped a handful of small cubes from a pouch on her belt. She handed one to Irving. “In case you want to.”

“Sugar cubes?”

“Something like that. Just don't eat it. They're made for the likes of him, not us.”

Ouroboros circled the camp in a wide arc. When he saw Sheryl, and smelled the treats she held, he broke from his path and trotted to her immediately. He stamped the ground and snorted. A jet of steam blew from his snout.

“Stand,” Sheryl said with firm authority. Ouroboros stopped in front of her and stood at what could only be the horse's version of attention. “Still,” she said. She reached up and placed a treat on the destrier's nose, resting it on a notch in his armor. She held up a finger. “Hold.” The horse stood unmoving, his red eyes wild. “Chomp,” she said. In a flash, Ouroboros flipped the treat into the air and snapped his teeth around it.

“That's amazing,” said Irving from several feet back. “You have him so well trained.”

“Not trained,” Sheryl said sternly, holding up a hand. “But there is trust between us. Would you like to try? You don't have to get close. Just toss him one.”

Irving only hesitated for a second. She threw her treat underhand. It arced high over Ouroboros's head. He reared up on his hind legs and snatched it out of the air. Irving couldn't help but smile. “He's a little bit like a dog. Is that insulting?”

Sheryl smiled back and handed her another cube. “Not at all.”

Irving held the treat between her thumb and forefinger so the horse could see it. She tossed it overhand this time, right at his face. Ouroboros opened his mouth and let the cube fall in. There was a brief whirr noise as his throat grinder pulverized the morsel. He trotted closer to the pair, his dark tongue flicking out and licking his chops. He chuffed, and they could smell his breath. Sheryl held her bare hand palm up, presenting a single treat. Ouroboros bowed his head and, with his lips, daintily plucked the cube from her hand. He raised his head, the treat still between his lips like the butt of a cigarette. His ears pricked up. Something had snagged his attention. He let the treat fall from his mouth and took off at a gallop in the direction of the bunker. A moment later, Sheryl's watch buzzed with a silent alarm.

“What's happening?” said Irving.

“It might be nothing, but we should get back,” said Sheryl, a hint of regret in her voice.

Steven shifted from foot to foot. He couldn't see John or Zeck or the horses. Even the forest was a dark abyss beyond the fluorescent strobe of the cafe. The only thing he could make out beyond the door was the red-orange flicker of the fire ring. He jumped a little when Zeck popped into the doorway. Zeck's yoke was gone. His shirt was sweat-stained and creased where it had been. Steven started to hand him the spider scrambler, but Zeck's gaze was fixed on something behind him.

“What are you doing up here?” Bob called from the top of the stairs. “Are you done with the horse?” Steven spun around. He stuffed the scrambler into his pocket. Bob was dressed in his sleep silks from the waist up. Below that, he wore his armored uniform pants. His spider gun sat in its holster. He crossed the room to where they stood. “Zeck, what happened? Where on Earth is your yoke?”

“Bob, thank goodness you're here. Burts has gone psycho! I think he's had too many shocks from that implant. It's fried something in that cybernetic head of his. I tried to subdue him, but he's too strong. He shattered my yoke with those cybernetic hands of his. Now he's escaped.”

“What? Escaped? How?”

“Like this,” said Steven. He knocked shave-and-a-haircut on the horse's flank. Two seconds later, it broke into a full gallop. Zeck stepped out of the way just in time to avoid a trampling. Steven reached into his pocket for the scrambler, but Bob tapped a command on his watch. Steven went stiff. He straightened up and turned to face Bob. He stayed there like a statue.

Now that Burts had crossed the threshold, an alarm was blaring on Bob's wristwatch. Distant noises from both inside the bunker and out made it clear that he wasn't the only one getting the message.

Ouroboros's shrill whinny was a sonic knife. He shot across the clearing after Burts's packhorse, two shadows vanishing into the dark.

The Colonel made his appearance only seconds later. “What's the meaning of this?” he demanded. He pushed past Bob as if he didn't see him. His helm was still repressurizing, and Chad was jogging to keep up, fixing the Colonel's right gauntlet in place while they went. The Colonel looked around, following signs and signals on his HUD.

“He's escaped!” Zeck shouted, pointing into the distance. “It's Burts! He's getting away. We need to go after him!”

“Ouroboros has already informed me that he is in pursuit. He'll catch him up and bring him back. Alive is best, but dead will do. Now just what the hell is going on here?”

