Viper Three’s channel went dead.
“Splick,” Ricio yelled, but he could barely hear his own voice above the din. The fuselage temperature was critical. Even the air temp in his cockpit was unbearable. He wondered if he’d made a serious error. He couldn’t tell if Viper Three had been done in by a torpedo or a breach in hull integrity. But either way, he was down to three ships.
Two ships.
Another exploded off his port side, this time shooting a flaming debris field across the atmosphere like a thousand stones skipping across hell. He cursed and tried to ease up his entry path. His angle of attack was becoming too steep.
“Hold it together,” Ricio said to his Talon. “Just a little bit more.”
He glanced at the torpedoes closing on his ship. Their speed relative to his fighter had certainly lessened, but he was by no means clear of their danger. Only three remained, the rest having succumbed to engine failure or the friction created by speeding through the atmosphere. With any luck, he and the remaining Talon would evade these demon missiles and have enough ordinance to lay waste to whatever ground forces awaited them.
But it was not to be.
Ricio watched as the last Talon blinked out of existence on his HUD, showering his starboard side with a brilliant spray of flaming wreckage. He scorned the loss of his entire squadron, still bewildered by how such a thing was even possible. If he survived this, he pledged himself to discovering what that alien craft was and then exacting his revenge.
The sky threatened to rip Ricio’s ship apart with every second that passed. He glanced at the sole remaining torpedo icon. It was within fifty meters; not close enough to destroy his ship, but certainly close enough to damage his already crippled starfighter. Then, without warning, the torpedo exploded. Whether from the heat, proximity sensors, or some command issued by the enemy vessel, he didn’t know. The only thing that mattered was that his EES—emergency escape system—had activated, sealing the cockpit’s egg-shaped pod and jettisoning it up and away from the main fuselage.
The initial action was so violent, Ricio thought his neck had snapped. He’d even blacked out for a second—or so he thought. But the pain that raced up his legs and arms jolted him awake and let him know his nervous system was still intact. The rattle of his Talon’s cockpit was replaced by the scream of his slender translucent pod as it rocketed through the atmosphere. The flames encased him, threatening to swallow him whole. He couldn’t hear a thing above the banshee cry of the inferno—not that there was anything else to hear. The only ship left to communicate with was the Defiant Shepard. That is, if it was still in one piece.
In another few seconds, the shaking dissipated, and his pod entered smooth air. Ricio patted himself down to make sure he was still alive, hardly able to believe he’d just survived. Now, thinking of the Defiant, he tried to establish a connection over TACNET.
“Taurus One, this is Viper Lead,” he said. His voice sounded tight, so he tried again, consciously trying to calm himself. “Taurus One, this is Viper Lead, do you copy?”
He tried cycling up his ship’s HUD on the pod’s console but remembered that the guts of the computer had left with the ship. All he had now was a shell, a few thrusters, and a parachute that would automatically deploy at… what was it again? He blinked, trying to clear his head. Fifteen-hundred meters. Minimum altitude.
“Pick a landing site,” he said, trying to give his ears something else to hear besides the rush of wind outside the pod. He blinked again, willing himself to focus. There was a town. No, it was a city. A massive city. Right on a coast. And a large clearing to the east. With any luck, the pod’s limited nav computer might be able to place him down somewhere in there.
Ricio reached a trembling hand to the console. His index finger was shaking too much to type. He made a fist, shut his eyes, and took a deep breath. Had his entire squadron really just been wiped out? And the battlecruiser? This couldn’t be happening. He needed to get word back to the Fleet Admiral. The mission had… it was a…
A failure.
The first of his career.
He opened his eyes, selected the clearing from the flight computer’s topo map, and punched Accept. Immediately, the pod’s thrusters redirected his trajectory, aiming him toward the east side of the city. As Ricio headed for the landing site, he noted how old the buildings were, most adorned with some sort of vegetation. The jungle was claiming them. Several had lost the battle to the relentless forces of decay and gravity, collapsing into the ground. But for the most part, the metroplex simply looked abandoned—an ancient civilization lost to time.
