“Repeat that part to me. You’re going into battle? You’re not staying at the edge of combat?”
“The admiral finally wants to let us fight!” Bim said, eager.
“Contain yourself, Bim,” Jerkface said. “Spin, we’re at 11.3-302.7-21000. Get here as fast as you can. Ironsides has ordered us into a small firefight alongside a flight of full pilots. We’re there to confuse the enemy and hopefully split their attention.”
In other words, we’re being sent in as targets. I thought, wiping my hand on my jumpsuit, my heartbeat thrumming, sweat making my hair stick to my face. Or they are. Without me.
Not for long.
I slammed the throttle forward, going into overburn. The Grav-Caps protected me for three seconds, and then I slammed back in my seat. I could take g-forces like these though, pushing me straight backward. It wasn’t pleasant, but I didn’t risk blacking out. I just had to get to speed, then carefully climb—using the acclivity ring.
I quickly reached Mag-10—which was the upper speed threshold for a Poco, at least safely. Even this was stretching the limits. The atmospheric scoops—which pushed air away around the ship in a bubble, preventing me from ripping off my own wings during tight maneuvers—were overwhelmed, and my ship rattled from the motion. The friction of air resistance made my normally invisible shield start to glow.
I climbed upward as well—but carefully, slower, as the g-forces in that direction threatened to knock me out. Going up forced my blood down into my feet. I did the stomach-clenching exercises we’d been taught in centrifuge training, but still, darkness started to creep around the outsides of my vision.
I held on, pressed down at six times my normal weight. Though the flight would only take a short while, I had to listen to my friends in battle all the way.
“Careful, Hurl. Not too eager.”
“One’s on me! I’ve got one on me!”
“Dodge, FM!”
“Dodging! Dodging! Scud, who was that?”
“Nightstorm Six. That’s my brother, guys! Callsign: Vent. FM, you owe me some fries or something.”
“To your right! Arturo, look up!”
“Looking! Stars, what a mess.”
Finally my dash beeped, indicating I was approaching my desired coordinates. I let off on the altitude lever, then performed a rapid deceleration. In a Poco with atmospheric scoops, that meant spinning my ship in the air—the GravCaps kicking in—then firing my booster backward to slow me down.
I came out of it after slowing to Mag-1, standard dogfighting speed. I spun my Poco around, facing toward the battlefield, where distant lights flashed in the dark morning sky. Debris fell as red streaks.
“I’m here,” I said to the others.
“Get in and help Morningtide!” Jorgen shouted at me. “Can you spot her?”
“Looking!” I said, frantic, scanning my proximity sensor screen. There. I hit overburn, accelerating her direction.
“Guys,” I said, glancing at the scanner. “Morningtide has picked up a tail!”
“I see it,” Jerkface said. “Morningtide, you read?”
“Trying. Trying dodge.”
My ship screamed toward the battlefield. I could now see the individual fighters—a swirling mess mixed with destructor bolts and the occasional light-lance. Morningtide’s Poco pulled upward into a loop—trailed by three Krell ships.
Almost there. Almost there!
The Krell destructors flared. Hit. Hit again. And then . . .
A burst of light. A spray of sparks.
And Morningtide died in a massive explosion. She didn’t have a chance to eject.
Kimmalyn screamed—a high-pitched, panicked, pained sound.
“No!” Jerkface said. “No, no, no!”
I arrived, flying at Mag-3—too fast for normal dogfighting maneuvers—but still managed to spear one of the Krell ships with my light-lance. But it was too late.
The fiery sparks that had been Morningtide went out as they fell.
I spun and reversed my thrust, letting go of the light-lance and flinging the Krell ship to the side. Another of our fighters came in after it, shooting and managing to blast it down.
I fell in beside Jerkface, silently smothering my own screams. He’d lost his wingmate. Where was Arturo?
I couldn’t make out anything tactical in the fray. My flight zipped in all directions, drawing fire—yes—but also adding to the confusion. A few larger classes of DDF fighters wound through it all, mixing with some dozen Krell ships, each trailing wires in that same unfinished way.
I was crying. But I set my jaw and kept on Jorgen’s wing. He expertly speared a Krell ship with his light-lance, and it tried to break away, so I speared it as well.
“That debris, Jorgen,” I said. “Coming down at your two, falling slowly.”
“Right.” We both hit our throttles, as Cobb had taught us, and pulled the enemy ship toward the debris. At the last