“It looks like Fawth has stolen a packhorse,” said Sheryl, returning with Captain Irving.

“That much is clear,” said the Colonel. “But how? He couldn't have done it on his own. You, there.” He pointed at Zeck. “Where is your yoke?”

“That brute tore it from my body when I tried to subdue him.”

“Strauss claims that Fawth-” Bob started, but the Colonel cut him off.

“He standing right here, Jaut, he can tell me himself.”

“It's my fault,” said Steven. “I needed some things from one of the packhorses to finish working on the bloodhound. It was a lot of stuff, and some of it was heavy, so I asked Captain Jaut to bring it inside for me. Burts overpowered us and stole the horse.”

“That's not true,” said Bob. “I mean, the first part is, but I don't- I don't know...”

“Stand silent somewhere I can't see you, Jaut,” said the Colonel. “Honestly, all you had to do was babysit four recruits, over whom you had complete control.”

“I can bring him back,” said Steven. “I can send a signal that'll shut down his horse. Or make it come back. If you just release my yoke, I'll get him back here in a jiffy.”

Corporal Bunting came jogging upstairs, half-armored. Murkle followed in his Caustic robes. Solomon was last, fully suited. “We got your alert,” said Bunting. “Awaiting orders.”

Sheryl spoke up, “Sir, shouldn't we go after Fawth and sort the rest of this after we have him back?”

“Ouroboros is faster without a rider,” said the Colonel. “Faster than any of us, on or off a horse. He'll bring Fawth back, one way or another.” He glanced around. “We seem to be missing one. Besides Fawth.”

Bob's eyes went wide. “John,” he said, forgetting to be quiet.

The Colonel stepped up to the doorway and peered into the clearing. “Join me outside, won't you?” It was clear he meant all of them. Bob's watch made a boop sound, ceding control of Steven's yoke to the Colonel. Steven marched to an open spot in the clearing, a puppet to the yoke.

The rest of the company gathered in a loose clump by the fire ring. Even Zeck, unsure of what to do, joined the group. He scanned the ruins for John, but he didn't even see the horses they'd rustled.

The Colonel circled Steven slowly. “It's fairly clear what has happened here,” he said. “Fawth has escaped with the help of the other recruits, who are in the process of making their own escape. I need no more details than that. I need no confirmation or denial; the truth of the matter is apparent. Strauss, come stand by your little friend here.” Zeck hesitated, but not for long. He stood next to Steven and faced the Colonel.

“You're not a complete fool, then,” said the Colonel. “All of you recruits started this journey as prisoners of the Imperial Guard. I was generous enough to pardon your crimes and draft you into service, an honor for which most people would be grateful. Now, you spit in the face of my generosity. You've insisted upon committing additional crimes, far greater than your previous charges. Desertion. Theft. Treason. I should execute you where you stand.”

“He can't,” whispered Murkle. “He wouldn't.” Bunting shushed him.

“However,” the Colonel continued, “I may be persuaded to consider leniency in my sentencing if Derman were to return and stand trial alongside the two of you.” He turned and faced the dark expanse of the ruin-strewn clearing. “What do you say, wizard?” He didn't shout, but his mouthpiece amplified his voice tenfold so that it cracked the air like thunder. The only answer was the babbling of the creek.

The Colonel drew his sword. “Shall I start with the thief?” He pointed his sword at Zeck. “Or the boy wonder?” The wind whispered through the treetops.

“Please,” said Zeck. “Start with me if it means I don't have to hear you yammer on any longer.”

“Stop it,” Steven hissed.

“Silence,” the Colonel said. It was not loud, but it carried with it something more than sound, something that turned Zeck's knees to jelly and his guts to water. He shut his mouth.

The Colonel turned his attention back to the John, wherever he might be hiding. “I assure you, when Ouroboros returns, he will sniff you out. Will you return, and accept your judgment? If you do, you have my word that I will spare their lives. Otherwise.” He rested his sword on Steven's shoulder, the blade facing inward toward his neck. “I'll give you to the count of ten. One.”

Murkle picked up the incendiary gel dispenser. He felt a hand on his arm. It was Bunting.

“Two.”

“Not you,” Bunting whispered to Murkle. He took the dispenser.

“Three.”

“Oy, Colonel Dipshit,” said Bunting. He squirted incendiary gel all over the back of the Colonel's armor. More gel covered the Colonel's front as he turned to face Bunting.

“What on Earth do you think you're doing?” said the Colonel, sounding honestly surprised.

