Gabriel Miller felt the wind brush his cheeks as he soared through space and tried to relax.
It wasn’t actually wind, of course. Whatever particles or fields that existed in outer space were far too thin or insubstantial to be tangible. The wind was merely an illusion the programmers had thought would be useful to convey how fast he was travelling. Without it Gabriel would have been hard-pressed to say how much his position was actually changing amid the fields of stars and the panorama of the world below him.
If he was honest with himself, they weren’t his cheeks, either. Rather, they were the faceplate of a CSR-117, a simple civilian security rig that he had been assigned for the past seven months. His actual body was nestled within a gravity bubble in the rig’s chest, relatively safe from harm and unexposed to the harsh environment of space.
Without that knowledge, though, Gabe would never have been able to tell. The brain-computer interface he used to control the rig barely allowed him to acknowledge the difference between himself and his rig. With a BCI, a pilot would close his eyes one moment as a fragile, pink thing surrounded by crash cushions and wearing an uncomfortable helmet; the next, he was an eight-meter-tall war machine, wearing thick composite armor and able to fly through space. It was another illusion, but one that had kept countless pilots alive as their natural reflexes and instincts had allowed them to react to the demands of modern space combat. It was a heady thing, instantly seeming to become a weapon of war, even a severely downgraded one like the CSR-117.
Unfortunately, it was less exciting when other, more capable war machines were on their way to kill you. Gabriel sighed and then cleared his throat, signaling the computer to open a channel to the other members of his defense group. “Stroke-Four to Flight, I’m not seeing anything out here. Anyone picking something up?”
His partner in Stroke-Three, Derek Taurus, answered back. “Nope, nothing here either. Though that could just be the crappy sensor setup on these things.”
Lemond Batty in Stroke-Five added his own contribution. “Yeah, Gabe. Maybe you should get your father to pray us up some better rigs. After all, he’s got a direct line with the Big Guy, right?”
Gabe winced at the remark. He might be only another rig pilot, but the others never let him forget who he really was: son of Elder Miller, Speaker of the Way. To make matters worse, he’d spent most of the past seven months training; today was his first combat mission with the squadron, and it was a time-honored tradition for veterans to harass the fresh meat. Most of the other members of the Divine Stroke Flight seemed to think they had been saddled with a celebrity instead of a fellow pilot. Only Derek had avoided mentioning his father, which was why Gabe thanked the Lord he had him on his wing. “Sure, Five. He might be busy praying for your poor corrupted souls, though.”
Abraham Jacobs, piloting Stroke-One and the leader of the flight, broke into the conversation. “Then he’ll probably be occupied for a while. Keep sharp, Stroke-Flight. These asteroids, and the murderers pushing them, always show up when the Eris Guard is taking a break from patrolling our space. Today’s their day off. We don’t want to slip up and let one through on our watch.”
A chorus of acknowledgements rolled back across the communications net, and Gabe sighed. He hoped against all odds that there would be no combat today. His father had led the people of the Way to New Sonora in an attempt to find peace, but their enemies had apparently followed them even to Eris. As the scripture said, the Lord did try His people; Gabe held out a tentative hope that those trials would not come during this patrol.
Tyrone Simms, Jacobs’ wing, ruined those hopes completely. “Stroke-Two. I’ve got something on scan. Looks like a rock and three contacts. I tag ‘em as MSSRs. Vector zero by fifteen.”
A chill ran through Gabe. Modified Station Security rigs were not military-grade hardware either, but they were an awful lot closer than a CSR-117. They had thicker armor and heavier weaponry, and even though their speed suffered as a result, an MSSR could rip through a CSR without much trouble. Hoping that Tyrone had made a mistake, he traced the vector and quickly located the incoming contacts for himself. “Confirmed. Three MSSRs shepherding a rock. Where are they aiming it?”
Derek answered him. “Stroke-Three, I’ve tracked the possible targets, and it looks like they’re aiming for New Sonora.”
Stroke-Six, Melissa Kasanji, spoke next. “I’ve run an analysis on the strike. Even if the Guard manages an intercept in atmosphere, leftovers will wipe out the city. If it hits intact, everyone in two thousand kilometers is gone.”
