The deafening roar of the high-pressure water column slammed violently into the concrete walkway.
The hiss of steam was instantaneous.
The freezing, subterranean lake water hit the liquid fire of the five Burner flamethrowers. The intense, two-thousand-degree heat instantly vaporized the water, filling the narrow corridor with thick, blinding, boiling white steam.
Visibility dropped to absolute zero.
Marcus sprinted forward, completely blind, straight into the scalding white fog.
He didn't have his Neural Link to paint thermal silhouettes. He didn't have JARVIS calculating the clones' recovery time.
He only had his ears. He only had the Warlord's Warlord iron.
The steam was thick. It burned his throat as he inhaled.
He heard a heavy splash. A boot scraped hard against the slick concrete to his left.
Marcus didn't hesitate. He lunged sideways in the fog.
A Burner clone blindly swung the heavy, metal barrel of a dead flamethrower through the thick white steam, desperately trying to find a target.
Marcus ducked entirely under the wild swing.
He stepped inside the clone's guard, his silhouette suddenly appearing out of the boiling mist less than an inch from the Burner's black helmet.
Marcus thrust the rusted combat knife upward. The dull blade dragged a bright red line across the clone's exposed black collar, slipping neatly beneath the heavy helmet seal.
The clone didn't scream. He choked on his own blood, collapsing heavily onto the wet concrete.
Marcus ripped the knife free.
He spun on his heel, his melted boots slipping slightly on the soaked floor.
A second clone lunged at him from the fog, tackling him around the waist.
The impact drove Marcus backward into the solid rock wall of the cavern. The air rushed from his lungs. The clone was easily fifty pounds heavier, encased in thick, fireproof black armor.
The Burner's hands locked around Marcus's throat, squeezing with terrifying, genetically engineered strength.
Marcus didn't try to pry the clone's hands off. He didn't have the leverage.
He dropped his knife.
He reached up with both hands, grabbing the thick black visor of the clone's helmet. He twisted his body violently sideways, using the clone's own forward momentum against him.
Marcus drove his knee hard into the clone's stomach, simultaneously pulling the heavy helmet downward.
The Burner lost his footing on the slick concrete.
Marcus threw the heavy clone completely over his hip. The man sailed over the narrow edge of the walkway.
A dull, heavy splash echoed from the pitch-black subterranean lake fifty feet below.
Two down.
The Warlord was fighting better without his machine. He wasn't relying on a computer to tell him how to win; he was fighting like a desperate survivor in the mud of Syria.
The steam began to slowly clear, the cold air of the cavern rapidly condensing the fog.
Marcus stood up, gasping for air. His throat throbbed where the clone had grabbed him. He looked down at his empty hands. His rusted combat knife was gone, knocked into the black water during the struggle.
He was entirely unarmed.
The thick white fog thinned out into gray wisps.
The heavy steel elevator doors were ten feet away, bathed in harsh red emergency lighting. The massive, high-pressure pipe above them continued to dump freezing water onto the walkway, the sound deafening.
Three dead Burner clones lay in a heap near the open shaft, crushed by the initial kinetic impact of the water column.
Standing inside the elevator, completely untouched by the water, was Nero.
The manic clone looked annoyed. His immaculate white suit was damp from the steam, his blonde hair plastered to his forehead.
He wasn't holding his violin. He held the long, heavy, perfectly balanced polished steel of Marcus's Warlord sword.
"A clever trick, Beta Tester," Nero sneered, stepping out of the elevator shaft into the red light. "But you're out of parlor games. And you're out of weapons."
Marcus didn't back away.
He didn't look at Marcia or Narcissus, who were still recovering from the fire at the other end of the walkway.
He locked eyes with Nero.
"That isn't your sword," Marcus said softly, his voice cutting through the roar of the falling water.
Nero laughed, a high, mocking sound.
"It is now," Nero purred.
Nero lunged.
He swung the Warlord sword in a massive, sweeping horizontal arc aimed directly at Marcus's neck. It was a perfect, textbook strike, executed with terrifying speed.
