by M. R. Forbes
"We're dead," Achilles said.
"Shut up, Private," Ella replied. Her voice was calm, resolute. Mitchell was certain she was feeling the same as the rest of them on the inside. Her ability to control it was what made her such a good Commander. "Stay professional. Ares, check your HUD, a quarter click along that beast's ass."
Mitchell straightened up. If he was going to die, he was going to die on the offensive. He went back to the HUD, looking at the tail. Two dozen Kips floated nearby, completely out of the fight. The battle was nearly over, but they shouldn't have retreated already.
"What the hell are they doing, just sitting there?" Hercules asked.
"I don't know, Herc," Ella said. "Why don't we go find out?"
"What?"
"You heard the Major," Mitchell said. He shifted his eyes forward. The HUD sat ahead of his focus, giving him an augmented view of the field. He looked past the Kips to the side of the dreadnought. Why would they be sitting there like that, out of all the places to wait in reserve?
His eyes traveled the area. His Moray shuddered around him, and new targets appeared, the enemy's forward wings regrouping and coming back to mop up the stranded Alliance fighters. There was no time left. What was he even looking for?
His eyes crossed a raised section of the hull where a shield generator was visible. He swept his eyes across and found the second. He looked downward, to where a third generator rested. He looked back up, taking note of the first.
There was something about it. Something... wrong. His p-rat beeped, alerting him to the enemy fighters that were working to get a lock on him. He took evasive action almost subconsciously, keeping his eyes on the dreadnought.
Too wide. The space between the shield generators was too damn wide! The generators formed a net, a lattice of energy that functioned as both a repulser and a secondary point defense, working to vaporize and push against anything that it came into contact with. In space, even the smallest molecule could punch through the strongest hull if it had enough velocity. Even out of war zones shields were needed to prevent random space junk from threatening hull integrity.
For some reason, the dreadnought's generator positions were too wide. It meant that the net was inherently weaker in that area. Orders of magnitude weaker. That was why the ships were arranged around it. They were guarding a massive mistake in the design.
Mitchell couldn't believe it. How could it be real? How could they make a mistake like that? The Federation? How could they have done that math wrong? It denied any sense of logic, any attempt at reason.
It was a miracle.
All they had to do was take advantage of it.
"Athena, the shield spacing is off. There's a weak point behind those fighters."
If they could get through them. If they could get to that spot... Each Moray carried a single small warhead in its belly. The ship was too big to suffer the same fate as the Greylock, but the trouble spot was close to the reactor. If they could get a shot at that point, they might be able to cause catastrophic damage.
"First Squadron, engage the fighters," Ella said. The tone changed, signaling that she was sending the message out to whoever was left. "All remaining fighters, form up and engage at these coordinates. This war isn't over yet. Ares, you're with me. Let's go plant a nuke up their ass."
"Roger," Mitchell said.
They split from the squadron while the remaining ten Morays raced ahead towards the enemy defense. The Kips came to life, opening fire at the same time they began vectoring forward to intercept.
"You need to keep my ass clear," Ella said over their private channel.
"You know I love to watch your ass."
"We'll circle around and drop down on it, and try to take them by surprise."
"Roger that."
The two fighters dipped and thrust forward, streaking beneath the belly of the dreadnought. They slipped left and right around the point defense batteries, using their size and agility to pass more quickly than the targeting computers could adjust their aim. They reached the other side and vectored up along it, and then spun and came back the other way. An enemy Kip greeted them on the topside, launching a salvo that they easily outmaneuvered. Mitchell swung wide around the fighter in a looping roll, coming within a few dozen meters before firing pulse lasers at the ship. The blue flashes of shields caught the first few strikes before the fighter's small generator was overwhelmed and the next strike poured into and through the cockpit.
"Are you ready for this?" Ella asked.
"Affirmative," Mitchell replied. "Let's bring them hell."
They returned to the port side of the dreadnought where the fighting was the most intense. Twenty of the Greylock pilots remained, their Morays darting and skittering among the Kips, trading laser fire and missile salvos. Mitchell clenched his jaw when he saw Achilles' fighter go dark, a critical system pierced by a laser, leaving the ship to float out into space. It would only be a matter of time before something in the heavy field of debris pierced his cockpit and sent him to his final end.
They folded over the dreadnought.
A dozen of the Kips rose up to meet them.
They hadn't been surprised at all.
"Shit," Mitchell shouted. He thrust forward, cutting ahead of Ella and opening fire, his line of sight blinded by the flashes from his shields. The integrity monitor in the HUD plummeted.
When the shield ionization cleared enough for him to see, there were two dead Kips floating away from them and ten more still in their path.
"I can't get a clean shot," Ella said. "The warhead has to detonate in that frigger or it won't have the blast power to do anything."
"I'll get you closer," Mitchell replied.
Vectoring thrusters fired along the port side, rolling and throwing him around, orienting him on the enemy fighters. He opened up his gun battery, letting the slugs continue to fire as he rocked and rolled the Moray. It was cover fire, poorly aimed and likely not enough to breach their shields. The ammunition would only last a few seconds. He hoped it would be enough.