Gabe felt a chill. He tried to picture the carnage, and was glad his mind failed. His father dead, everyone in New Sonora dead. Millions of Wayfarers, and millions more besides in the cities nearby. Three times the enemy had tried to destroy the last bastion of the Way, and three times the CSRs had turned the MSSRs back. They couldn’t let the city down. Not now. He felt his resolve strengthen as Jacobs responded.
“Acknowledged, Stroke-Six. Stroke-One to Flight, intercept the rock and its escorts. Destroy the rock and eliminate any enemy contacts that interfere. We need that rock stopped now, before it hits atmosphere.” The other rig pilots answered Jacobs’ orders, and Gabe started accelerating. The gentle breeze which had marked his speed before built until it was at gale force.
He narrowed his eyes, and the rig responded by increasing the magnification on the sensors. Gabe stopped once all three contacts and their asteroid cargo were clear. Maneuvering thrusters dotted the surface of the kilometer-long asteroid; they would fire to bring it back on course unless one of the CSRs could make sustained contact with it. Their enemies hadn’t left them with much time to do it, either. The rock was moving fast. If they had spotted it a little closer to the planet, they could never have hoped to deflect it in time.
Before they could stop it, they had to deal with the MSSRs. Each of them held heavy plasma rifles. Each gun was large enough that the rigs carried the weapon in both hands, probably a Vulcan Mark 8. That made it at least a Grade 1 plasma weapon, which meant it could shatter the CSR’s armor like glass. A missile launcher, extra sensor platforms, and an electronic defense suite were located at the shoulders and legs around the heavy armor. Their faceplates were dominated by a simple armored visor that gave the head a blunt bullet shape. The bland head was broken only by a single band of light that represented the main sensor suite for the rig.
Each enemy rig quickly took on the color of blood as he tagged it as hostile, and he widened his eyes to decrease the magnification to a reasonable level. Gabe checked the closure rate as Jacobs signaled a second time. “Stroke Flight, this is Stroke-One. Prepare for enemy contact. Break by pairs and engage. Repeat, break by pairs and engage. May the Lord strengthen and preserve us.” More acknowledgements rolled back from the other rigs, and then the space ahead of him lit up in a wave of plasma fire.
All three MSSRs poured rivers of plasma into the flight of CSRs. Gabe dodged back and forth as the bursts of energy and superheated gas shot past. His heart was trying to beat its way out of his chest, but he fought down his panic. He lost track of the rest of the flight as he threaded his way closer to the enemy. The CSR’s only weapon, the Mark 4 New Austin Musket, had a range much shorter than the Vulcan, so he needed to be closer to fight back. Not that he expected his shots to do much; the Musket was rated at Grade .5. By the look of the armor on the MSSRs, that wasn’t going to cut it.
After an eternity of dodging fire, the distance flashed green to indicate the enemy was in range. Gabe set his sights on the nearest enemy and opened fire. He watched in bitter helplessness as plasma bursts glanced off his target’s armor. Flakes of composite metal and ceramic broke away as he connected three times, but the MSSR didn’t show any real damage. All he managed to do was draw the enemy pilot’s attention; the Vulcan’s barrel shifted to point at him and plasma shot towards him. A frantic, instinctive dodge was all that kept him from death.
“I’m hit! Stroke-Five ejecting!” Batty’s panicked cry came over the channel. When Gabe looked, he saw the other pilot’s CSR falling apart. One plasma burst had shattered the CSR’s right leg at the hip, leaving only a glowing, melted stump. Another had torn into its left shoulder, drilling nearly through to the other side. Stroke-Five tumbled helplessly through space as Batty’s tetherdrive failed, robbing him of propulsion and maneuvering. Then an explosion ripped open the CSR’s chest and sent the pilot’s capsule flying away from the wreckage, and Gabe breathed a quiet prayer of gratitude as his flight-mate rocketed to safety before the rig blew.
His thanks proved horribly premature. One of the MSSRs decreased speed, tracked the escape pod, and blew it to pieces with a cruelly accurate blast.
Rage filled him at Batty’s death. Gabe instantly rolled over onto his back, pointing his gun at the receding forms of the MSSRs. The enemy rigs were trying to come around in a loop rather than simply turning around, making them easy targets. He planted the aiming reticule for his gun over the nearest of the three rigs—conveniently, the one who had killed Stroke-Five—and squeezed the trigger. The Musket sent out a spray of blasts that swept over and across the MSSR’s vector, tracking it through the curve of its turn.
