The craft had been given a dozen nicknames as it was pieced together; The Eye-Jet had been one, Famiglia One had been another. Eyeball had simply dubbed it 'Prototype Starfighter One' and slapped his name on the side; Eyeball, of course, not Jason.
The Air Force members who had helped prepare the craft had been a bit upset about that; they insisted that a callsign wasn't something you picked; it was something others picked for you. It was always something you did, and usually something funny or humiliating if you knew the story; though, if you were lucky, it might at least be something that still sounded cool. While a variety of suggestions had made the rounds among the crew, they had refused to leave 'Eyeball' on the side of the craft; and the name 'DragonsLayer' was etched in its place. Just in case he hadn't caught the reference, someone had managed to put a decal of Emerald on the side in a provocative pose while Eyeball was away.
The control tower, of course, referred to him as DragonSlayer when he took off and landed; and while he normally tried to use Eyeball rather than the various nicknames he'd been assigned; most prominently, of course, Titanslayer; the other members of La Famiglia's fledgling air force followed the same sort of pattern, so he decided to let it slide.
An allied starfighter, heavily modified with equipment from his labs; mostly copied Jotun gear, as only marginal improvements had been made, even now, decades later; it had all the firepower and more of a Jotun assault craft, with a fraction of the armor and substantially more speed and manueverability. The only major upgrade over a Jotun craft was that the extradimensional space he'd included in its construction gave it a 3-month fuel, air, and food/water supply, as well as enough ammunition for the railguns to last it throughout the war; except, of course, that the engine and weapons would all need to be serviced long before that if it conducted in-atmosphere operations.
That was one thing the Allied Space Command had found pleasantly surprising about space operations; so long as the craft never entered or left the atmosphere, maintenance was far, far more cost-effective than operating a jet on the surface. All of the space stations that served as the heart of humanity's space defense could freely launch fighters constantly with less budget impact than a couple of earthbound aircraft carriers.
Eyeball... or Dragonslayer, for the moment... leaned back in his seat as the fighter took off. He laid a hand on the control panel. He'd thought about naming the thing something more interesting, but really.. Dragonslayer would be a good name for it. By now, launching it was easy; he'd taken off several times, and tried out the simulator plenty; and had no intention of trying to eyeball the launch window to reach Prometheus.
As the craft hurtled into the sky on auto-pilot, Eyeball felt a sudden spike of pain in his forehead, pressing his artificial hand against his helmet. The hell? He hadn't had a headache other than from a serious injury in.... years now. He blinked. His powers... they were crippled. Something was wrong. He could only see maybe a fraction of a second into the future. It looked like an odd after-image trailing behind his hand, rather than any sort of real projections.
...He wasn't used to flying without his powers. He was comfortable enough handling the craft without them, after hundreds of hours in the simulator... but his ability to respond to emergencies before they happened was gone.
In fact, he wasn't used to doing anything at all without his powers. He'd had them for so long that the lack was... disconcerting. Was it because he was approaching Apollo? Or had Apollo taken his dose?
***
"I need the nukes to go off at these precise coordinates and timings. Don't launch until Eyeball gives the signal." Apollo had a massive control board and holographic display; and was rapidly touching spots on the board, altering paths, adjusting timing up and down by a few seconds as he shifted the layout on the screen. Oddly enough, he was placing some of the screen elements outside of his own reach.
The dark-skinned, powerfully built commander in a US Space Force uniform looked a bit out of place; most of the crew, while varied in terms of origin, were small, slim; he was the tallest on the deck by at least five inches; he studied the board, glanced at Apollo, and frowned. "...Why should I wait for Eyeball to give the okay? I can understand giving him fire control of the station. My superiors already okayed that, for obvious reasons. Honestly, having someone with literally supernatural aim working the guns is a godsend in this situation."
"Not just you. I'm slaving every Lance the fleet will let me to this console. He's going to hit this button just after the Jotun jump to FTL, seconds before they actually arrive. Thats when we get started."
He frowned, looking down at the controls. "...Apollo. I've been told to give you operational command until the Jotun arrive. While he does have a dramatic reputation for his ability with weapons, I'm not sure my superiors would accept the idea of putting our nukes, or the main guns of our ships, in the hands of a known mass-murderer. They might not be effective against ground targets, but one momentary swipe could wipe out our fleet. I can guarantee the Chinese won't accept that idea, and that's almost a quarter of our firepower right there."