Marcus didn't try to dodge backward. He didn't try to retreat into the fog.
He stepped directly inside the guard.
He moved faster than JARVIS could have calculated. He closed the distance in a fraction of a second, completely inside the sweeping arc of the long blade.
Nero's eyes widened in sheer shock.
Marcus didn't block the sword. He didn't have anything to block it with.
He deliberately took the hit to get close.
The heavy steel blade sliced cleanly through the thick fabric of Marcus's heavy naval coat, biting deep into his left bicep. The pain was immediate, agonizing, and sharp. Blood instantly soaked the blue wool.
But Marcus didn't flinch.
He used the momentum of his forward step to drive his skull violently forward.
He headbutted Nero squarely in the center of his pristine face.
The loud crack of bone echoed off the concrete walls.
Nero stumbled backward, crying out in shock and pain. His nose was completely shattered, blood instantly pouring down his white suit collar.
The Warlord sword slipped from Nero's manicured fingers.
It clattered loudly against the wet concrete walkway.
Marcus didn't wait for Nero to recover. He didn't gloat.
He reached down with his uninjured right hand and caught the hilt of the sword before it stopped spinning.
The familiar, perfect weight of the polished steel settled seamlessly into his palm. It felt like an extension of his own arm. He didn't need a tactical UI to tell him how to hold his own weapon.
The Emperor had reclaimed his sword.
Marcus spun the blade in a tight arc, bringing the sharp edge directly up to Nero's throat, forcing the manic clone backward until his shoulders hit the heavy steel wall of the elevator.
The red emergency lights reflected off the blood on the blade.
Nero was gasping for breath, clutching his shattered nose. The manic grin was entirely gone, replaced by raw, analog terror.
"You aren't an Emperor," Marcus whispered coldly, his Warlord iron absolute. "You're a cheap copy."
Marcus raised his right arm. He tightened his grip on the hilt. He prepared to swing the heavy blade and take Nero's head.
Suddenly, the elevator's internal PA system crackled to life.
It wasn't Nero's voice. It wasn't the high, theatrical taunting of the manic clone.
It was a cold, calculating, perfectly measured voice.
"I suggest you put the sword down, Warlord."
Marcus froze. The Warlord's blade hovered an inch from Nero's throat.
It was Executive Vane.
The original. The CEO. The man Marcus had killed in Syria, now resurrected in a new orbital body.
"Vane," Marcus gritted his teeth, not lowering the sword.
"Look at the screen, Beta Tester," Vane's voice ordered flatly through the speaker.
Marcus didn't turn around. He didn't take his eyes off Nero.
"Look at it!" Vane barked, his calm facade cracking slightly.
Marcus slowly shifted his gaze to the small, heavily reinforced security monitor bolted to the inside wall of the elevator cab, just above Nero's shoulder.
The screen wasn't showing the burning beach. It wasn't showing the Carrier.
It was displaying a live, high-definition satellite feed.
It was Rome.
Marcus recognized the ancient, towering walls of the Vatican immediately. But the city wasn't a ruin. It wasn't covered in ash or snow.
The massive, heavy steel doors of the underground Vatican server farm were wide open.
Marching out of the darkness, directly into the light of the ruined city, were thousands of identical figures.
They wore sleek, pristine white combat armor. They carried heavy, advanced Board energy rifles. They moved in perfect, terrifying lockstep, an endless sea of white armor flooding the ancient streets.
They were clone soldiers.
"Project Legion 2.0 is online," Vane's cold voice echoed from the speaker, devoid of emotion. "The Bulgarian DNA is viable. The vats are open."
Marcus stared at the screen, the Warlord sword feeling incredibly heavy in his hand.
"You won the beach, Commodus," Vane said softly. "You saved your rusted ship. But you lost the war."
Nero, his nose bleeding profusely over his white suit, looked at Marcus and grinned a bloody, broken smile.
"I told you," Nero whispered hoarsely. "The math always ends in zero."
Marcus stood in the red light of the elevator, bleeding from his arm, holding his sword. He stared at the thousands of perfect soldiers marching on his city.