"Mitchell." Ella's voice crackled over the p-rat on their private channel. It was soft and tinged with sadness.
"Ella, no," he replied. He knew immediately by the tone of her voice what she intended.
"There's no other way," she said. "I won't let us lose."
He found her on his HUD. The cover fire had cleared a few of the Kips, but there were more, so many more. She was the most amazing pilot he had ever seen; the elite of the elite. She danced between them, her Moray twisting and moving in a way that nobody could match. She drew closer to the dreadnought, keeping the fighter so nimble that the Kips couldn't get a bead. His heart pounded, ready to burst with respect and love and pride and fear.
She drew ever closer to the dreadnought, an avenging angel on the wings of fury.
"Damn it, Ella," he whispered across the channel.
"I love you, too, Mitch. Take care of yourself for me."
It was impossible. Amazing. Terrifying. Her Moray burst through the line of fighters, a hundred meters from the dreadnought.
The CAP-NN caught the signature of her warhead activating.
Inside her fighter.
Mitchell stopped breathing. Everything froze at that moment except for the streak of thrusters from the rear of Ella's ship. Then it too was gone, joined with the chink in the behemoth's armor and then expanded by the force of the nuclear explosion.
4
Mitchell was still sitting at the table when Evan entered the bar. The Corporal didn't even need to scan the floor, his eyes shooting right to the corner.
"You were supposed to meet me at the hotel," he said. He found a chair, slid it over to the table, and sat down.
"I didn't invite you," Mitchell said. His eyes were red and his voice was dry despite how much he'd already had to drink.
"Can I join you?"
"No."
Evan leaned in, keeping his voice low. "Look Mitch, I know you've been having a hard time
since Ella died. This stuff," he waved at the empty bottle of whiskey on the table, "It isn't going to help."
Mitchell didn't react. They'd had this conversation before. Two days ago. He was tired of hearing it.
"She's the hero," he said. "She died to save this planet, and all she gets is a posthumous Medal of Courage and her name on a plaque. What the hell am I doing to honor her? I'm running around pretending that I took the damn Shot Heard 'Round the Universe and screwing rich celebrities."
"Beautiful, rich celebrities," Evan said.
"That's not the point."
"You've heard this before, Captain, but it seems when you're fuzzy you need to have it spelled out. The Alliance got owned by one Federation dreadnought. One. Try to let that sink into your neurons again. The fact is, we've been under-budgeted and stretched too thin for decades. Jeez, outside of the Moray and maybe the Zombie, our equipment is inferior, and getting more inferior every year. Corporations running economies? They're spinning figure-eights around us, and testing the value of things like freedom and choice with every new piece of tech they put into the field. Do you know what it means to public relations to have you running out there and building support? Do you know what it means to enlistment numbers, or when budgets are set next year? We can't do that with a corpse."
Mitchell's drunk, angry glare was only slightly less threatening than his regular angry glare.
"All I'm saying is that this is bigger than you and me. I know the brass is feeding you the bullshit to spill on live streams, but you can't tell me you don't believe in any of it."
"You don't think I know all of this. I'm tired of being a pony. I'm more useful out there, as part of this thing. I'm a frigging pilot."
"Not anymore. Now you're a figurehead. There are a lot of perks."
Mitchell thought of Tamara. It was fun, but it didn't mean that much to him when his guard was down. That she was a rich celebrity? There were plenty of poor, unknown prostitutes with nice bodies and a lot of enthusiasm. "I'm a fraud. A complete fraud."
"That wasn't your decision to make. The Space Marines own you. The Alliance owns you. They want you to be their poster boy. You don't have to like it, you just have to do it. Soldier up, Captain."
Mitchell sighed and tried to decide if he should punch the Corporal or not. "Tough love again?"
"I keep trying a different approach. You're a stubborn son of a bitch, and I'm tired of having this conversation."
"I want to get back in a cockpit."
"We both know that isn't going to happen. You're done with combat."
Another sigh. "I need another drink."
Evan put his hand on Mitchell's shoulder. "We have to get going, Captain. We're running behind schedule as it is. The transport's waiting at the spaceport, the car's waiting at the hotel."
Mitchell was still for a few seconds. He stared down at the empty shot glass, and then nodded. When he was drinking, he always decided he preferred to be sober. When he was sober, he always wanted to be drinking. "Trapped like a rat in a cage."
"A well-fed rat in a gilded cage."
That one earned a small smile. Mitchell put his hand down on the table and shook his head lightly, feeling the world start to spin. The alcohol inhibitor in his gut let him get just wasted enough to be vulnerable, but not enough to completely lose his senses.
"Which planet are we headed to?" he asked, circling around the table. He had seen it pass by on his p-rat, but he hadn't paid much attention.
"Kolmar."
"Really?"
"I know, it's a mining planet. We get some of our highest enlistment rates from there. I mean, given a choice would you rather pilot a digger or a Zombie?"
He put his arm over Mitchell's shoulder and shifted in front of the Marine, looking him in the eye and preparing to give him advice as if they were friends. If Mitch had been sober, he might have punched him for it.