The child-like figure looked around the room... then turned a serious gaze on the soldier. "Commander... Wilkes. I'm going to tell you a secret that if you allow to spread, even to your superiors, will get you killed. Forget you know it after you make your decisions. I would recommend getting very drunk, in fact, after your pod crash lands and you're in the hospital recovering."
"...Extreme need to know. I get it." Wilkes noticed that Apollo had activated some sort of device. The rest of the room now seemed perfectly silent.
"Me and Eyeball have different versions of the same power; Pre-cognition; and they interfere with each other. Unfortunately, his is the stronger version, but he doesn't have any control of it past the first few seconds. It still works longer-term. He knew Lightning posed a threat to the world, which I couldn't see it until Lightning was already dead; it was only then I was able to piece everything together. What he's always had, however, is absolute, perfect, precognition for the next few seconds, allowing him to fire a bullet and know where it will land before he pulls the trigger. When I lapse into a coma in a few minutes, he'll suddenly be able to see further and more clearly than ever... and when it comes to the sort of split-second decisions that matter in this sort of battle, better than I ever could."
Apollo gestured at the massive, elaborate control scheme. "This entire setup is so that he can use that power to fire our weapons at where the enemy will be before they get there. Launch our nukes to disable enemy missiles before they launch. I can't predict what the results will be. As soon as he takes over, the future is a blur for me. But... if I were to have us shoot his fighter out of the sky right now?"
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
He sighed. "We would destroy about one hundred and fifty. Maybe two hundred, depending on a bit of luck. I don't know what he can accomplish, how much damage he can deal. But I know that without him, those ships will be able to drop down into the atmosphere and provide close air support that lets them absolutely devastate our forces over the coming weeks.. in positions where we have to nuke them to take them out. We will win... but the damage we'll have to do to ourselves in the process will be horrific. I believe having him here, running these controls, will save millions of lives."
Wilkes glanced around the room, then back at Apollo. "If it were anyone else, I'd call bullshit. But... I know how tough those things are, and how few things we've got other than nukes that can kill them. And, well. You've never steered us wrong. Seeing the future would explain how he got away with all of that lunacy. How long will I need to give him control?"
"I can't be sure. If I did something to alter our sensor profile right now, it would change the Jotun approach. If more than just Eyeball were coming up from the ground right now, they'd change their approach. Every action or inaction leads to a new future. But whichever one happens... get to your escape pod the moment the light goes red. You won't be able to help once you're on the ground til the war's over. But they'll need people like you in the future."
***
It was the roughest take-off Eyeball had ever performed; the calm once he was out of atmosphere, coasting on a mostly ballistic course to Prometheus station, was a welcome, relaxing one; despite the microgravity unsettling his stomach. He'd never been to the station before; never actually docked before; but thankfully, he had the proper systems installed on his craft.
As he flew through a carefully calculated course, avoiding the satelites and defense weapons scattered throughout orbit, he received an incoming signal.
~Dragonslayer, this is Prometheus Actual. You are authorized for approach. Handshake initiated.~
He nodded. His control panel had popped up with a green icon that had never been lit before; RAC, or Remote Automatic Control; and he tapped the button beside it. His stick went dead; and he could feel the thrusters making minor corrections and adjustments. The station itself would be making tiny adjustments as well; as a military defensive station, it had been built with enough thrust to let it avoid long-range fire; but until that was actually needed, it wouldn't move more than a few centimeters in any given direction to accommodate the tiny fighter craft that boarded it.
The flight deck was... massive compared to his tiny craft. A dozen starfighters, all of the F-X-3 variety; essentially just the Skunkworks most recent iteration of decades of work on merging Jotun tech with the american fighter; were arrayed in neat rows; each of them in pristine condition, all of them having been flown for hundreds of hours but aside from rare space debris collisions, none had ever been damaged, or even had a combat mission.
When the machines settled him in place on the flight deck, he suddenly had a brief headache. He grimaced as he pressed his head against the wall for a moment. Again? Twice in... Ahh.