“Pick on someone your own size.” Bunting scooped a handful of glowing coals from the pyre with his bare hand. He didn't even flinch as his skin sizzled and blackened. He pitched the red-orange coals at the Colonel. The gel ignited instantly. The Colonel was wreathed in flames. His vision obscured by flames and smoke, he nevertheless strode in Bunting's direction, unbothered by the heat, his sword raised. Bunting tossed the gel dispenser at the Colonel's chest. It burst, showering the Colonel, Bunting, and the ground around him with flaming goop. Bunting was on fire now, too. Some of the gel burned harmlessly on his armor, but his arms and head were naked and his chest plate was unfastened. He tried to pat the flames out with his hands, but that only spread the gel.

A pipe the size of a tree trunk emerged from the ground between the creek and the two men, the tangled undergrowth parting to make way for it. The Colonel's exoskeletal suit sensed the water coming toward it, but its directives were overwhelmed by the cloak of fire and the sudden movement of the flora. He was hit square in the chest by enough water to fill a small pond in two seconds. He landed among the ruins, on his back for once, but not for long.

Vines and brambles snaked their way across the forest floor and snapped like whips around Corporal Bunting. They smothered what was left of the fire on his body and pinned his arms and legs in place. The vines kept coming, covering every inch of him. They engulfed his head last, cutting off a desperate scream.

“Corporal!” Murkle tried to pry him loose, but the vines were too thick, too strong. With Bunting in their grasp, they sank into the earth and vanished.

Zeck seized upon the chaos. “Which pocket?” he asked Steven.

“Left calf,” said Steven. “Shit, behind you!”

The Colonel was back on his feet and striding toward them with a confident rage.

“Got it!” Zeck spun around and raised the scrambler toward the Colonel and flipped the switch. There was a swift swooshing noise. Before he could press the red button, the remote fell to the ground. It landed, bounced, and landed again on its face, pressing the button with its impact.

It looked at first like smoke was pouring out of the Colonel's wrist. The weavers swarmed out, burning away their lives with speed and determination. The Colonel extended his Websolve sprayer, but all that came out was a brief spritz. It was out of fluid. He swatted at the spiders and slashed his sword through the strands they made, but there were too many, crawling out of their countless pocket dimensions, and they moved too fast for even the Colonel's suit to keep up with them. Zeck had to step back to avoid being caught up in the web.

The same thing was happening to the Sparassa. Sheryl tossed her spider gun aside, but the weavers were hatching from the spare egg sacs in her belt, too. It was over in a matter of seconds. Bob, the Colonel, and all three Sparassa were encased in the densest sacs the weavers could spin. When Chad realized what was happening, he ran into the bunker and shut the door.

Only Private Murkle was left. He was kneeling on the ground, digging with his bare hands at the spot where Bunting had vanished. All he turned up was soil. “Corporal!” he called. “Corporal!”

John stepped into the light. He shrugged away his robe and turned it rightways again, stowing the pocket cloak sewn into the lining. The stolen horses were behind him, plainly visible now. Murkle started when he saw him appear. “You were right there the whole time? Why didn't you stop this?”

“I was preparing to do so,” said John. “But then your Corporal Bunting stepped in with the flames and the heroism. I couldn't stop that. It all happened so fast. I'm sorry, son.” He set a hand on Murkle's shoulder. “He belongs to the forest now.”

“We'd better get a move on,” said Zeck. “Chad will be running to get the Websolve. We don't have long. Lucky the spider scrambler landed on its button. Clumsy of me to drop it.”

John cleared his throat. “I don't know how to break this to you...” he trailed off.

“What?”

“That's not all you've dropped,” said Steven.

Zeck looked down at his hands. The one on the right was where it should be. The one on the left was not. “Um,” he said. “That's too much blood.”

“Oh, damn and blast,” said Murkle. He rushed over to Zeck and gripped his bleeding stump in his hands. Zeck shouted, more from surprise than pain. “Hold still,” said Murkle. He started chanting underneath his breath. He shut his eyes tight. His hands began to warm. The glyphs of the litany on his head and neck reddened. Zeck could have sworn that they glowed ever so slightly. Murkle's hands were red hot now, but Zeck didn't flinch away. It was not a stinging heat, like that of a stovetop. It was a soothing heat, like cinnamon and pepper in a cup of thick hot chocolate.

