Female lions, he remembered, hunted in packs. They cooperated.
"Circle!" he shouted, almost at the same time as Niccolo Santi, and they all drew together, arms nearly touching. It wouldn't save them, but it would be the best they could do. Jess had his sidearm out, still, and struggled to think where to shoot the creatures.
It was Thomas who said, in a very cool, calm voice, "If you shoot, aim for their foreheads. There is a nexus of cables there that will disable their front legs if you hit it squarely. If you can't, try for the right flank. The script that powers it is the only other vulnerable point."
"Off switch under the jaw, near the throat," Jess added, almost as an afterthought. His hand felt slippery and sweaty on the grip of his weapon. Zara might send reinforcements up to help; already, he could see one of the scouts racing away in the distance on his cycle. Still. Eight lions would kill them all quite efficiently before rescue could arrive, if they didn't do this on their own. "Go for the off switch only if there's no choice. You can do it if you're fast and don't hesitate."
Dario let out a bitter bark of something halfway between a shout and a laugh. "Just shut up and let me die in peace, for the love of God."
"We're not dying," Santi said. "Not here." There was something so solid, so certain, in his voice that Jess sent him a sidelong look, half-shocked . . . and then it was too late, because the sleek, grass-clouded shape of an automaton lion rose from a crouch and sprang right for Jess's throat.
It was instinct, what he did then-instinct and repetition. Running was useless; so was dodging-she was too close. He lifted his arms and jammed his weapon sideways into her open jaws even as her weight slammed into him and carried him helplessly backward into the middle of the circle. Everything went razor clear again: the vividly red shimmer of her eyes, the way her metallic skin stretched as cables tightened, the way she bit down on the metal of the weapon with a bone-chilling crunch.
Without his even directing it, his hand slipped under her jaw and felt for the switch. Please be there, please . . .
///
By that time, he'd hit the grass, which was curiously like hitting a mattress; it might have even felt good, if the weight of the lion's cruel paw hadn't landed on his left arm, pinning it down. Her right raked down his chest, and he felt cloth and leather tear, but the chain armor built into the High Garda jacket blunted the attack enough that he got only bloody scratches, not fatal wounds. He didn't even feel them.
He was too focused on the switch, and the switch wasn't there, it wasn't bloody there, and he tasted a horrible flood of nausea and terror as he realized that this time, this time he wasn't getting out of it, that Santi was wrong, that they would all end here, bloody rags in the grass . . .
And then he found it. Not on the jaw, but on the neck, set farther back. A slight bump beneath the hot, flexible skin.
He looked the lion in the eyes as she opened her jaws wider and the mangled remains of his weapon dropped away, and pushed the switch.
The lion froze, and the open jaws cranked down to a snarl, but it was too late for her. The light faded from her eyes, and in the next breath, she was still-a horrible weight on his chest and arm, and he struggled to free himself. That wasn't as difficult as it might have been, since the slick grass helped, and he was able to slither to one side enough to overbalance her and send her crashing over like a felled monument.
Jess rolled to his feet, staggered a little from the dizzy bite of adrenaline, and found the next lion. It was on top of Dario, who'd likewise sacrificed his weapon and was frantically slapping at the creature's throat as it snarled and clawed at him. Jess slid in place and hit the proper spot just as the automaton's claws ripped Dario's shredded jacket away, exposing his equally tattered shirt and a bloody chest. One more swipe, and blocked jaws or not, he'd have been dead.
Dario was mumbling in Spanish, and Jess didn't wait for a translation; he moved on, looking for anyone else in trouble.
Wolfe was still on his feet. So were Khalila, Santi, Thomas, and Morgan. Glain had somehow-the great inventor Heron only knew how-managed to get on top of her lion and was actually riding the thing as it twisted, snarled, and tried unsuccessfully to claw her off. She poured one shot after another into its head until it suddenly collapsed in a heap, sending her into a roll that she somehow made look graceful as it brought her back to her feet.
Thomas had turned his lion off and must have done for Morgan's, too, because she stood close to him. Dead pale, his girl, but intently studying for the next target. No, Jess thought. Don't use your power. But he couldn't spare the breath, or time, to say it.