As he descended, now traversing directly across the old city, he saw that the structures were not as old as he thought they might be, given how much growth there was. Or, rather, they were certainly old, but their designs… their architecture was beautiful. Modern, even. As if the people who’d once lived here were advanced beyond… even beyond the Republic’s standards.
“Where am I?” he asked himself.
Suddenly, the parachute deployed and jerked his head down. His chin punched his chest, causing him to bite his tongue. He cursed again and swallowed saliva that tasted of iron, then he looked up to watch the altitude indicator on his console. The numbers were running down, speeding past twelve hundred meters, then nine hundred, then seven hundred.
Ricio saw the clearing coming up fast. His descent rate was slowing, but he knew from training that this wasn’t going to feel great. At one hundred meters, Ricio braced for impact. A warning alarm sounded. A final blast from the thrusters. And then…
Impact.
The force of the landing made it feel like all his organs had relocated to his feet. The pod landed and rolled. Ricio watched as the ground and sky traded places twice, while a red and white parachute collapsed onto the grass.
Fortunately, he was facing right side up—for the most part—which meant he’d be able to climb out easily enough. He punched the button for emergency hatch release and watched as the translucent window burst off the pod. White wisps of compressed air dissipated as the planet’s atmosphere rushed in. Instantly, Ricio’s helmet sensors analyzed the air composition and then provided him a series of metrics that determined it was safe to breathe.
He undid his helmet and threw it out of the pod, then worked to undo his harness. Now that he’d made it to the planet’s surface, he had to…
Had to what?
He propped himself up and then hoisted himself out of the pod, hands pushing against the shell’s rim. He’d need to orient himself, take stock of his resources, and then come up with a plan. A plan to get back in touch with the Fleet Admiral.
“Ah, who are you kidding, Longo?” He stood and stretched his back, turning around slowly. “No one’s coming for you down here.”
Down here. The words reminded him of something. Dammit, he’d nearly forgotten! The enemy was down here somewhere too. Which meant…
Which meant he had to find cover. He was no Marine. And he only had… a pistol. He leaned back in the pod and retrieved the small blaster from the side of his flight seat, then he double checked the magazine and saw it was fully charged.
“Well, at least that’s something.” Assuming the enemy was armed, he’d be no match for them. Best to find cover and wait for…
“For the rescue team that’s not coming.” He watched the beacon’s light pulse on the pod’s aft. “’Cause you were the rescue team. Damn.” He grabbed his pistol by the barrel and used the butt to smash the light, relieving the LED from its futile attempt to hail backup. Then he mag-locked the weapon to his hip and reached behind his flight seat. There was a medical kit, food rations, water, and a flare gun. Enough to keep him going for three days—four if he stretched it. And then what?
“One day at a time, Longo.” He tried calming himself. “Just one damn day at a time. You’re a survivor.”
“And you’re also a prisoner,” said a voice from behind him.
Instinctively, Ricio reached for the
blaster at his side and spun around.
“Easy there, fly boy,” said the voice coming from… from nowhere that he could see.
“Who’s there?” he demanded, swinging his weapon back and forth, trying to find something to aim at. But there was nothing. Nothing but—
That’s when he saw it. It was subtle. So subtle his eyes had passed over it several times. The air was… it was moving. Distorted. In the shape of a human. “Who… who are you? Show yourselves!”
Out of nowhere, a figure appeared wearing gleaming white armor atop a blue woven suit. The helmet was sleek with a slender visor and looked to be more advanced than any Repub tech he’d ever seen. The sense of its superiority was amplified by the deadly looking weapon pointed at him.
Ricio was outmatched. He was about to raise his hands when five more figures materialized out of thin air, each pointing a weapon at him.
“I surrender,” he said, dropping his pistol and raising his hands.
