by M. R. Forbes
"Come on, come on, come-"
He glanced down at M's helmet in his lap, feeling like an idiot.
He lifted it up and over his head.
The entire world around him changed.
In an instant, every incoming vehicle was painted in front of his eyes, along with speeds and vectors that flew into his brain faster than he could have consciously processed. A second later, the familiar connection to the ship he was sitting in became obvious to him. Somehow, the old bucket had a CAP-NN link that didn't require a direct contact. The helmet was enough.
Mitchell brought the engines online with a thought. The reactor was silent, but he knew he was up and running.
A huge, metal man moved in front of the open hanger door. A Zombie, the military's favorite eighty-ton mech. It was all sharp angles and odd surfaces, meant to reduce its signature on scans. It was humanoid shaped, with articulating hands and feet, burst jets mounted over its shoulder blades, and weapons interspersed at various points along the frame. There were twin missile launchers embedded in the chest, a pulse laser on each wrist, and a heavy machine-gun protruding from its belly. It also carried a massive railgun cradled in its hands. There was no sign of the pilot. The cockpit was positioned at the back of the machine, inside a shell of poly-alloy and nano-composite that could absorb a lot of punishment. It meant Mitchell could fight back against the mech and not have to worry too much about killing one of his own.
If he could fight back.
He thought about the weapons systems and the neural link returned the data on his offensive potential. He nearly lost his focus. The steps hadn't been the only upgrade M had made to the old fighter.
The Zombie started raising the railgun. One shot from the heavy slug at this range would go clear through the fighter, shields or not. Right now, he was a sitting duck.
A well-armed sitting duck. He fired at the Zombie, blinded by the flash of blue light that flowed from the front of the ship and blasted into the mech, slicing clean through the right leg as though it were nothing. The mech wobbled for a second, the pilot and the AI both fighting to keep it upright.
They failed.
The mech rocked and tumbled away. Mitchell fired the rear thrusters and the smaller vectoring jets, and the S-17 skipped forward and into the air. He launched past the downed mech and out into the sky, urging the fighter into a steep climb, feeling the effects of the G-forces despite the efforts of the negators. A tone in his mind alerted him to the drones readjusting to track him, and he threw the ship into a winding roll.
He couldn't hold back his smile as he pushed the S-17 harder, forcing it into a quick rotation that strained the structure and would have challenged most pilots. He fired on the drones, two of the flat discs shooting out from the launchers in the wings and flying towards them, nearly invisible in the daylight.
Both exploded a moment later.
Another tone sounded. The mech pilot was good, and had managed to get the disabled Zombie into a one-armed kneel. It raised the railgun towards him and fired.
The fighter swung left, narrowly avoiding the Shot. Mitchell dove downwards towards the mech, closing the distance so fast his opponent's synthetic musculature couldn't keep up to reposition the gun. Small missiles launched from its chest, and the fighter responded with a series of quick laser bursts that burned through and detonated each one before they could land.
The mech turned green in Mitchell's helmet. He had a lock but didn't fire. The shell might protect the pilot from conventional weapons. He wasn't sure about this fighter's ordinance, and he didn't want to kill anyone. Instead, he urged the ship back up, pushing hard against gravity and firing the rear thrusters at full. The S-17 came level a dozen feet above the Zombie's head and rocketed low across the wheat fields, spreading them with the force. Mitchell rolled and flipped, shifting and launching into the air, going straight up towards the outer atmosphere.
More targets appeared on the helmet's overlay. Two more Zombies and a full squadron of drones. They had probably expected him to be running to a transport, not a starfighter. By the time they got a few Morays on his tail, he'd be well into orbit and ready to move into FTL.
Assuming the ship had FTL. The original S-17 didn't. No starfighter did. Humanity had made immense progress in reducing the size of the engines over the last four hundred years, but they still couldn't fit them in a package as small as a fighter and provide it with enough power to move into hyperspace.
