by Alex White
Nilah steered the vehicle toward the far lane, hoping to take any path that was hard to predict. A shell struck the pavement a few meters away, jangling her bones and rocking the chassis. Her console relayed the direction of the shot from acoustic signature, pinpointing one of Witts’s tanks just sixty meters away.
“Do not return fire,” whispered Malik. “Three of them. One of us.”
“Coming around for my pass in twenty seconds,” said Boots. “Any special requests?”
Another round struck, and another, as each tank took a potshot into the cloud, leaving time for the other two to reload. Nilah winced as shattered pavement rained down upon their hull, hoping the patter of rocks on metal wouldn’t give them away.
“Maybe hurry up?” Nilah asked, her voice creaking with forced restraint. She would’ve preferred to scream it at Boots.
“Boots, hit the ones at the end of the road,” said Malik. “Hunter One, make sure he’s dead with a follow-up when she does.”
“Confirm target. I’m lined up,” said Boots. “Five seconds.”
Nilah’s foot twitched over the pedal.
“Hold,” whispered Malik.
“Firing!” The purr of Boots’s slingers rumbled through the skies.
The Runner’s shadow swept through the haze, and the craft’s turbulent passage ripped away the smoke like a safety blanket. Both tanks lay before them, though sparking and flaming from several holes. Bits of armor had blown off in the exchange, and it looked like one might’ve been disabled.
“Bye-bye,” growled Orna, blasting the wounded tank to smithereens.
Nilah opened up the throttle, and to her delight, the Devil jumped off its marks.
“Ready, gunners!” shouted Malik. “Thread the needle, driver!”
Nilah aimed for the center of the road as the tank on the right side struggled to pivot its turret. At the Devil’s top speed, the enemy couldn’t keep up, and they went flying past. Jeannie and Aisha fired their cannons from either side, sending lethal shots into both tanks.
“Missus Brio, keep going,” said Malik. “Head for this clearing.”
A location marker appeared on Nilah’s HUD, and the Devil adjusted its path. She set the driving style to “aggressive,” removing all assists in favor of full control. The path took them over piles of debris, through buildings, and off the side of a small bridge, then onto an old railroad bed nestled between two towers.
“Commander Jan,” said the Devil, “perhaps Scry could be of assistance? I’ve been sending you notifications.”
“I see them,” said Malik. “I’m kind of in the middle of something. Not the best time to learn a new software.”
“I can handle it for you,” said the Devil.
“Fine,” said Malik. “Missus Brio, take the next right.”
Nilah did as instructed, dodging down a tight set of alleyways. She thought back to the long, sideways infiltration of the Vogelstrand and hoped that wouldn’t be how she was riding out the mission.
“Uh, Sleepy,” said Boots, “what are all of these notifications? They’re blocking up my view.”
“Boots,” said the Devil, “please give me access to your imagers.”
“Do it,” said Malik.
Suddenly, Nilah’s map filled up with scans of buildings, enemy positions, and more. There were tectonic scans, weather reports, and anything else a beleaguered tank commander could want. Nilah had personally tuned Boots’s sensor package, and she was impressed with the output. One area of interest caught Nilah’s eye—the Graveyard grounds themselves. Dozens of threat warnings lit up the clearing, from ships, personnel, and materiel. She tapped it on her console.
“Enemy armors that way, sir,” she asked. “Picking up a lot of them.”
“You know it,” said Malik. “Boots, we’re going to want to engage the locals. Draw them off.”
“Yes, sir,” said Boots, and Nilah’s map lit up with dozens of contacts as Boots laid into them.
“All right, driver,” said Malik. “Let’s make sure we don’t miss the party, hm?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ingress
Boots had tried to imagine the Graveyard of the Poets many times since she first heard the name. She’d thought it would be a building, or perhaps an actual graveyard. Maybe there would be a grid of headstones, or some caskets, or a church, or anything sepulchral. Maybe she’d missed the grave part. She’d had a hard time seeing it on her overflight because of the copious amounts of anti-air spells filling her view.