“That’s good,” said the first soldier—at least, the sound seemed to be coming from him. Actually, it sounded more like a her now that Ricio thought about it. “Because we already took bets on who was going to have to carry your body if we had to shoot you.”
“So… you’re not going to shoot me?” Ricio asked.
“Not yet, we’re not. I lost the bet, and I really dislike carrying dead weight.”
“And I dislike being shot,” Ricio said.
“Then I hope you like marching, ’cause it’s your only other option right now.”
“I can live with that.”
“I’m sure you can. Let’s move, fly boy.” The woman gestured with her rifle. “That way.”
5
“How you doing up there, Ninety-Six?” Awen asked over comms. She used the company channel even though she could converse privately with the bot in the Unity—now that he was tied in with Azelon and the rest of the Novia Minoosh. Keeping the rest of the team informed of the Spire’s condition would go a long way in keeping everyone from getting too anxious.
“We’re having a splendid time, Awen,” TO-96 replied. “Thank you for asking.”
That got a few smiles from the gladias, she was sure. “Splendid? You make it sound like you’re having a picnic, not engaging in a space battle.”
“Well, given how Ezo formatted my combat architecture, one might say that this particular exercise is a sort of picnic for me, all things considered.”
“Here it comes,” Ezo said over comms.
Awen ignored the comment. “Can you be a little more specific, Ninety-Six?”
She leaned against a tree, watching the rest of the Gladio Umbra recline amongst long grasses, clusters of boulders, and groves of trees. Everyone was redistributing energy mags and water. Save for Magnus, of course. He was strung up tight, pacing in circles in a small clearing, visor looking skyward. Azelon’s surprise grounding of the shuttles had really upset him. Awen had learned he was a man who liked being in control. And she didn’t entirely blame him either. But Azelon was an AI, so the sooner Magnus accepted her judgment as the best call to make—at least statistically—the sooner he could relax with everyone else.
“Of course I can be more specific. Azelon has employed me in overtaking the command interfaces of the enemy’s torpedoes. We are working together to eliminate the Talons in the most efficient way possible. It is—to put it in human terms—quite fun.”
“Ninety-Six!” Awen heard Ezo and Sootriman laugh. She also felt Magnus look in her direction. Even without stepping into her second sight, she could feel his eyes on her through his helmet. She instantly regretted having this conversation over the company channel, so she switched out to a private one. “You mustn’t say that!”
“Why ever not, Awen?” the bot replied.
“Because you’re killing human beings with those torpedoes. This isn’t some… some game.”
“But these humans are intent on causing you harm, are they not?”
“Well… we suspect they are, yes. I mean…”
“They did fire on the Spire.”
“I understand, but that doesn’t mean you call it fun. That’s horrible, Ninety-Six.”
“I have clearly offended you,” the bot replied. “My apologies, Awen.” Awen heard a chime alerting her to a company-wide transmission—coming from TO-96. “Contrary to my last statement, I would like to inform all the members of Granther Company that I am deeply remorseful and even ashamed of my actions that are resulting in human casualties. Let it be known that I am not having any fun whatsoever in redirecting enemy missiles to chase down star fighters and pulverize them one by one.”
“Said no little boy ever,” someone said over comms.
Awen glanced at the speaker’s ident tag. It was Robillard in Charlie platoon. Awen used the vector arrow in her HUD to turn toward him, her posture saying she was all business.
He raised his hands in defense. “I’m just saying.”
“Say it to yourself, gladia,” Awen replied.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How many ships have you and Azelon taken out?” Magnus asked TO-96. Awen appreciated Magnus’s attempt to get things back on track, even if it did mean returning to the subject of killing.
“We have successfully eliminated eight of the fourteen Talons, and the battlecruiser is taking heavy damage.” There was a pause. “Make that nine Talons.”
“And this is all using their own torpedoes?” Magnus said.
“That is correct, sir.”
Magnus let out a low whistle. “Remind me never to cross you when you’re having a bad day, ’Six.”
