"Some kind of new armor, it's absorbing the shots," Vincent said. "Switch to cannons. We'll shoot them down the old-fashioned way."
He spun up the Gatling cannon and could feel it shaking beneath his feat as it moved. He keyed for the rounds to use explosive charge, and led his trio around for a strafing run. A light keyed green as the rounds were chambered, and Vincent's finger slid down to the secondary trigger.
Vincent teased the rudder and took up a position behind an enemy ship, its bulbous frame hiding the deadly munitions beneath. He kept his ship in a lazy spiral to avoid some of the tail gunners’ fire, and squeezed off a burst from his cannon, the chemical-filled rounds stitching a row of miniature blasts in front of the bomber as it continued onward. Its armor took the brunt of the damage, but Vincent could see atmosphere draining from some of the holes. The Duchess's rounds punched through its cockpit, and with a muted flash, the bomber continued its run without pilots. Vincent and his wingmates charged forward through the sand cloud and other bombers. They moved fast, and the sand blocked the bombers’ computer sensors from painting them with a target lock; the enemy gunners had to shoot them by sight.
The bombers’ formation had pulled away from its floundering member and a well-disciplined gunner brought his lasers to bear on the Duchess. Before her armor could be overwhelmed, Vincent kicked his own ship sideways to take the fire on his port side. A quick flash of red bled into the green field of his HUD as the heat compensator protested, and Vincent diverted his starboard power to reinforce. The ablative armor could shrug off only so much before it slagged.
Vincent's maneuver opened an opportunity for Zombie, who had been further back, and with a quick burst of his own guns, the bomber disappeared in a torrent of muted flame.
"No man escapes the Reapers," Vincent intoned the squadron's motto. Duchess let out a whoop of exhilaration, and an undercurrent of gratitude and thanks poured openly through the bionet.
"Button up, Zombie," Vincent chuckled despite himself. The thrill was starting to overtake him; he was losing himself in the fight.
Their chase had taken them further from the furball and remaining bombers, and with a flick of the rudder, Vincent corkscrewed and pushed back into the chaos.
So far the dreaded alarm had stayed silent; no one in his squadron had been injured. For this, Vincent was grateful. Too often he lost good pilots to careless mistakes or chance. But today, he intended to congratulate eleven pilots in the debriefing room.
Chapter 7
The Exile
The pilots broke down completely when they saw the enemy bombers and their fighter escort. They were juveniles, and no amount of training could have steeled their nerves when they found themselves surrounded by the enemy. Exile's web couldn't break the hold of the fear that consumed them, not without it consuming her as well. She pulled her knife from its sheath once more, and stared down at the obsidian sphere nestled in the pommel. Her own blood would not be enough; she needed more power than she could pull from her own reserves. She needed a sacrifice.
The Shadow within the dagger thrummed with excitement, connected as it was to her emotions. It knew what she was planning, and it hungered for the release. Was it worth giving into the creature to save herself? For what felt like an eternity, she considered re-sheathing the dagger and letting fate choose her path.
Patience brings peace. The mantra came quickly to answer her silent question, and she felt the spear of pain from the ghost of her amputated arm. Her lack of faith was what forced her from the conclave, bonded her to the monster in her dagger, and stole her arm. She would never again allow fate to have sway.
Exile approached the first man who had moved to attack her. She had difficulty discerning humans by their physical features, but she remembered the imprint he had left in her mind. A pathetic, lecherous creature, which no one would miss, and yet she stayed her hand.
The dagger screamed in her mind, fighting against her to stab it into the human’s blood, to give it the power it so craved. Exile's hand trembled as she lifted it over her head. Lose one, save many. The dagger plunged down into the man's chest, and Exile felt every inch of skin that split, every strand of muscle severed, and the scream of sated hunger when the dagger found his heart.
Though he had been incapacitated by her attack, the human screamed, his voice raw from the terror and pain. It was not just the physical shock of the steel in his heart as the Shadow spread from the wound and exchanged blood for darkness. Within moments, it spread through his body, consuming him as though he were skewered with flame. The man was no more, and a being of darkness lay in his place.
The dagger clattered to the floor as Exile pulled away, and the Shadow slipped away from the body. Then the black energy twisted into a point and shot out of the cargo hold. Walls, atmosphere, the vacuum beyond—none held sway over the creature. He was darkness given form—an elemental made of absence. Exile sank to her knees, the overwhelming knowledge of what she had unleashed too heavy for her to keep on her feet. One man was not enough for the monster to come fully into the world—it would have minutes at best, but minutes were more than enough. Her shuttle would be safe, but fate would take those who got in its way.
Chapter 8
Vincent
Alarms wailed as Vincent's world became a swirling miasma of nausea and fear. His control board was dead, and his fighter was out of control. The Duchess and Zombie took up defensive positions around him as Rover came alive. Springing from its position, it skittered into Vincent’s view and crouched down beside the damaged thruster. From beneath Rover's eye-shaped sensors, a laser played across the exposed wires and rent metal, assessing the extent of the damage. The enemy strike had punched through the port stabilizer, grazing enough to cut through the control lines, and without regulators attached, the powerful thruster was pushing well past its safe limits.