Murkle let out a long breath that fogged in the air. He let go of Zeck's arm. His hand was still gone, of course, but the bleeding had stopped. The stump was scarred over, as if the injury had occurred months ago, rather than minutes. Zeck stared at it.

“At a loss for words for once?” said Steven.

“Thank you,” said Zeck. “I think you just saved my life.”

“I hate to ruin this lovely moment,” said Steven, “but I'm still stuck here, stock-still like a statue. The EMP is in my right calf pocket, if you don't mind.”

John retrieved the EMP, pulled the pin, gave it a twist, and pressed it to Steven's back. The yoke crackled like a broken speaker. Steven could finally move again. He yanked off the helm. The arm pieces fell away on their own. “What are you looking for, corsair?” he said.

Zeck was on the ground, searching for something in the undergrowth. “My hand,” he said. “Maybe we can save it and stitch it back on. Fucking hell. It must be in the web sac with the Colonel! Maybe we can slice it out.”

“No way,” said Steven.

“It's my second favorite hand,” said Zeck.

“You'll lose a lot more than that if the Colonel gets loose,” said John.

Zeck sighed. He stood up and dusted off his pants. “You're right, of course.”

“We're in your debt, Private Murkle,” said John. “Are you coming with us?”

“What about Corporal Bunting?” said Murkle.

John paused for a moment, listening or considering. “He's far from us now,” he said. “There's nothing we can do for him.”

“Is he still alive?”

John hesitated before answering. “Probably. More or less.”

The door to the bunker swung open. Chad stood there, holding a can of Websolve in one hand and a pistol in the other. From the woods, a piercing whinny rang out. Ouroboros was on his way back.

“Yes, I'll come,” said Murkle.

“Stand here, with us,” said John. “It's gonna be weird and dark for a minute.” He said something in the antique language of the forest. The ground beneath their feet parted like a mouth, and they sank into the forest floor.

Ouroboros's legs were a blur. The packhorse's path was obvious. It had retraced its steps almost exactly, exiting the forest the same way they'd entered. Even if that hadn't been the case, there were a multitude of broken branches and a dotted line of hoof prints. In some places, the foliage seemed to have retreated to make way for the speeding horse. Anybody could have tracked it. And Ouroboros could track anybody.

Fast as Ouroboros was, he didn't catch up to Burts until they were out of the forest. Ouroboros skidded to a halt. The packhorse stood not fifty yards from the edge of the woods. Its eyes were dark. Its belly had opened, and Burts lay on the ground beneath, unmoving. The stars twinkled in a strangely clear oval above him. The Sunrise Window. The wind whipped down through the opening.

Ouroboros whinnied and ran to where Burts lay. A violet shaft of light descended from the Sunrise Window, enrobing the packhorse. The disabled robot rose into the air, away from Burts. Ouroboros shot a wad of weavers at the supersoldier from a belly nozzle, wrapping him tightly. The destrier bent his head to grab the sac with his teeth. The purple beam shifted. The packhorse hovered directly over Ouroboros, a hundred feet above. The purple light vanished, then reappeared over Burts. The web sac rose nearly as fast as the packhorse fell. Ouroboros sprinted out of the way. The packhorse crashed to the ground where the destrier had been standing, bounced once and came to rest in a broken heap. The heap was smoking. A second later, the horse's power cell exploded, sending jagged flaming shrapnel in every direction. Some of the shards would have hit Burts, but the tractor beam robbed them of their velocity.

The shockwave threw Ouroboros off his feet. He landed hard on his side. Shrapnel showered his body. Most of it struck his armor, but one piece pierced his belly array and knocked two of his nozzles clean off. He ignored it, and got back to his feet. He ran full bore and leapt at the tractor beam, stretching his neck and snapping at the web sac with his teeth, but Burts was far too high to reach by the time he got there.

For a second, Ouroboros could see the hovercraft through the Window. It was high, a small target, but maybe he could still strike it. The horse hit the ground standing and reared back on his hind legs. His mini-blunderbuss was still intact, and he swiveled it toward the airship, his targeting system locking on with ease. It would be tricky to avoid hitting Burts, but Ouroboros never hesitated. He fired three armor-piercing slugs. The ship immediately moved out of sight, past the edge of the Window. The angle of the tractor beam shifted as the ship moved. All three shots were caught in its embrace. Burts slipped out of sight a moment later. The violet glow disappeared as he rose into the belly of the airship. The glow reappeared soon after, in the form of a propulsion beam. The Arterian airship shot away, leaving a streak of purple across the sky.