But after she’d passed into safety and had a moment to review the recordings from her slinger imager, she found a shallow dome of gleaming metal the size of several city blocks. Dunes gathered around the edges like supplicants.
“What the…” Boots tapped the image to send it to Malik. “Sleepy, are you seeing this?”
“We’re receiving you clearly. What are we looking at?”
“Looks like a big-ass coin,” Boots replied. “Not a blemish on it.”
“I don’t understand. There should be some signs of external damage, especially near the edges with all of the rubble,” said Malik. “Can you get a mass estimate?”
She went back through the recording, flipping it from visual to acoustic reflection, and found a bright surface like a burning star. “Look at this! It’s practically vibrating!”
“That’s… ori—lcum,” Malik said, coughing as his voice caught in his throat.
She must’ve misheard. It sounded like he said it was composed of the most precious metal in the universe, but battle had a way of garbling transmissions. “Sleepy, say again?”
“Boots, I’ve conferred with the rest of the crew,” he replied, clearing his throat. “We believe that dome is constructed of orichalcum.”
She shook her head and lifted her visor to get a better look at her HUD. Through her link to the Devil’s Scry module, she was able to calculate the surface area. “How much is… how much is that even worth?”
“Presuming the dome is one millimeter thick and that its presence does not affect the commodities price of orichalcum,” said the Devil, “that dome is worth approximately twenty-eight billion argents.”
“What.” Boots’s voice came out less question, more statement.
The Devil added, “Of course, it is likely the mass of the dome is much more, because one millimeter wouldn’t be enough to—”
“Devil, highlight the OPFOR assets, and advise on approach,” said Malik. “We’re not here on a salvage mission.”
“Opposing force asset overwatch patterns established,” said the Devil.
Boots cursed as the Devil picked out at least five vehicles and twice as many soft targets. Witts’s vanguard had spread around the structure like invading ants, but even they were careful not to get too close.
“Count five technicals, two PADSAMS, and a handful of infantry,” said Boots. “Confirm?”
“Correct, Boots,” said the Devil, and a path appeared on Boots’s HUD, guiding her through a maze of buildings. “Please maximize your cover with the following approach vector.”
“Locked in. Sleepy, permission to engage?”
“Granted,” said Malik, and she tipped the nose of the Midnight Runner toward her intended victims.
Just as the Devil had predicted, she was on them in a roar of engine wash, surging out of cover. She, on the other hand, had been prepared, blasting away at their emplacements and loosing two of her missiles into the parked vehicles. They lost line of sight almost immediately as she sliced away on the wind.
“That was good, Devil,” said Boots, “but it’s not going to work twice.”
“I agree,” said the Devil. “You’re likely to be killed on your second approach.”
“It’s fine, Boots,” said Malik. “Come back and give us air support. Charger made it back, and Orna is repairing the breechloader.”
“Where’s Teacup?” asked Boots.
“I’m sure she’s around!” said Nilah. “I used the right pathin
g code.”
“Guys,” huffed Orna, “I’m still making repairs, and I’d appreciate some air support!”
“Inbound,” said Boots, weaving through the stalks of ancient skyscrapers. Here and there, time had taken a big bite of their stone flesh, leaving regraded steel ribs to rust. Her banking turn brought the long trail of the Capricious’s crash path into her view, concentric circles through buildings like a fire spell through paper. Each circle was smaller than the previous one—less ship remained with each hit. Yet each building remained standing, a testament to their engineering.
They’d collapse soon, though—long before Boots would have a chance to search the wreckage.
Her sensors picked up a trio of fast-moving vehicles hauling tail up one of the dilapidated highways, each mounted with a harpoon lancer—enough to punch through any armor. They sped out from the Graveyard rally point, headed straight for the Devil.
“I pissed off the last three technicals!” said Boots. “They’re coming for you!”
“And they’re in your fire corridor,” said Malik, voice measured. “Clear them out.”
