They fall in behind, guarding our formation’s rear as we make our approach on the first of the two Zeros. I remind my ’drille to set their WhiteLances to maximum extension—no sense in getting closer to a Zero than we have to. The Destriers from Third do the same, and together we cut downward into the Zero’s surface, raking it with our blades and adding a liberal peppering from our S-Cannons.
Our combined efforts, easily enough to level a small neighborhood, can’t be more than a sharp pinch to this Zero, but we’re unpleasant enough to draw some notice. The boiling black surface bulges, and we pull away just as it whips toward us—a careless swat that could have wiped us out completely.
Keeping formation with the Destriers from Third, I lead the 126th into the next part of our run. We’re all set for a repeat performance of our last successful attack when I catch sight of a string of Valentine fighters sweeping in behind us. Bulky, five-armed Type 6s, a profile usually designated as Heavy Breach Troops, or HBTs. They can cause havoc among unsupported infantry, using their speed and mass to smash whole lines of assault platforms, but they’re hardly a threat to a solid complement of equi—or so I think, until an HBT latches onto one of our Destriers and pulls it down into the Zero we’d been about to hit. A geyser of energy stabs out from the Zero’s surface, and in a blink, both HBT and Destrier are gone.
I’ve never seen anything like this from Romeo before, but it doesn’t come as a complete surprise. Valentine fighters will self-destruct just to avoid capture; a suicide attack is only a few steps away. Romeo has us well enough outnumbered that he could trade fighters one-for-one and still come out of this battle with a full-sized regiment left over. Those HBTs wouldn’t stand a chance against us in normal combat, but they only need to stay alive long enough to drag us into the nearest mijmere. Even after we aim our S-Cannons back and begin shooting them down, the HBTs keep coming.
The Destriers from Third fall with sickening speed. A few turn to fight, but the HBTs carry so much momentum that even badly damaged, they’re enough to drag an equus the relatively short distance to either of the two Zeros. Only one Destrier makes it out alive, when a stray explosion leaves it disabled and too far away for the HBTs to hit without giving up any chance at the 126th—a far juicier target.
I have to act now. If the 126th doesn’t change tactics, we’re going to end up like our comrades from Third. Scenarios flash through my mind as I run down our options. There aren’t many. If we stand our ground, the HBTs will overwhelm us. If we keep running, they’ll catch us—our Coursers are fast, but once those HBTs get moving, they’re faster. We’ve got to outrun them or fight, and we can’t outrun them.
I instruct the 126th to prepare for running combat. The longer we keep moving, the better chance we have of getting clear of those Zeros. Don’t let the HBTs latch onto you, I tell them—obvious advice, but I’ve found in situations like this, the obvious is usually the first thing you forget.
The HBTs swing onto an intercept course, spreading out to better avoid our fire and put themselves in position to surround and envelop us. They’ve just begun to overtake us when my radio spits out a spray of static, and I hear a woman’s voice say, “I believe now is the time to make your stand, man.”
At the same moment, three HBTs burst apart in a spray of purple gwayd, and several more shudder beneath the impacts of cannon fire. A group of equi has hit the HBTs from behind, raking through them in a high-speed dive. I give the order to attack, and the 126th charges the suddenly disrupted formation of HBTs with renewed determination.
It isn’t just that we’ve seen the chance to come out of this alive. There’s more to this rescue than that. I have to jettison some past assumptions, but I realize now the interference from three battling sources could easily have disrupted attempts to locate our lost ’drille-mates. And there’s no mistaking the three equi that have just joined the fight: I’d know Pelashwa’s FallingLeaf and Uo’s SunOnWaves anywhere, and there isn’t an equus in the Legion I’d confuse with the X-2020.
I have to give it to Kizabel: That toy of hers can really move. It’s fluid, balletic, and blindingly quick, so that from one attack to the next, the HBTs hardly have time to react before they’re coming apart at the seams. Rachel’s fighting style is more brutal, more reckless than the tersely efficient technique they teach at the Academy, but it’s effective enough—graceful even, when fitted to the liquid speed of the X-2020. But it isn’t until we’ve nearly finished with the HBTs that I see what that speed can really do.
