In the immense dome painted with fire, the Grenadiers continued to fly in formation around the remnants of their first attack. They knew that this had only been a warning and that it would not be enough to stop the intruder. And they were correct.

The Cyclops emerged from the column of flames and smoke with an incredible leap, cupping his arms like an eagle taking flight. He stretched a hand to the soldiers, and one of the thrusters exploded on the back of its occupant, wrapping him up with arms of fire and silver lights. The first casualty of the squad.

A second attack was immediate.

The speed of the Daedalus thrusters increased; the roar of their antigravity wings grew so high that it became an unbearable hiss. Being in the geodesic dome at the moment felt like being stuck in the turbine of an airplane about to take off.

The silhouette of the nine Grenadiers circling the dome became a cyclone of blurry lines and, from there, slices of light rained down on the intruder who dissolved them with electric shocks. Wherever he aimed, a laser ring disintegrated; and the rings that mocked his aim, he evaded with coordination of turns as masterful as the one he had carried out several floors above, in the courtyard of the barracks.

The armored soldiers broke their formation for the first time and zigzagged around the dome. A new round of shooting began, and the A60 took the life of another soldier.

Crossing of machines; the sound of propellers. Bold moves. Curving walls with glowing hexagons moving closer and further away. Hovering center. Feeling of emptiness, of vertigo. Fire that reached. Smoke clouding. Attack positions. Cannon firing. Lasers that cut through the air, exploding. Cyclops’ response: the annihilation of two more Grenadiers; one covered by the explosion of his Daedalus, the other smashed against the glass walls. The geodesic dome saw its best men fall.

The remaining soldiers changed strategy, and gliding through the air, repositioned themselves on the same imaginary horizon, with the crimson-armored captain leading the way, all facing an old android. A kind of court-martial ready to condemn the enemy.

Arms raised, the Grenadiers contracted their fingers, activating the trigger command, releasing the energy that boiled in them and channeling it through their gauntlets. Threads of blue electricity appeared in their hands, although this time they did not weave spheres of light but ascended to form a single, gigantic sphere of power above their heads; a huge ball of lightning that crackled with a spirit of destruction; a blue sun within a circular hall that moved to position itself just above the A60.

Six soldiers. One giant Photia. One target.

The expressionless intruder saw that crushing force descend upon him.

The Grenadiers pinned their hopes on that great mace made of electromagnetic vibrations.

The Cyclops attempted defense by putting his arms out to his sides, spreading his fingers like antennae, and generating an electric field that was barely reflected on the ground.

Both forces collided.

A muffled sound, and a second later a translucent blast of fire spread, causing a shock wave so violent that it flayed the hexagonal coverings of the walls, shook the fallen men, and the remains of destroyed thrusters that were on the ground, and shook the very foundations of the facility.

The silence, as thick as lead, fell with all its weight, taking with it any sound other than the faint hiss of Daedalus’ wings at work.

For an instant, there was no movement.

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Nothing.

Until a gust of wind eddied the clouds of dust raised after the explosion, and the dome’s air ducts—slits hidden between the hexagons—digested them along with the gas escaping from the damaged pipes from the basement. Only tiny particles of metal remained in the air, like diamond particles, swimming among the devastation.

The dome’s floor now had scars left by the collision of forces, cracks that drew circles around a smoky figure, the A60-R8.

The six Grenadiers were hovering around him, stunned. Behind the helmet visors, the eyes of those men were wide open; and behind the white bevors, their mouths trembled without knowing what to say. The multiple technique had never failed. The Great Photia had always wiped the target off the face of the planet, and yet, there he was.

The Cyclops, perhaps, no longer had such an arrogant attitude as the one he’d held until a moment ago, but he was standing. The burst gnawed his outfit a little more, taking some buttons off the raincoat, and tearing off part of his trousers. Still, he didn’t fall. His empty face had not lost an ounce of coldness.

The Grenadiers should have attacked him right there, taking advantage of the fact he wasn’t ready yet, but they were so stunned they had even forgotten how to move. When they tried, it was too late.

The captain moaned. His helmet broke like an eggshell, exposing his face scarred by pain; a thread of blood crossed his forehead. The man in the crimson armor babbled a curse; and from above, he fell to the ground, dead.

The A60 aimed at the remaining five Grenadiers with his hands and tried to reveal cannons from his palms; the one on the right got stuck before its barrel could come out, and the one on the left sparked and retracted again, shrouded in smoke. As if it were blood, a dark oil began to sprout from his wrists and the union of his forearm with his elbow. The Great Photia had affected him, after all. He looked down; there was one of the wings of a thruster that the explosion had dragged to his feet. With impressive speed, he lifted it off the ground with one hand and held it up, laced his fingers through the wires protruding from the chrome cover, brought up the wing cannon, pointed it at the imperialists, and opened fire.

Laser rings spread all over the dome. Clouds of splinters and fire rose from the ground following the course of the shots.

The five Grenadiers fled from their own weapons: a complete humiliation.

A ring reached a soldier, and with a screech of death, he fell.

Then another.

The last three Grenadiers threw themselves against their enemy.

The A60 launched the thruster wing like a frisbee, propelling it with an electrical impulse. The device went off, knocking one of the soldiers down on the way.

The last two soldiers formed Photias in their hands. Not only was it their final attack, but it was also a suicide attack.

The android held them back with a wall of energy; his antenna-fingers had not been damaged and they could still generate electric shocks. The Grenadiers increased the force of their blows, starting a fight between power grenades and an electromagnetic field.

Both sides; face-to-face. A face of metal, lifeless; a glass eye, big and red. Two angry, sweat-soaked faces, covered with helmets that seemed to come from the future, hurt and angry eyes behind the visors.

The soldiers’ armor cracked. The energetic push was tremendous. Their helms shattered. The communicators that were pinned to their ears shorted out, and the static deafened them. But none of them stopped. Both Grenadiers kept their swarm of thunderbolts pulsing in their hands, trying to counter the A60’s strength. They were the only ones in the squad who had managed to get so close to the intruder; they were less than ten feet from him and yet, judging by his coldness, the outcome was decided.

The Cyclops increased the mass of his shield. Oil gushing from his arms splashed everywhere.

The energy boiled over, and there was a Crack! Crack! The sound of the break, of the coming death.

Finally, the force abandoned the soldiers. The intruder won the power bid, and with his lightning clashes, drove the Grenadiers away from him, dragging them along the ground, shattering the rest of their armor, and killing them in the process.

Silence returned to the geodesic dome. The hall went from being an impeccable and gleaming place, worthy of admiration for its architecture, to a scenario of death, destruction, and defeat.

Though damaged, the android in a raincoat turned toward the entrance to Level 5. Nothing now stood between him and what was hidden in there. He walked a little unsteadily; and pushing the door’s leaves aside, he opened it.

A hand appeared a few inches away from his face and BOOM! A burst of blue lightning exploded in his face, throwing him back.

For a second, everything was still. Mute.

The A60-R8 stood up again; his knees squeaked and spurred sparks. His thin glass eye wept dark oil, and from his crown to his chin, a long black drop slid down his chrome skin. Even in that state, he focused on the person who had thrown such a bomb.

“I’m sorry,” Malin said on the doorstep. “No androids allowed in here.”