Just being helpful, guy.
She picked up a little altitude—not too much or anti-air measures might shred her—and centered up on the three trails of dust from the enemy fast-movers. A klick away, she picked out the Devil among the streets, rolling up an ancient thoroughfare. She gunned the engine, determined to intercept them long before they reached her friends.
Her only warning of impending doom was the spin of the harpoon lancers on the enemy vehicles. Instinct jerked her flight stick hard to the right, as they turned to open fire on her. One of the shots pierced her aileron, and the craft lurched with the sudden drag. Shearing metal and alarms filled her ears, and she worked her pedals to loosen the surface. Instead of coming unstuck, the aileron came completely off.
“You’re not taking this Runner, too,” she growled. “Palm two, missile away!”
Smashing the thumb switch, she watched her last seeker fly toward the enemy vehicles, blowing up the nearest one. The other two leapt clear with impulse jets, firing at her the whole way, forcing her lower to find cover.
Without her aileron, the Runner was sluggish, trying to drift into every lamppost, skyscraper, and pylon as she threaded around the city streets.
“Good kill, Boots,” said Malik. “Two to go.”
“Easy for you to say. Those bandits are freaking fast.”
“You’re faster. I know you’ll keep us safe.”
She closed the gap, whipped around a building, and came in on their flank, peppering the ground with spell after spell as the vehicles leapt and rolled out of the way. Their turrets locked onto her almost instantaneously, blazing with lancer rounds. Boots’s dispersers had to work overtime, but at least she completed the run without dying.
All told, she was doing pretty well with a forty-year-old airframe versus the latest tech.
“Your scans show we’re almost on them,” said Malik. “Have you got this?”
“Making another pass!” Boots replied.
She came in even lower, circling back from the Graveyard side to attack from the rear. The bandits couldn’t get much height, instead focusing on lateral motion. Maybe she could work with that.
Boots got down within twenty meters of the street, spraying maneuvering thrusters to bounce over obstacles. Then she spotted her prey, fanning her fire out in a cone. It worked like a charm, and the light-armored vehicle took a few direct hits before getting off its final shots—
—one of which speared Boots’s main drive.
With that disabling hit, Boots’s air mission was officially over. The Runner was going to gradually lose momentum until she either landed or crashed. She tugged the flight stick back, trying to get as much height as she could out of the speed she had. That’s how she spotted the bright spark of dozens of units teleporting into place around the Graveyard.
“I’m hit!” she said, fighting with the ship for control. “Got to land, but… there are a lot of tangos up ahead and—”
“At the site,” said Malik. “We see them. Stay away from us, focus on landing, and we’ll handle the rest.”
She wrestled the stick as more warnings rippled over her screen. Her control surfaces were freezing up, the engine made the most horrific rattle, and she was no longer on speaking terms with her altimeter. “What are you going to do?”
“We’re jumping in. The Devil thinks the orichalcum dome can handle it.”
“That thing is probably too freaky to be physically damaged,” she grunted. “Whatever you’re going to do, I say go for it—that jump blast will clean the enemy troops right off the site.”
“Boots, stop worrying about us,” said Malik. “Eject. Now.”
If she did that, she’d hit a building or the ground long before her safety package could deploy.
“Not enough altitude, Sleepy. I’ll be fine,” she lied, shouting over the flapping of loose metal panels. “Just going to land it.”
“Good luck,” he replied. “No matter what happens—”
“Kill him. I had better see Witts in hell. Boots out.”
Then she shut off the comm before he could get all weepy.
The ground was coming up a lot faster than she’d hoped. She coasted over the Devil, its tires kicking up a long plume of dust, and spied pink energy arcing across its hull. Charger scrambled off the roof and braced against the side door, spitting Orna into the interior. With her safely inside, the robot dogged the hatch and climbed into position. Everything stowed, they were ready to jump.
Boots didn’t need to check her energy spike warnings to know what they were saying about the ground below her.