The enemy rig had come partway through the loop when the first glowing blasts reached it. The first shot slammed straight into its head, superheating the armor and shattering parts of it with a burst of light that had to have blinded the rig’s sensors. More shots arrived and pounded the back of the rig, each bolt burning a little further into the body. As the rest of the burst went wide, the rig seemed to sail through space unharmed. Then its powerplant exploded with a violent eruption of light, obliterating the rig from space.
Gabe felt a burst of satisfaction at having killed Batty’s murderer, but his cold joy was short-lived. When he checked for the rest of his flight, he only found two other active rigs. Stroke-One was now tumbling through space, a savaged wreck that gave no sign of life or controlled movement. Of Stroke-Six, he saw only a superheated cloud of metal shards and plasma. The pass had only taken a handful of seconds, and already the Divine Stroke Flight had been cut in half.
As the other two MSSRs came around, Gabe realized that he had a decision to make. Jacobs was dead or wounded. Someone had to step up, to take charge of the flight. The weight of responsibility closed in on him, and he fought to keep his head focused. He tried to clear his throat to open a signal, but something held him back.
Then Tyrone’s voice came over the channel, showing just a hint of fear. “Stroke-Three and -Four, I’m making a run on the rock. Try to keep them off me.”
Gabe nodded, forgetting for the moment that the other pilot couldn’t see it. “Confirmed, Stroke-Two. Three, stay on me and we’ll keep the MSSRs busy until he’s done.” Trying to ignore the hollow feeling of failure, Gabe used his drive to cut his forward momentum. Doing so would make him a tempting victim, but he hoped that would mean Derek could sneak up on the enemy rigs while they shot at the easier target.
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Sure enough, both MSSRs unleashed a barrage of plasma in his direction. Gabe prayed for help and started to dodge. He had to last long enough for Tyrone to shift the asteroid off course, for Derek to counterattack. Desperate, he used the tetherdrive to juke back and forth erratically. The sharp course changes made it impossible to fire back, but it kept the enemy rigs busy trying to hit him. Bursts still came far too close for comfort. A glancing blow sent the sensation of heat flaring through his left leg. It was a helpful illusion to let him know he’d been grazed, but it was hard to appreciate input at the moment.
As both MSSRs came around and closed on him, Gabe caught sight of Stroke-Three angling in on one of them. Derek came in hard and fast, holding his fire until the two rigs were nearly on top of one another. Then Derek slid to the right, his plasma rifle emitting a burst that swept across the enemy rig’s path. Unfortunately, the MSSR must have seen the attack coming because it abruptly jerked upwards and avoided the majority of the blasts. Those few that made contact simply glanced off the armor, as usual.
To Gabe’s gratitude, the MSSR’s evasive maneuver gave him an opening to escape. Accelerating toward the gap between the enemy rigs, he dove below their plane of attack. They passed each other by once again, and the face of Eris filled his view. Rolling, he faced the MSSRs and began to pour fire back at them, hoping to score a lucky hit.
Behind him, the MSSRs came around and opened fire on him again. His hits bounced off their armor, barely leaving a scratch. Their return fire seared closer to his all-too-fragile rig. A second glancing blow sent pain screaming through his right shoulder; the auxiliary sensor platform which had been mounted there blanked out as plasma ruined it. He gritted his teeth against the pain, a gesture that the BCI had not been designed to interpret in any meaningful way, and continued his dive toward the planet below and behind him.
“Stroke-Three, on my way Gabe. Get ready to climb.” He looked up and found Derek in a high-speed dive, intercepting the course he and the MSSRs were following. Gabe smiled and turned his attention back to the oncoming rigs. If he could keep them occupied just a short while longer, he might actually be able to survive the experience. His renewed fire on the MSSRs guaranteed that they remained focused on him, until he finally heard Derek’s signal. “Break up!”
He reacted instantly, changing the direction of his tetherdrive’s thrust so he shot upwards relative to the MSSRs. They reacted by following him into the climb, offering Derek a perfect shot as they stalled slightly. Stroke-Three did not hesitate. Derek peppered the enemy rigs with plasma, firing as fast as his rifle could cycle. One of the MSSRs weathered the rain of destruction with only a pair of marks on its armor to show for it.