Between our resurrected equi catching those HBTs off guard and the boost they gave to our numbers, the situation has turned firmly in favor of the 126th. It isn’t our most elegant fight, but there’s no room for finesse here. We’ve lingered too long in the vicinity of hostile sources, and it won’t be long before we draw their serious consideration—or, more likely, end up heedlessly obliterated when their battle with Fontana Nellope resumes. What matters now is dispatching these HBTs and vacating the area as soon as possible. No time to worry about losing points for style. We’ve culled almost enough of the grapplers to be confident of a clean getaway when a savage string of curses erupts over DS. It’s Sensen; an HBT has latched onto her equus, directly over ShadowSinger’s core, and begun dragging her down.
I’ve been cutting my way through a pesky cluster of HBTs, and, by the time I disengage, two more have landed on Shadow, swallowing up both of her legs and one of her arms. Already I’m afraid they’ve taken her too far for me to do any good. The full kinetic force of an HBT is enough to overpower even the most determined equus; three HBTs together can push a Courser faster than I can fly. I tuck into a dive anyway. I won’t leave Sen to burn out if there’s even a small chance I can make a difference. I’ve only begun gathering speed, however, when a blur of white streaks past. Ahead, I see the X-2020 plummeting after ShadowSinger.
Sensen doesn’t let the fact that she has absolutely no chance of breaking loose keep her from fighting back. She strikes out furiously with Shadow’s free arm, an effort that does little aside from adding topspin to her descent. With a final twist, Sensen and the three HBTs plunge the last of the distance toward the nearest of the two Zeros.
The grappler holding Singer’s legs hits the mijmere first, dousing the surrounding space in purple gwayd, followed by a splash of red-orange as the Zero swallows up Shadow’s lower half. I wait for the next burst of gwayd, the one that will signal Shadow’s core being crushed and Sensen with it. Instead, there’s a flash of white as the X-2020 crashes into the knot of HBTs.
Rachel is not gentle with her rescue. She cuts hard into the HBT wrapped around ShadowSinger’s core, slicing off two of its five arms and a good chunk of Shadow’s armor as well. But it gets the job done: The HBT goes cartwheeling away, gushing gwayd. Before the remaining HBT—the one holding Shadow’s arm—can react, Rachel swings her WhiteLance up, severing the entire arm at the shoulder. The grappler, whose strength had been fully committed to winning that arm, springs free, the force of its pull propelling it directly into the mijmere below.
One arm holding ShadowSinger’s dismembered frame, the X-2020 climbs away from the Zero’s roiling surface. Close behind, the HBT that lost two arms to Rachel’s first attack comes spinning back, ready with the other three. Rather than trying to knock the HBT back with her cannon, Rachel lets go of ShadowSinger and tackles it. The two tumble back toward the Zero, already receding as it moves for another bout with Fontana Nellope. It looks as if both the HBT and X-2020 are going into the mijmere, but then they spin, skidding across its surface, both obscured in a spray of purple gwayd until the X-2020 rises, the HBT nowhere in sight, dissolved by the Zero’s surface.
Rachel has the X-2020 back on course well in time to retrieve the badly damaged ShadowSinger—or seize, I should say, as Sensen seems determined to rejoin the 126th under her own power. Not much chance there: ShadowSinger’s emergency systems have kicked in to bring gwayd loss down to a trickle
, but that’s about all she can do at this point. Even Sensen’s attempts to shrug off the X-2020 look halfhearted. When she contacts me over a private DS conduit, her voice sounds distant, like something shouted from a high tower.
I think that noco just saved my life, Chase, she says, resigned.
It certainly looked that way, I admit. It looked like more than that. I’ve never seen an equus get that close to a Zero—not willingly—and come away unscathed.
This doesn’t mean I have to be nice to her from now on, Sensen declares firmly.