M had said the enemy technology was much more advanced. Whoever they were? M was a replica of him. Were they all clones? Replicas? Copies? Were they some kind of other human? Or something else entirely? If the modifications done to the S-17 were any indication of their capabilities, there was one thing he was certain of:
Humankind was in a lot of trouble.
Mitchell kept climbing, pushing easily into the upper atmosphere and then finally out into space. He was able to let off the thrusters then, allowing his momentum to keep him moving further from the planet. The neural link continued feeding him information, showing him the positions of the other starships resting in Liberty's orbit. One of them was moving in his direction, a Navy frigate. It wouldn't waste its heavy ordinance on him and would only be carrying two squadrons of fighters.
He asked the CAP-NN for FTL. A moment later a star map appeared inside his helmet as a three-dimensional rendering of the galaxy. A sphere appeared around the fighter, showing him what the ship had the power to reach.
He stared at the map. He had no idea where to go. No idea where to start looking for the Goliath. What he did know was that he needed to shake the frigate. He would get himself somewhere relatively safe, and then he would worry about the rest.
He zoomed in on the map, moving to the outer edge of the sphere. It would deplete the reactor to dangerous levels to make the trip, but he had to risk it. It was the only place in the galaxy where a man whose likeness as well known as his could disappear.
He set a course for the Rim and vanished from the universe.
22
Hyperspace was a lot more fun on a battle cruiser.
That was the thought that kept cycling through Mitchell's mind as the ship traversed hyperspace, leaving him staring at a wall of solid black for what felt like an eternity.
In truth, it was twenty-seven hours. Twenty-seven very long hours.
Long enough that he had been reduced to closing his eyes and trying to recall scenes from his favorite streams in a futile effort to fall asleep.
Long enough that he had to empty his bladder into the flight suit four times, letting the material soak up the urine and distribute it for storage. It kept him dry, but it didn't do much for the smell of the cockpit.
Long enough that he was running out of air.
The ship had calculated the circle based on its power capabilities, not his ability to continue breathing. Or, perhaps M had been much more accomplished at slowing his heart rate and using less oxygen. Or, maybe M hadn't actually needed to breathe at all.
Either way, after twenty-seven hours the fighter fell out of hyperspace, a warning beep sounding in his mind and alerting him to the decreasing levels of oxygen that remained in the system. A fighter pilot was intended to spend a maximum of eight hours on sortie, with a decent backup air supply in case the ship became disabled and needed to wait for a tow. Twenty-seven hours was well beyond the planned use-case and it was a small miracle of its own that he had stretched it as far as he did.
He checked the star map as soon as the ship dropped, noting that it had cut him short of his initial destination in the Rim, and instead left him near a large, barren planetoid. There was no settlement, no refueling station, and no atmosphere to skim for a reload of air. As near as he could tell, he was in the middle of nowhere with about two hours of oxygen left in the tank and no way to replenish it.
"It figures," he said. "Why did you drop me here?"
The ship answered by cutting the main thrusters and using the smaller ones to bring him into
a short orbit with the planetoid. He considered overriding it and forcing it back to FTL, but he knew he was still too far away from anything that could help him.
He really was going to die here.
He put his head back and closed his eyes, keeping his breathing as light as he could manage. He was going to die. It was like a cruel, cold joke. He wondered what M would think if he were still alive? Would he be amused by the outcome of his interdiction in time?
Time. Mitchell thought about what M had said, replaying it in his mind over and over again. Eternal return. The idea that everything in his past before M had shown up had happened before and would happen again. Did that mean there was no such thing as fate? Did it mean that people had no control over any aspect of their lives? That it was all predetermined by the last pass through? It couldn't be, could it? Not when nobody knew that they were reliving an endless cycle. It was all unique to him, and to everyone else.
No, not everyone. M said that some people remembered, at least a little. He had remembered the Goliath. Did that mean that he had been on the ship before? That he had found it in a past loop, or a potentially infinite number of past loops? Did it mean that in a different timeline it had never been lost in the first place?
