John took his last grenade off its mount. The blast would knock down a handful of Drones, at best. But it would disorient dozens more, and with the extraction point only two hundred meters ahead, that might buy him the time he needed. He thumbed the priming slider and tossed it over his shoulder, and the clear side of his faceplate flashed white—much too soon.
	His helmet snapped sideways, one ear and one cheek and one side of his jaw scalding hot, as if boiling water had been poured down his face. He sprang away as plasma bolts came in bursts, dodging toward his mucus-blinded side, hitting something hard and bouncing back in the other direction.
	He went with it and spun, bringing up his BR55 one-handed, spraying rounds into the dark mass of Drones skimming across the frond-tops behind him. The first two dropped, and then there was a fireball in their midst, spattering his faceplate with grenade shrapnel and bug juice, and the concussion wave toppled him over backward—until a titanium gauntlet caught the collar of his outer shell.