"Look, Mitch, I know the situation isn't what you-"
A shrill tone sounded in Mitchell's inner ear. Evan's head pitched forward at almost the same time, the front it breaking apart and spraying him with flesh, blood, and bone.
He reacted out of pure instinct, his years of training working faster than his mind could figure out what had just happened. He took a tighter hold of Evan's corpse and ducked beneath it, at the same time feeling his body begin to warm. His neural implant flooded him with adrenaline, pushing away the inebriated haze. He looked past Evan and watched more holes appear in the clear carbonate, feeling the shock of each slug burying itself deep into the Corporal's flesh. If the force hadn't been reduced by the window, the shots would have gone right through both of them.
Mitchell dropped Evan and rolled to the side, finding his AZ-9 and bringing it to his hand. He came up behind a table, looking out the window and up towards an office on the other side of the street. His p-rat showed him the residual signature of a high-powered rifle. Both it and its user were gone.
He connected his p-rat to central dispatch. "Command, this is Captain Williams. Corporal Kwon is down. I'm under attack."
A clinical, emotionless voice replied. "We have your position, Captain. The authorities are being notified, and a team is being deployed."
"Like I'm going to wait for a team," he mumbled, dropping the connection. He stayed crouched behind the table, his eyes scanning the street. A dark car slid to a stop in front of the building, black window descending to reveal the end of a heavy rifle.
"You can't do that with a corpse," Mitchell spat.
The assassins might have expected him to run away, to try to evade their fire. He did the opposite, breaking from behind the table and sprinting towards the door.
The rifle opened fire, spraying the front of the bar. The bullets screamed around him, his aggressive maneuver throwing the shooter's aim just enough. A bullet tore clean through his right shoulder, his p-rat showing the damage in the corner of his eye, assessing and sending stimulants and healing drugs from a second implant in his buttocks. Another shot hit him in the same arm. If he hadn't been left-handed, he would have dropped his gun.
Instead, he brought it up and took two shots into the car. The rifle stopped firing. The driver's side door opened, and a man slid out and started aiming. Mitchell rapid-fired six more rounds. The first four skipped off the roof of the car, the last two hit the driver in the face.
He could hear sirens now, the York police dispatched ahead of the military for faster local response. He thought about stopping and letting them handle the cleanup. No. Someone across the street had killed Evan, and he wasn't about to let them get away.
He kept running towards the dark car, jumping and using the open window to vault up and over it. He shoulder-rolled on the other side, a little awkward on his left, and got to his feet, running for the front of the office building. Everything had happened so fast, he doubted the shooter could have gotten down from their perch yet.
He pushed his way past the bystanders who had paused in the street to watch, shoving a man in a suit aside and squeezing through the door before it could finish opening for him. His eyes tracked across the lobby, finding the banks of lifts near the center. A security guard was standing to his left, his hand on the butt of his gun, hesitating to draw on a man in military dress.
"Where are the stairs?" Mitchell asked. He knew he must look frightening. His right arm was a bloody mess, his shirt soaked through. He didn't feel the pain at all. Space Marines were trained to take a beating.
"That way," the guard said, pointing to the right of the lifts.
"Is there another way out from there?"
"Service entrance is in the back."
"Is it guarded?"
"Yes."
"Show me. As fast as you can."
The guard started running towards the back. He led Mitchell into the stairwell, where an opposite door had been kicked open, leading into the service area. It was a large room with four loading bays and access to the thermal systems below. A second guard was on the floor not far
from the door, blood pooling around his body.
"Oh, damn," the guard said.
Mitchell didn't hear him. He crouched and entered the room, sweeping the area with the AZ-9. He found the rear exit. The door was closed.
He charged ahead, leaping down the raised service platform towards the door. He shoved his shoulder against it, slamming it open at the same time the soft whine of an engine sounded to his right. He turned his head to see a figure mounted on a bike. He tried to rotate around to get his left hand, and the AZ-9, up to fire at the same time the bike began to accelerate away. He took four shots, scuffing the side of the building across the alley but missing the assassin completely.
A moment later they were gone.
"Damn it," Mitchell cursed. He stared down the empty alley for a few seconds, until his vision was blurred by a drop of blood that rolled into his eye. He used his finger to wipe it away, confused when his entire palm came back red.
He didn't remember being shot in the head. He hadn't felt it, and the p-rat wasn't showing it.
He blinked a few times. The p-rat wasn't showing anything. When had that happened?
He started to feel dizzy. He put a hand to his chest. His heart rate slowed. Everything was getting warm. Flashing lights bounced off the windows, filling his blurring eyes. A shape headed towards him. Law enforcement.
"Captain?" the officer said. "Are you okay?"
Mitchell tried to speak, finding it impossible. The stimulants should have been keeping him up and alert, but they couldn't do that if the implant were malfunctioning.
"Captain?"
Mitchell collapsed.
5
EARTH. May 17, 2035
"Give it back."
Kathy darted across the field, a baseball cap in her outstretched hand, shaking it to tease her victim.
"Kathy, stop."
Michael chased behind her. He was big for his age, overweight, too slow.