Vincent fought to stay alert as the spin pushed him into the seat, his suit rippling and tightening to keeping his blood flowing.
"I was hit by a fighter, watch your six," he said.
"You need to get out of here. Take the Reapers back to the ship," Vincent ordered.
"There's nothing you can do."
"Damn it, Duchess, take the others and get out of here. Protect the Inferno."
Whether it was fear for his pilots, or his home, or something else, Vincent did not know, but it was enough to force him to key the command he never thought he would use. His AMI sent the data packet that overrode Duchess’s system, and twisted her fighter back to the safety of the Inferno. The other Reapers followed in her wake. He made sure they could still maneuver—he wouldn't forgive himself if they were killed because of his order—and then he cut off his incoming communications to focus on his own crisis.
He struggled to make out the HUD's readout of the damage, but his vision blurred and he nearly blacked out. He tried to reach out for his control board, but the spin was too great. He cut short a groan, and with a short mental command, the lights in the cabin flashed colored lights to alert him of the damage severity. When a red light washed over him, fear threatened to grip the edge of his mind. The grav prop had automatically throttled back to its lowest setting, keeping the artificial gravity as well as inertial compensation active. If the prop stalled, the g-forces would tear Vincent apart.
Vincent shut his eyes to the swirl of stars visible through his canopy and waited. He regretted it immediately as the nausea flared, and opened his eyes to another blaster flashing across, close enough to draw spots in his vision. Another mental command and his canopy darkened, obscuring the laser that came close e
nough to strip his ship’s paint.
Vincent concentrated on Rover, who was clinging to the rotating ship with its six magnetic clamped legs. The bot lifted its front right leg and reached back into a compartment on its shell, and exchanged its configuration for a short laser-cutter. Rover’s arm shot in and out of the damaged hole with robotic precision as it probed and cut the damaged wires. Once finished with the wires, it stopped and played out the diagnostic beam again. The controls to the cockpit were slagged, almost unsalvageable, Rover informed Vincent through the AMI, but the bot continued anyway. After cutting away the destroyed sections, Rover unfurled a pair of precision manipulators from where its jaw would be. The miniature claws grasped the burnt and mangled ends and pulled them together. The material that surrounded the wire was able to self-repair to a degree and started reattaching—though for Vincent, not nearly fast enough.
Rover reached its larger left claw down and clamped the ends, securing the connection. Its tail rotated, bringing a nozzle to bear. It snapped into the hole with its fore claws and twisted through a series of deft movements, spraying an insulation membrane that coated all the remaining wires. The lights within the cockpit flashed to yellow, much to Vincent's relief. Rover had given him the most basic of controls back, enough to stop the sickening spin.
Immediately, Vincent grasped the joystick and attempted to arrest his death spiral. Even at its lowest speed, the grav prop had still dragged Vincent well past the battle's engagement zone. Not far out of the planet’s gravity well to begin with, Vincent found himself falling towards the planet as he attempted to secure control of his ship. Rover's hasty repairs weren't enough to ramp up the engine and pull out of the dive. He was going to hit atmosphere.
"This is Reaper One, I've been hit, cannot maneuver, impact with Bastogne imminent. I say again, I am beaching my fighter," he called.
"Negative, I can land it." Then he keyed the command sequence to reroute all communications through the AMI. No distractions, not if he was going to pull this off.
On his wing, he could just make out Rover jamming the armor back into alignment. The bot exchanged both its foreclaw tools for clamps and grasped the rent armor. All along the robot's spine, maneuvering thrusters fired off to keep it firmly latched to the ship as it pulled the armor back into place. Its tail rotated again, and a plasma welder swung down to attach the bowed metal permanently. The job left the armor bulging and ugly, but intact, and hopefully it would keep the ship intact for reentry. Let the repair crew worry about aesthetics; Vincent just needed to land.
A countdown to impact flashed onto the corner of the HUD. The planet grew until it all but filled his screen, and he could see the fires that ravaged the surface even as far out as he was. The research colony was gone, destroyed by the blaze. Maybe that's why the Separatists had arrived—to salvage intel. Vincent shook his head. He needed to focus. He briefly released the stick to run his thumb over his father's multitool.
The transition from vacuum to air was gradual, and without his sensors telling him how far he'd gone, he wouldn't even know when he hit the upper layers. His grav prop cut off automatically once the atmosphere was too thick, and he lost shields and inertial dampeners. Gravity reoriented so that he was falling face first.
The front of his nose and wings took on a cherry glow from the friction as the ablative armor deflected most of the heat. Alarms screeched in his ears, and Vincent snapped to mute them. The patch job Rover had done wasn't taking the strain, and the little bot had to stay nestled in his mount or would be ripped off the hull.
Vincent reached up for the levers above him, knowing there was a fair chance that what he was about to try would lead to his abrupt and violent death, and then he twisted and pulled straight down. Tiny detonations rocked the hull as the armor panels were jettisoned from the craft, and the no-frills frame of the Chimera fighter was revealed. Thin nose, cockpit, engines, and wings; no armor, weapons, or navigation equipment. Just enough to fly. The way Dad taught me.
