He exhales. Gloves. I need to get some gloves. His palms—slick with sweat—grease the joysticks. Releasing them to wipe them dry on his flight suit would take too long.
The Mecat’s metal legs crack the dry earth. They only pause for a millisecond before the Cat sprints forward.
“Fire on any visible target,” Mark orders.
Mark bobs and weaves the Mecat across the field. Plasma bolts flash past the cockpit. Dirt, metal, blood rain everywhere. Lubrication oil sprays from a dying Mecat.
Chaos.
Nothing prepared Reynard for pandemonium.
Plasma. Missiles fire. Missiles explode. Soldiers die. Soldiers kill. Soldiers move forward. Soldiers die.
No amount of training prepares a person for this. The rocking explosions, the ping of metal, the heat of constant weapons fire echo even in the insulated cockpit.
Reynard fought. He killed. He has had plasma bolts fired at him, but nothing like this.
Target.
Fire.
Target.
Fire.
Target.
Fire.
Crafts explode. Death controls the battlefield.
“Where’s my crew?” Reynard spits.
“Keep firing,” Mark orders.
No time for sentiments, only trigger pulls.
Warning alarms flash. The main plasma cannon must cool before firing resumes. Reynard activates a missile array.
Mark halts his advance. Other Mecats drive forward into the Mokarran lines.
Reynard locks onto several Mokarran Mecats and releases a barrage of missiles. They pleat the craft, sending black smoke fireballs into the air.
The computer records three confirmed kills. All his. Three dead at his hand. Three dead he will get paid for if he lives long enough to collect.
Mark swings the Mecat around and uses the thruster jets to lob the craft into the air to avoid the raining death of Mokarran rockets.
The plasma cannon indicators show coolant leaves lowering the temperature, but the number counting down is at thirty-seven. Allowing for one blast.
Too long.
They must pull back.
Fresh Mokarran Mecats land, surrounding Mark.
Warning alarms—target locks jar the cockpit.
Reynard cooks in his seat. Missiles impact the Mecat. Explosions mushroom on the durasteel. Before they shatter the cockpit, Reynard finds himself propelled upward. The ejection unit launches.
Mark overloads the energy cells, turning his Mecat into shrapnel. The attacking Mokarran Cats splinter.
The second the ejection unit reaches an apex Reynard witnesses the battlefield in its entirety. More Mokarran Mecats land on the field to replace their defeated ranks. Somehow they kept more in reserve.
Orbital missiles rain down on the battlefield. They target Mokarran, but the blast radius doesn’t discern the close merc Mecats.
Valuable crops reduce instantly to charcoal.
Reynard’s stomach leaps into his throat as the escape capsule free-falls back to the surface.
KLAXON!
Emergency alarms.
Emergency lighting.
Electrical smoke.
Burnt flesh.
Kantian would hear the screams of the dying if not for the ringing in his own ears. Fragrances of cooked meat burn his nose. He grabs the arm of his chair, using it as a crutch. His left pant leg is soaked red from his blood. Seatbelts only function when more than half the chair remains intact. The pain from a shattered femur reminds him he lives. Unlike his crew. Bodies that should be at their posts have scattered across the room. An arm remains at its station, secure in the locking unit.
The shift in gravity when the last boulder struck the Deliverance left her permanently crippled.
Kantian falls into his chair’s remains.
The main view screen displays the degenerating hulk of a Mokarran battle cruiser. He got one. He got one with the help of the Celesta. The smallest of Zayar battleships made short work of the already wounded cruiser.
Kantian doubts even a forty-year-old Zayar ship has any leverage over a new Mokarran ship.
“Status report.” What the hell—might as well remain captain minutes longer.
No answer.
No response.
“Computer,” Kantian locks the remaining shoulder strap into place. “Full voice commands to my orders.”
“Authenticating request,” slurs across the comm.
“Hurry.”
“Voice command at your control.”
“Lock course, center of the Mokarran battle cruiser. Ramming speed!”
With all the damage, the Deliverance gravity presses him into the chair as acceleration sends her at the Mokarran cruiser.
Kantian debates whether to send out the abandoned ship. Evacuation would give his remaining crew a chance, but Mokarran don’t take prisoners. UCP troops must be on the surface to lay claim to the planet, adding incentive to target life pods.
“Computer. Lock all weapons on the Mokarran cruiser. Fire at will.”
Plasma bolts fill the growing battle cruiser on the main view.
“Give the evacuation order,” Give my crew a fighting chance.
The Celesta swings under the Mokarran, blowing holes in her engine mounts and leaving her structural integrity vulnerable.
Kantian knows the entire event transpired over seconds; it hangs over him like an hour.
Life pods launch.
Not as many as he hoped. Are so many of my crew dead, or would they rather take chances on the Deliverance knowing the Mokarran use escape pods as target practice?
Lift doors swoosh open. Medical teams scramble around him.
“Captain, glad you’re alive, Sir,” some eager Ensign chirps. He opens a medical scanner to examine Kantian’s leg.
“There are others worse than me. Get them to the sick bay.” If we live through the next few seconds. “Brace for impact!”
IMPACT.
Crunching, twisting metal shears into the body of the Mokarran cruiser. The two ships fuse together. The T-bone maneuver gives the Deliverance the advantage. Her main guns cut into the Mokarran hull while placing the ship where only the Mokarran secondary cannons are able to discharge.
Gravity shifts.
The medical staff are thrown to the ground.
Hull buckling reverberates through the Deliverance.
Thrusters propel the ship forward, grinding metal on metal.
Kantian slumps in his chair disappointed in the lack of a massive career-ending explosion.
The Celesta brings her weapons to bear on the Mokarran bridge. The Zayars are committed to war. Kantian is committed to the UCP. He wonders how the surface battle transpires.
The medical teams scamper to their feet attending the bridge crew.
Engine warnings bleep. They overheat due to the inability to move further through the Mokarran cruiser.
“Incoming transmission,” the computer reports.
“From where?”
“The Celesta.”
“On screen.”
Admiral Maxtin fills the view screens. “Captain Kantian.