Then there was Major Arapo. The way her kiss sat on the edge of his thoughts, when there had been so many other women, when there had been Ella. Was she a bigger part of his past life than he realized? If so, then how?
It was a lot to process. A lot to try to come to some kind of rational coexistence with. He had a million questions and no answers, and now it wouldn't matter. He didn't need answers anymore.
He only needed air.
What was the likelihood of that? He was a single speck of dust in a universe of infinite dust. It was over, before it had even begun. He should have died with the Greylock, with Ella, or at least instead of her. He'd been gifted extra time to experience another side of life, and he decided it was better to feel grateful for that than to lament what he was about to lose.
He stopped breathing easy, returning his cycle to normal and putting himself into his familiar meditative state. He cleared his mind of thought and worked at easing the tension from his stiff limbs.
He waited to die.
23
He didn't die.
He wasn't sure how long he was meditating for. An hour? Two? He had fallen into a state of calm so deep that he never noticed the dot that appeared on the helmet's overlay. He never saw the ship that moved into position above him.
He only came around to the idea that he wasn't alone when something pounded at the exterior of the cockpit's clear carbonate shell, and he opened his eyes to see a woman in a spacesuit waving at him.
He was still for a moment and then waved back. He could see her face behind the tinted faceplate of her helmet. It was a little pudgy, with a short nose and big lips. Her smile was warm enough. She raised her hand in a thumbs-up sign. He mimicked it, and then clenched his fist to his chest to signal that he was low on air. Her smile vanished, and she motioned away, turning and firing her thrusters.
Mitchell tracked her through the helmet, only then noticing that a ship had arrived and that there were three people tethered to it, moving about around him. Was it a miracle, or had the AI somehow known that another ship was coming to this spot? How could it?
He smiled at the realization. Because it had already happened. Except when these people, whoever they were, had arrived the first time there had been only the planetoid. Now they had found a ship, found him, and all of the future surrounding them had changed again.
It was a heavy thought. Did M know he might run into trouble? Had he arranged for the ship's AI to understand such fine details of his history? Either way, he was thankful.
The fighter turned slightly when tow lines were magnetically sealed to it, the cockpit swinging around and giving him a better view of his rescuers' vessel. It was a salvage ship, a rectangular block with an ugly profile - low-slung thrusters, a bulbous bridge, and all kinds of drilling and cutting equipment hanging from the sides like parasites.
The fighter swung again, tilting to become level with the ship. He couldn't feel the motion of being reeled in, but he could tell the salvager was drawing closer. He turned his head as far as he could, looking up and back until he could see the three people, each holding a line, and the light of the hanger above them. He kept his eyes on them while he was brought inside, the hanger doors closed, and the artificial gravity was activated and he was lowered to the deck.
The woman who had knocked on the glass stood in front of the fighter, holding her hand up, telling him to wait for the room to pressurize and fill with air.
He took the time to look around. The hanger was not quite what he expected. For one, it was clean. There was no sign of the stores of salvaged metals and materials common to ships like this one, held in large nets to keep it contained during zero-g.
For another, there was already a second fighter sitting in the corner, an older model Pirahna, along with a mech. They had a mech? It was a Knight, another older design, sixty tons, with a head shaped like a medieval Earth helmet. It was painted black, and the faceplate had a large, gruesome smile stenciled onto it.
They also had an orbital transport - a means to travel from the ship to atmosphere and to tow their salvage hauls to waiting collection vessels. It was the newest piece of machinery of the bunch, its alloy shell reflective in the bright lights of the hanger.
Mitchell turned his attention back to the woman. She raised her hand and tapped her helmet, and then pulled it off.
He had been right, she was a little pudgy, with small eyes and wild brown hair. She was joined by the other two crew members a moment later - an older man with a mohawk and a scar near his left eye, and a younger guy with red hair. They kept their eyes glued to him as he toggled the cockpit open and got to his feet. Blood began flowing through his legs once more, and he shook them out before extending the small lifters from the nose of the fighter.