His vision was back. He could see what was about to happen once again, with that same perfect clarity. If he were to slap the ejection button, the 'escape pod' that made up the cockpit would be launched... directly into the roof, with enough force to crack the glass and smack him against it. He blinked. The projections were going further than they had before.
His flight suit was a modified version of his normal armor; it hadn't required too much modification, considering he'd made it sealed against possible chemical weapons hazards from the beginning; and had plenty of air to get him inside, so he simply popped the seal, allowing the air to escape from the cockpit as the magnetic grapples firmly hooked the craft in place.
He hopped out of the cockpit; dragged slowly down by the weak artificial gravity maintained inside the bay; and turned on the magnets in his soles. Maybe there was artificial gravity; but he'd prefer not to drift away if the power went off. He waved at one of the mechanics out in the bay; an orange-suited man was standing on one of the other spacecraft; a wolf was emblazoned on the side, though the name 'Junkyard' was also attached. He considered what might lead to a pilot being named 'Junkyard' as he walked along the well-lit path to the airlocks.
There were dozens of airlocks, of different sizes; for efficiency's sake, most of the crew used a tiny, coffin-sized airlock, built to minimize the space that would have to be re-pressurized; the chamber even had an emergency setting for someone with a punctured suit, a more gradual adjustment. Six of them were setup in a row, side by side; and Eyeball settled neatly into one, yanking the lever to let himself inside; feeling the powerful hiss of air flowing through.
When the airlock on the other side opened... he got his first look at genuine Space Marines. The armor was the same dark grey as the hull metal, and he could see the ports for thrusters, the jetpack. The rifle was, of course, a semi-automatic, anti-Jotun weapon; likely a Gauss rifle, but currently strapped the the marine's back; while each of the two had a hand on his side-arm, neither had his weapon drawn.
Eyeball almost saluted. It had been a long time since his service, but these guys had an amusing history. They found the absolute best of the best from every unit that picked up a rifle... and then gave them a job where they spent the rest of their career in training for a war that they were never sure would come. These men must have been marines, or army, served actively in a warzone... and then spent years up here. Would they be able to match what they did in the past?
"Hello there, gentlemen. I'm here to assist with fire control. I believe I'm expected?"
"Yes sir. Commander Wilkes told us to bring you straight to the bridge."
Eyeball nodded... and followed as the two men marched towards a nearby lift; both clearly keeping an eye on him. The armor would do absolutely nothing to stop the Osmium-tipped shells, or his 10mm rounds at this point. Oddly, the tenner seemed like it would actually be worse for them. Unlike the airlock, the lift had a security scanner that required the marines not just to put in a code to enter... but a second code to get to the bridge.
He pondered that for a bit, wondering if that was a safety feature. Were there Osha rules in space about obstructing airlock entrances?
When he entered the bridge; filled with dozens of uniformed men, all wearing what at first looked like Air Force uniforms, he immediately spotted Apollo; apparently sitting in a chair, asleep.. or meditating.. next to an enormous touch-screen panel. The Commander was standing next to him; probably Wilkes.
The Marines stepped back to the door; letting Eyeball continue on alone until he reached Wilkes; his helmet immediately gave him a warning; all wireless networks were now disabled. He couldn't even hear anything from the rest of the room. He glanced at Apollo, then at Wilkes. "So. He took the drugs and passed out, then?"
"Keep it quiet. Officially, he's in a trance, and directing things. People trust him, not you. He left a dose for you as well. You gonna pass out after you take it? He told me you've got a... better.. version of his powers."
Eyeball looked at the syringe in the man's hand; and accepted it, before looking at... what seemed to be a sleeping boy. Maybe 12 or 13. But... was older than western civilization. There was just something insane about the idea that some kid that was barely into puberty was that old. "... Maybe. If I do, stuff me and Apollo in an escape pod and launch us. It goes without saying that you shouldn't pass that around."
Wilkes nodded, looking at the screen. "We've got minutes. Maybe seconds, now. When do you take the shot?"
Eyeball frowned. "I'll know when. Feels like soon, though. I'm gonna need to take some Reflex as well if I'm gonna direct... forty-seven weapons at once. I hope Apollo was right about this being worth it."