“Oh, wow. I am way too close.”
A strobe painted every exposed facet in brilliant magenta as the Devil disappeared in a ball of fusing plasma. It reappeared in the distance, emerging from the Flow in a spiderweb of lightning and superheated gas. Enemy materiel went off like popcorn kernels, exploding into balls of flame before being washed away by the blast.
The shock wave struck Boots’s ship, yanking her about and spinning her fuselage. The artificial horizon of her HUD went rolling, and she popped her maneuvering thrusters to try and fight the spiral.
Her metal hand strained for the ejection lever against the elastic resistance of centripetal force, but she hesitated. Even if she survived, she would lose one of the last vestiges of her home.
Not one more thing.
Smoke erupted from a panel in the floor before the onboard spells could extinguish it. Boots could swear she smelled burning duraplast through her helmet. Had her survival package been hit?
You don’t get to take one more thing from me.
The buildings stabilized in her view, and the Midnight Runner began to fall. She checked her maneuvering fuel—not enough to hover—so she thrust the nose straight down to try and catch the wind like an ancient kite.
Not one more ship.
Below, she saw only unforgiving roadway, a planet ready to smash her fighter to dust. Her HUD blared the words NADIR: PULL UP.
Not one more hand.
The folds of her gloves bit into her fingers as she wrung the flight stick as hard as she could, pulling back with all her might. The nose tipped back ten degrees, and she bellowed from deep in her gut.
Not one more friend.
Wind roared in her ears, and the airframe caught the breeze, sweeping the nose upward. It wouldn’t be enough. She only had a little thrust remaining, but she fired anyway, pushing her nose just a little more. She couldn’t use everything, or she wouldn’t be able to stop when she landed.
The Runner’s altimeter dropped below twenty meters as she swooped over the pavement, coming level with an overpass. The HUD made a little callout with the words COLLISION ALERT pointing to it.
“Yeah, I see it!” said Boots, dipping underneath to weave through supports. She couldn’t go much lower, and she wouldn’t be able to get any more altitude without sta
lling out. A concrete amphitheater spread beneath her—nowhere to land without shattering across the stairs.
She had just enough clearance to shoot over the park bleachers, then an open roadway spread beneath her, beautiful, clean, and unobstructed. Thruster fuel was down to 5 percent, and a landing maneuver wasn’t safe under 10.
Spraying the nose thrusters, she ejected her landing skids, flipping the surface to slicks. The soles of her landing struts screeched like a banshee as she was thrown forward against her restraints, blood prickling in her cheeks.
MAIN DRIVE EIDOLON CORE CRITICAL
“Oh, come on!” she barked before ejecting her unspent fuel load out the back, where it tumbled and aerosolized into a plume of comet fire. The electricals of her ship stuttered and faltered, and the Runner went dark, skidding along the street at almost a hundred kilometers per hour. Boots closed her eyes and crossed her arms—nothing to do but listen to the screeching and wait for whatever fate befell her.
The howl ground to a whisper, then silence.
Opening her eyes, Boots checked her flight suit—not a scratch. There was a little carbon scoring along one leg where the fire erupted, but no burns on the inside. She switched her comms to suit batteries.
“—oots!” said Malik as the comms linked up. “Come in, Boots!”
“I’m here,” she said, dragging off her helmet to let the cool air in. She took a deep breath before the acrid smoke of the electrical fire choked her, and she had to manually winch the cockpit open while she cursed her stupidity. As soon as she got a sip of fresh air from the outside, she pressed her head to the opening and gasped while she winched it the rest of the way.
“Not dead,” she hacked into her comm. “And neither is the Runner. He’s got metal fatigue on every one of his welds, his main drive is scattered to the four winds, and I pretty much ground his skids into stubs, but I landed the bastard.”
Boots packed as she talked, yanking out a survival pouch and a stowed slinger rifle. She had to get out of there right away. More troops would be dispersing throughout the city, and Witts’s goons would’ve spotted her going down.