“Bad day, sir?”
“Yeah, you know. When you’re pissed at the universe for no apparent reason and just feel like blowing something up.”
“I have never been pissed at the universe, sir. Is this something I should look forward to?”
“I guess that all depends on you, ’Six.”
“I understand, sir. I look forward to developing this conversation at a later time. For now, I am very pissed at the universe to report that the five Talons are attempting to gain entry into the planet’s upper atmosphere.”
Awen felt Magnus’s bearing shift. To the company, he said, “Take cover, people. Looks like we’re gonna have company.”
“Make that four of the enemy Talons, sir,” TO-96 added, followed by another hesitation. “Now three.”
“Ninety-Six,” Awen said. “Is this all your work, taking them out like this?”
“I would be lying if I said yes, Awen. As I said, Azelon showed me the command override sequence necessary to take control of the enemy ordinance. But she has allowed me to run wild with it, as you say, now that I have mastery of the protocol. Ah, now we are down to two.”
“I’m proud of you, ’Six,” Magnus said.
Awen glared at him, but the former Marine clearly didn’t seem to notice. And why would he under their helmets? Maybe she needed to visit him in the Unity.
“Thank you, sir. But please be advised, I am not having any fun.”
“Copy that.” Then, in a whisper, Magnus added, “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Thank you, sir,” the bot whispered back. “Ah, and now we are down to one Talon, sir. And the battlecruiser has been eliminated, thanks to Azelon’s marvelous handiwork.”
Awen slipped into the Unity, projected her presence inside Magnus’s consciousness, and said, “Don’t encourage him, Magnus.”
“Mystics,” Magnus yelled, leaping backward. He grabbed his helmet and then turned toward Awen again. “Cut that out, woman!”
But she didn’t cut it out. Instead, Awen projected an image of her face with a playful grin on it. “You first.”
Magnus followed her challenge with a steady chuckle and the barely indistinguishable words, “Just you wait until I see about that.”
“Ah, the last ship has been destroyed,” TO-96 announced.
“On the contrary,” Azelon said. “I am still detecting a life sign.”
“Quite right,” TO-96 replied after a moment. “It seems I have spoken too soon.”
“Escape pod?” Awen asked, looking to Magnus.
He nodded. “Those Talons have a pretty good EES.”
“You and your acronyms,” she said.
“Emergency escape system.”
“I figured it was something like that.”
“Can you track it, ’Six?” Magnus asked.
“Of course, sir.”
Magnus turned and began looking at the warriors. “Dutch, take any five gladias to intercept. If the pilot survives, I want them brought back here. And be careful.”
“Copy that, LT.”
“The rest of you, return to the shuttles.”
* * *
By the time Dutch and the others returned from their search and recovery op, Granther Company was back aboard the transports, ready to leave the planet. Unlike last time, however, the mood was far less strenuous. Magnus walked down the loading ramp without his helmet, enjoying the fresh air. He watched as Dutch emerged from the jungle, escorting a Repub pilot with his arms bound behind his back.
The man appeared to be in his late twenties, with black hair and keen dark eyes. He was cleanly shaven, as per Navy standards, and bore the rank of commander on his flight suit.
“What’s your name, commander?” Magnus asked as the prisoner approached, but the pilot merely raised his chin in defiance. “Fine, have it your way.”
Magnus strode to within a meter of the man and gut-punched him. The air left the prisoner’s lungs in a violent sigh, leaving the pilot doubled over in a groan.
“Now, I know you’re trained in advanced escape and evasion techniques,” Magnus said, leaning down toward the man’s ear. “So you can probably endure a lot of torture. And if it comes to that, we can put your training to the test. Trust me when I say I’d enjoy that. But right now, I’m just pissed that you tried to take out my ship and, based on your last attempt to enter the planet’s atmo, take out my company. So, one more time, what’s your name, pilot?”
“What’s it to you?” The pilot coughed.
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