The other fighter saw his own mistake and increased speed to get away from Coda’s pursuit. Only one pilot had the ability to recognize his own mistake so quickly: Moscow.
Grinning, Coda punched the throttle, going after the other fighter. He toggled his long-range targeting system, preparing to switch to the accompanying long-range missiles, but Moscow was too elusive. He ducked and dodged, flying dangerously close to other spacecraft, providing himself with cover, just as Coda had done before.
Coda kept pursuit, giving chase as if he were playing a childhood game of tag. And like those early games, it was only a matter of time before the pursuer gained the advantage. Little by little, Coda drew closer.
Moscow must have seen it too, because he suddenly veered off course, diving steeply below the battle plane in what looked like a reverse high yo-yo maneuver. At their increased speeds, Coda barely had time to replicate the maneuver…
And spot his mistake.
Moscow wasn’t performing a high yo-yo—he was performing a high yo-yo defense. Where the first maneuver was designed to maintain speed, the high yo-yo defense was deceptive, allowing the defender to shed velocity and cause the pursuer to overshoot. Moscow was trying to force Coda in front of him, where he could turn the pursuer into the pursued. But it worked too well. Coda was coming in hot—way too hot.
Throwing the stick hard to the right, Coda tried to avoid colliding with Moscow’s fighter. His nose missed, but a terrible shriek crossed the underbelly of his fighter. After a brief flash of light, Coda was spinning.
Up became down then down became forward as his fighter tumbled out of the fray. He had just enough time between spins to see Moscow’s fighter spiraling out of the battle too, its starboard wing completely ripped away. A second flash illuminated the dark, this time brighter and tinged with orange.
An explosion.
Oh god! A third fighter had collided with the wreckage from Moscow’s fighter.
“Mayday! Mayday!” the voice on the radio screamed. Coda couldn’t tell who it was. “Multiple collisions. I repeat: multiple collisions. Send immediate recovery!”
Coda shut away the panicked voice. Multiple claxons in his cockpit told him he had more immediate problems of his own.
Quickly assessing the situation, he found the underbelly of his fighter had been breached, and the collision had knocked out several of his portside navigational thrusters. The cockpit was leaking oxygen and losing pressure, but his flight suit was designed to protect him in situations like that. Correcting the spin without full navigational thrusters would be much more difficult, though.
Worst of all, his HUD showed that he was well below the battle plane and streaking toward the moon. With no friction to slow him down, he was flying toward the moon at nearly the same speed that he had been flying in pursuit of Moscow. If he didn’t correct it and fast, he would provide the moon with a brand-new crater. Fortunately, his onboard computer was still active, and the fighter’s spin was correctable—even with his fighter’s damaged thrusters.
Coda had the computer measure his spin and leveraged the autopilot to counter its rotation with several well-timed bursts. Almost immediately, he felt the spin subside, then quickly thereafter, it stopped altogether.
And that was when he saw it.
Like Coda, Moscow was streaking toward the moon’s surface, but his fighter appeared to be entirely inoperable. Its cockpit and marker lights were completely dark, and there was no sign of its navigational thrusters. The X-23 was little more than battle debris caught up in the moon’s gravitational pull.
“Jamestown Tower,” Coda said. “Alpha One. What’s the ETA on the recovery vessels?”
“Alpha One, Jamestown Tower. ETA in four minutes.”
“Four minutes.” Coda chewed on the words. Moscow didn’t have four minutes. He didn’t have anything even close to that. Unless Coda did something, it wouldn’t be him that would be leaving a fresh crater on Theseus.
It would be Moscow.
35
Cockpit, Nighthawk
Alpha Centauri System, Theseus
Coda’s first thought was to let Moscow fall, let his fighter crash into the surface of Proxima B’s only moon. That would certainly solve many of his problems. No more rivalry. No more looking over his shoulder. No more trying to play nice with a man who wanted nothing of it. And Commander Coleman wouldn’t have to choose between two of his best pilots—chance would do it for him.
But even as the thought came to him, Coda knew he couldn’t let it happen. He wasn’t wired that way. He hadn’t grown up drowning in his father’s misdeeds only to let something similar happen on his watch—regardless of how much he hated Moscow. Shoving the throttle forward, Coda directed his damaged fighter toward Moscow’s.
Halfway there, he realized he had no idea what he would do once he got there. He didn’t have any tow cables or anything to latch to Moscow’s fighter that he could use to pull him to safety. What was he going to do?
I’ll crash into him again if I have to. Throw him off course. Wait… That gave him an idea.
Coda adjusted his course. Rather than intercepting Moscow’s spacecraft, he would arrive at a point below it. Only, no, that wouldn’t be enough. He had to arrive well below Moscow’s fighter in order to provide himself with enough time.
That means I’ll only get one shot at this.
Well, if he was only going to get one shot at it, he had to give himself as much room for error as possible. Plotting a revised course, he settled into his seat, preparing himself for what would amount to little more than a suicide run.
What are you doing, Coda? Why are you risking your life for the only person you hate more than your… The only person more than your father?
That was