I think we’d all be disappointed if you were, I assure her. Rachel would probably take it as an insult.
The bitch did cut my arm off.
I’m sure she’ll find a way to make it up to you. I call up my full ’drille then, ordering them to get themselves out of the fighting while we await the opportunity for another run. And special thanks to the rescue squad, I add. It’s good to have the three of you with us again.
It’s good to be back, dek, Pelashwa answers. You might want to relay all of that to Rae personally, though. She’s radio-only.
For the first time since it reappeared, I take a solid look at the X-2020. Now that it’s released ShadowSinger into the care of two other equi, I can see the long gashes where some Valentine blade or claw gouged into the white armor, glowing dim blue from the gwayd pulsing beneath. The head’s front plate is mostly missing, torn at a ragged angle, like something big got in a good hard bite.
She earned that topside damage crashing head-to-head with a Type 7, Pelashwa explains. Got the three of us out of a very tight spot. Not the move any sane person would have used, though. The girl is certifiable, but she sure can fly.
I key my radio to raise Rachel in the X-2020. “Nice work out there, Eques,” I tell her.
“Piece of pie,” she calls back through a scatter of static. It’s the same voice I heard just before our clash with the HBTs. Time to make your stand, man. I didn’t recognize it at the time, but now it seems obvious.
“You good for another round?” I ask her. “This battle isn’t over.”
“Fit as a fiddle, but I broke that mind-reading radio, and I’m having a little trouble telling our people apart. Who’d I go after back there, anyway? Is he all right?”
“You couldn’t see the identifiers?”
“Well, no, not exactly. Snuggles is short a few pieces just now.”
Again, I consider the X-2020’s ruined top unit. The sensory array must be almost useless. “Are you telling me you’re flying blind?”
“No,” Rachel says defensively. “I can still see heat and a few other things.”
Unbelievable. “What were you thinking? Can you even tell friendlies from hostiles in that thing?”
“Well enough to pull your big red rear out of the fire,” she says.
It’s a fair point. I tell Rachel as much, then open up to the rest of the 126th over DS while keeping my radio transmitting to the X-2020. We may have our lost fighters back, but we’re still up to our asses out here and sinking. The catalogue of energies radiating from Fontana Nellope’s mijmere has become erratic, her signature patterns changing to match those of her enemies. Meaning she’s starting to weaken. We don’t have much time left to help her through this fight. As Nellope orbits back toward the pair of Zeros, I search for another opportunity, anything that will give us a chance at one more strike. Even if I have to risk myself and what remains of the 126th on odds so long they might as well be nonexistent, our chances will still be better than if Nellope goes down.
And then, just as Nellope draws in for her next dive, the swing of her descent suddenly ceases. It’s disorienting to watch, a splintering burst of sky and stars. A fraction of a second later, I see the reason behind her abrupt change in course as the space around the enemy sources lights up with detonations bright enough to overpower every discharging weapon nearby. When the disrupting energy clears enough for me to see, both Zeros are reeling. Only one thing could have produced an effect that powerful: a full artillery strike from IMEC-1.
I can’t explain it—last I heard, the IMEC was dark with no prospect of rescue—but I’m not going to argue. My ’drille has already come to the same conclusion, and their shouts of jubilation are such that I need to tune them out to raise Centurio Kitu over DS, even as a new barrage explodes across the enemy’s mijmeri.
Kitu has only just confirmed what the 126th has already guessed—that IMEC-1 is somehow back in the fight—when both Zeros break from their pursuit of Fontana Nellope. It’s as if they’ve disappeared altogether, until I think to look outside our umbris and see them retreating away into space. They’ve cut and run.
I ask Kitu whether we’re planning to pursue, knowing as I do that the probability of catching them now must be close to zero.
Not today, Chaser, he answers. Command wants us to consolidate around IMEC-1. The Valentines are attempting an ordered retreat, and we think it’s time to add a little disorder. See how many we can get before they escape. The more we polish off now, the fewer we’ll have to deal with later. Get your wounded someplace safe and form up.
