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got ’em up, my brother, got nothing on me.”
    I’m about ten feet away, other guy calls out: “Stop where you are, pal.”
    I keep coming like I haven’t heard.
    â€œJust an appeal … Look, I’m stuck down in here, I understand that …”
    Dudes have their fancy A-15 machine pistols trained on me. Red lights up in my grill, feel them on my forehead.
    â€œSubject at my location, flight attempt, please advise, over,” mumbles one into the headgear.
    Holding up my right hand, slow down, I’m saying, “Hey, I’m in here with absolutely no fucking food supply whatsoever, okay, you people got me on lockdown, I dig that …” My left hand goes to my jacket pocket and I withdraw a limpet. “Just requesting some rations, whatever you all feel like you have on you …”
    Reach the gate, “Back the fuck up!” calls one of them.
    I get ahold of a thick metal slat on the gate, put my palms to it, press the limpet on there good, press hard now to engage the explosive, twenty seconds, count ’em down, saying, “Honestly, y’all, this isn’t a hostile—”
    â€œBack the fuck up!” repeats the beetle. So I do it.
    â€œAll right. Easy now. Just hoping to appeal to your …”
    Backing up, fifteen seconds, guy muttering, “Subject moving northbound through tunnel A, permission to pursue and detain …”
    Me saying, “I get it. I get it.” Spin left (as per the System … more later), hobbling forth, twelve seconds.
    â€œDown on your knees!” calls a beetle. “Down on your knees now, hold it right there!” Ten seconds.
    I take off running. When I say this I mean I limp faster, the verb run is perhaps too strong. I speed-gimp from whence I came. Seven seconds.
    Hear a beetle raising his voice, “Subject rabbiting, permission to engage, over.”
    The beetles hopping up and down, excited, pressed up against the gate, shoving their fancy guns between the slats. Four seconds.
    Stiffen my back and maintain the fifty-yard stagger. A dirt clod next to my right foot erupts, in this way I know they’re shooting at me and shooting low. Must’ve gotten the thumbs-up over the com. Start to zig and zag, another bullet zings past my calf, giving off heat, I’m thinking less than two seconds, for serious hoping I’ve thrown up enough distance, grind my teeth and really try to give it some mustard, and whomp there it is, the force of the blast popping my eardrums like a sudden loss of altitude on a jumbo jet. Hurl myself flat against a wall, anticipating shrapnel.
    None is forthcoming. Gingerly now, I hazard a glance behind me. A heavy cloud of reddish dust obscures my escape route.
    Begin to stand and my fake knee goes wonky, weeblewobbles, but I don’t fall down, thinking daaaammn if I’m not on life number eight and a half.
    Pull up my mask. Get the gloves off, reapply the sweet P TM , new pair of gloves, another pill.
    Seem a bit much? It’s like I said: gotta use broad strokes with these people.
    Cautious now. Oddly quiet save a muffled groaning and far-off helicopter.
    I hobble forward, the air clearing, and am pleased to see the ordnance took off the gate completely … I note one beetle on his/her face, that’s the one moaning. Momentarily dismayed to observe beetle number two has gotten a metal rod though his/her shoulder/armpit, unfortunately the most vulnerable area when one is togged out in such armor; this unlucky bug is lying sideways and if not dead already must be in considerable shock.
    The skewered bug’s matte black Smith & Wesson A-15 is sitting loosely in its extended right hand, too sexy to bypass … I step though the hole carefully, eyes on the prone groaner, lest it be a ruse, and relieve the goner bug of its weapon. Heft the gun, a nice polymer, sleek and light. I loop the nylon strap around my shoulder. Prod at the survivor with my