"What the-" he heard the younger man say, at the sight of the ladder. The other two remained silent.
Mitchell climbed down, still wearing the helmet. The moment he reached the floor of the hanger, he found a gun pointing at his face.
"Take it off," the older man said. "Now."
"He smells like piss," the woman said, her Russian accent heavy in her words.
Mitchell put his hands up, moving them slowly towards the helmet. The gun stayed on his face while he took hold of the sides and lifted it off. The moment it left his head the cockpit of the fighter slid closed again, and the whole thing shut down.
"Who are you?" the man said.
"Not a threat," Mitchell replied.
"Hey, I know that guy," the younger one said. "I seen him on the streams." He came towards Mitchell, stopping a couple of feet away and examining his face. "Sure, you do smell ripe. You're him though, aren't you? Captain Mitchell Williams, the hero of the Battle for Liberty."
"Yes. I am. Thank you for the pick-up."
The older man kept staring at him. "You're sure you know this guy, Cormac?"
"Yes, sir. I know a face when I see one." Cormac put out his hand. "Good to meet you, Captain. My name is Cormac, Cormac Shen." His smile was large and crooked. "I can't believe I'm touching a celebrity, especially one who met Tamara King, Bethany Daniels, Lin Xiang. You didn't get to do any of them, did you?"
"Cormac," the woman said, smacking him on the shoulder.
Mitchell took his hand, ignoring his question. "Mitchell. You can call me Mitch." He looked over at the older man. "I'm really not a threat. I'm not even armed." He had left his AZ-9 back in the hanger. He was going to miss that gun.
The man was still hesitant.
"Come on, Anderson," the woman said. "Cool it with the firearms."
Anderson lowered the gun.
"My name is Ilanka. They also call me Rain."
"Rain?" Mitchell asked.
"I rain hell," she said with a smile, moti
oning towards the mech in the corner.
"You're a pilot?"
She turned and spread her hair, showing him the CAP-NN link. "Alliance Navy. Former."
"What about you, Cormac? Are you a pilot?"
"No sir. Army. Former."
"You're all ex-military?"
"Enough with the questions," Anderson said, finally walking over to him. "We need to bring him to Millie."
"You're definitely military," Mitchell said. "Marine. I can tell by the way you walk."
Anderson glared at him but didn't speak.
"Come on, Mitch," Ilanka said. "He's right, we need to bring you up to the Captain."
"I don't suppose I could get cleaned up first?" he asked.
She laughed. "How long were you in that thing, anyway?"
"And how did you get out here, in a starfighter of all things?" Cormac said.
"Rain, Cormac, stow it," Anderson said. "You can tell your story to Millie. You can get cleaned up, after she decides whether or not to kill you."
Killed him? Not because of what had happened on Liberty. There was no way this group could know about that... yet. "Whatever you say. You saved my life."
"We wanted that fighter of yours. I was kind of disappointed when we discovered you weren't dead. Let's go." Anderson raised the gun again, using it to point him in the direction of the airlock.
"Stop being an asshole, Anderson," Ilanka said. "He's not even armed."
"He's in the middle of nowhere in a damn starfighter. You two may think you can trust him because he's a hero or something. Whatever. I don't, and I won't until Millie does. Since I outrank both of you, you can either shut the hell up or stay here."
"You don't outrank me, Anderson," Ilanka said.
"I have seniority on this ship, that's good enough. I repeat - shut up or get lost."
"I'm not missing this," Cormac said.
Mitchell followed behind Anderson, with Ilanka and Cormac trailing him. The older Marine led them out of the airlock and into a long, narrow corridor. The smell of synthetic lubricants and burning was thick in the air, and the normally whisper-quiet pulsing of the main reactor vibrated along the walls and floor, leaving a constant buzzing in his ears.