Vincent was far enough down now that he could see the ground clearly as it rushed up to greet him. Pulling back lightly on the stick, he tried to get some air under the stubby wings. Pull too hard and they would snap off, not enough and he was a burning wreck on the ground. Since problems always came in threes, the only place to land below was on fire.
Maybe I should have ejected.
Chapter 9
The Exile
Regardless of the distance between them, the Exile could feel the glee and savage hatred that warred inside the Shadow. It was a creature of destruction, and it tore through its enemies like a house pet with a toy. The bombers and fighters it encountered didn't stand a chance against its invisible strikes, its weapons born of darkness. Exile shouldn't have been able to sense the minds of the pilots anymore, but she was connected to the Shadow, and so she felt all their terror and pain as their lives were snuffed out.
Again and again, she reminded herself that it was necessary, that she had bonded with the monster for a reason. Whatever that reason, it was washed away in the wake of the pain and anguish that assaulted her. She had no defenses against it, no barriers to erect that would withstand the pounding blows. The iron reek of human blood penetrated her senses; the blood the Shadow had not soaked up was pooling around her as she lay collapsed beside the body. The wet, thick texture around her hand was almost gentle against the throb behind her horn. She needed to move the body. She wouldn't have the strength to purge anyone's mind if she was found unconscious beside the victim with a murder weapon in her hand.
She forced herself up from the ground and then to her feet. She would not have the strength to move the body, not while her mind still throbbed. She ran her hand over the horn growing from her forehead and concentrated on the arm that wasn't there. She could always “feel” it—the phantom pain that reminded her of what she had lost—but she searched for something else, something more tangible. A calm center, a clear mind. The words from her conclave training bubbled to the surface.
In the same way her Web could reach out and connect with unsecured AMIs and influence thoughts, she could draw her Shell to enhance and protect her body. The energy lurked on the fringes. It was something she did not spend nearly as much time using. The Web allowed her to keep tabs on anyone around her, and when she released it to draw her Shell, she felt as though she were blind.
Still, she forced the switch, and her perception of the unconscious crew members around her and the thoughts of the pilots fell away. The pain from the Shadow diminished slightly, but did not disappear. Its power was not limited to what she could sense.
Her body tingled as energy wrapped around her, and a blue ethereal shape pushed out from her shoulder. An arm formed, then a wrist, and then fingers. Her arm was gone, but the Shell remained; she twisted the ghost fingers into a fist, and could almost imagine they were there. Unlike the illusions she cast with her Web, the Shell was as solid as her, and she wrapped her ghost and flesh hands around the fallen man's uniform.
An ice pick of pain lanced from her spine to her feet as she lifted the man. Somehow she kept her grip, and despite the Shadow's distraction, she was able to drag the body towards the airlock. Trapped with only her own thoughts and the Shadow’s disgusting, monstrous glee, she felt like the journey took an hour. In truth, it was less than two minutes. She could barely maintain her Shell, let alone use the power fully.
Once she unceremoniously dropped the man’s body into the airlock, she looked back at the trail of blood she had caused. That would pose a problem. It wouldn't take a CSI team to figure out what had happened. She might be able to conceal her actions with a clever Web illusion, but the effect would only last as long as she concentrated on it.
The pain continued to throb in her head, and she had a difficult time remembering what to do. She needed a plan. Not just for the blood, but for moving forward. For the first time in years, she was on
her own; she had only herself, that cursed knife, and her entire race willing to kill her on sight. She had taken a serious gamble going to Bastogne, following the rumor of a secret testing facility. The wildfires had forced her back into space, and once she was aboard a fleet ship, things would only get worse.
She ran her hands over the man's pockets, searching for anything useful. From one she pulled a date cube. Though he was dead, his AMI unit still functioned enough for her to dig his passcodes out and activate it. She brushed her fingers over him to make the contact—it was the only way to maintain her Shell and connect to the AMI. Spreading out her Web would cost her time. Once she accessed the cube, she searched for the man's purpose for going to the fleet. Was he a colonist escaping the fires below, a scientist, or a sailor? No—he was none of those things. He was a Special Forces soldier on assignment there, and he was being recalled.
This was something the Exile could use.
The Special Forces were their own worst enemy when it came to tracking their soldiers. They did not keep detailed records of their operatives, which could expose them. Instead, they worked as cells, only dependent on the most immediate chain of command. They were ghosts. Ghosts with powerful resources and no ability to check if she belonged. Once she disposed of the man, she could take his place, and any new command could be conned into believing she was their commander. The box had only the name of the platoon he was meant to command: The Condemned. How fitting.
She also found a number of weapons on his person, including a set of explosives. Now the Exile had a plan. She would make it to the fleet unhindered after all.
Chapter 10
Vincent
Vincent fought the stick for every meter as he careened down toward the surface of Bastogne. The raging fires below wreaked havoc with the air currents, and his already harrowing descent on emergency wings was made that much more difficult by the turbulence.
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