I relay Kitu’s orders to my ’drille. I’m afraid Shadow’s going to have to stay behind, I add. Activate your beacon and settle in, Sen. We’ll be back for you as soon as we can.
Hope you brought a good book, Ottumtee quips.
Kiss my ass, Otto, is Sensen’s reply.
Everyone stay cool now, I warn them. Having the enemy on the run is no reason to get sloppy. It’s looking like this party is almost done, so anyone who gets themselves killed now is going to be in trouble, understood?
Affirmatives all around.
It’s an unnecessary warning—not because the 126th is too disciplined to become careless, though I’d like to think that’s true also. As we fly to join the rest of Sixth Cohort, already the Valentine fighters we pass have begun to sizzle at the edges, taking on the brittle look of dried mud or ash as they crumble away.
SIXTY-ONE
RAE
When I think on Death, I imagine her as a child, a girl in a white dress with untidy hair, running barefoot through the battlefield, collecting lives like wildflowers. She goes about her work without malice but spares no more mercy for her quarry than would any lighthearted thing for a daisy or dandelion that has captured her fancy. I have never seen much benefit in appealing to her sentimental side or bidding for her favor with promises or gifts, but it seems to me there is a certain etiquette to be observed in Death’s presence. It is simply this: Do not try to keep your life from her, do not clutch it to your breast or hide it beneath your hat. If she has a place for you in her basket, she will find you out one way or another. Instead, go to her at the outset. Take your life and put it in her pocket. Say to her, You just hold on to that for me. At least then your hands will be free to fight.
We have become well acquainted, Death and I. I have learned the sound of her footsteps and the tunes she hums at play. There were times when she held my life in her hands, lifted it to her lips, and twirled it between her fingers, contemplating its color and scent, the leaves shivering in her chilly breath. But on each occasion she has deemed it wrong for her arrangement and set it loose to fall, fluttering, behind her.
I have been spared once again. When the last shots had been fired in the Realm of Dis, my life was there on the field of stars, waiting for me to gather it up. For a little while, I even harbored the notion it had come back in colors brighter and more brilliant than I remembered. I know now that was a false hope.
The battle did not end when our enemy broke and ran but lasted for many wearying hours after, during which my escadrille was tasked first with chasing down a portion of the Valentine fighters flying about on various troublemaking ends, a job my comrades called “mopping up,” then with helping contain the damage to our city. IMEC-1 had been badly shot up, its skyline cracked like a brawler’s teeth, and we were n
eeded to clear the streets of rubble and quell areas of supernatural upheaval.
By the time Snuggles and I returned to the Stabulum, we were in a thick haze of exhaustion. I am proud to say I was able to dismount under my own power, a claim not every eques out that day can make, though I will admit to somewhat losing track of my cardinal directions after my feet touched the ground. Snuggles had his wounds attended to first, was doused in a greenish cauterizing fire, then a sort of sealing orange foam before I was permitted to step free, at which point I was met by a curtly unfriendly medic who examined and questioned me and finally informed me I had a ruptured eardrum and moderate subconjunctival hemorrhaging but no life-threatening injuries. After scrawling a green number “3” on my uniform, he departed in search of more serious cases, delivering a stiff nod and a “Nice work, Eques” like a final dose of medication.
I spent an unknown period of time sitting where I was, dazedly observing the mayhem of the Armored Cavalry’s return, before another passing medic took pity on me and pointed me toward the Stabulum exit with assurances that beyond lay a station where I would have my choice of coffee, tea, or juice, and as many cookies and crackers as I desired. I was on my way to this promised land when from the direction of my retreat came a familiar and welcome voice: Kizabel.
“Rae!” She was out of breath, something I might have taken note of under other circumstances. Kizabel does not run anywhere if she can help it. “You made it! You guys were fantastic! I—gah!” she cried, having taken me in. “Look at you! Vinneas said you were all OK! What happened?”
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