The other MSSR was not nearly so fortunate. Its armor glowed hot under the bombardment, and then it slowly began to break apart. The rig’s tetherdrive failed first, exploding in a small burst of light that sent it tumbling through space. Further shots reached it and disintegrated the left arm, and then a second explosion propelled it even farther off course. Then Derek sped past, leaving the shattered MSSR to fall down toward the unblinking face of Eris.
Gabe tried not to think about what that final descent would mean for the pilot. If the man or woman had not been fortunate enough for the plasma to kill him, they would reach the outer edge of the atmosphere still trapped within the wreckage of their rig. Unless someone managed to recover the rig and its pilot, they would both burn up together in one long fall. No rig was designed to survive reentry. Any pilot who tried to make that descent, especially in a crippled suit, was as good as dead.
Then a warning screech throbbed through his skull. A trio of short-range tetherdrive missiles had locked onto him, while the MSSR that launched them dove after Derek. Gabe wanted to dive after them, but the missiles were a threat he couldn’t ignore. Projectile weapons were crude and limited to proximity explosions, but if he let them get close, Derek would need to find a new wingman. A mix of frustration, fear, and anger threaded through him as he opened a channel to the other CSR pilot.
“Stroke-Three, you’re on your own. Defending!”
The missiles closed fast. The closer they came, the louder the warning shriek throbbed. Crescendos built into a pulsating wail that threatened to deafen him. He waited until the last moment, when the missiles were very nearly on top of him, and then he threw his rig to the side. The turn was so sharp that he actually felt the effects of it straining the integrity of his suit; his real body was buried deep in a gravity-neutral pocket, cushioned against the effects of any maneuver.
It worked. The missiles attempted to correct their course, but their momentum was too strong. They shot away on a parallel course, but their tetherdrives shifted and the missiles began to curve back toward him. The deceleration was too small for one of the missiles, however, and the gravitic tether that tied it to him snapped like frayed bungee cord. Helpless, the missile hurtled away for a few long heartbeats, and then it annihilated itself in a single, blinding flash of energy.
Gabe wasn’t done yet. He clenched the toes of his right foot and triggered the device in the CSR’s right leg. A panel opened along the side of the leg, and a batch of countermissiles shot out. They were smaller than the projectiles targeting him, but their tetherdrives worked just as well. All four latched onto the missiles and shot out to meet them.
One of the missiles jerked sharply downwards, an automatic response to the projectiles. The sudden course change sent a countermissile sailing uselessly past. Then a second countermissile made contact, and Gabe smiled as an explosion announced that his danger had been halved.
There was no such luck with the last missile. It slipped neatly between two countermissiles, its automated response timing the gap perfectly. The speed of the projectile slowed slightly as the tethers of its miniature opponents tugged at it. Gabe felt a burst of hope. He poured on speed, hoping to snap its tether and free himself.
It defied his efforts and sped toward him, tetherdrive flaring. The countermissiles fell away, their tethers melting to nothing. Gabe felt a burst of horror as the missile closed with him in a burst of speed. No matter how much he accelerated, the missile could move faster than he would. Its tether was too strong now; there was no chance he could break it. It was over.
As the missile shot toward him, Gabe managed one last panicked dodge, praying that the small delay in the missile’s approach would be enough. The turn was sharp enough that his rig’s joints began to ache from the strain. His alarm kept shrieking higher as he tried to tighten the loop.
Then the missile went by so close that he almost imagined he could hear it whistle by his head. Almost immediately it began to slow, preparing to come back around, and Gabe knew he wouldn’t get lucky again. He watched the missile continue to decelerate, and a flash of indignation went through him. Though he knew he should run, though it made no sense, Gabe charged.
The range to target dropped in an avalanche of green numbers. Gabe felt his teeth clench as he drew closer, and he tried to put the aiming reticle over the missile. Its automated systems must have detected the gun’s targeting, and it started to jump and dodge even as it slowed. He nearly cursed as the projectile darted in and out of his sights, but he restrained himself and prayed for one clear shot.
For a moment, it seemed that no one had heard that plea. Then the missile grew sluggish. Perhaps a result of decreased range, or the loss of speed and momentum, his target no longer juked effortlessly. Its time in his sights grew longer, and it couldn’t dodge as far out to the sides. The distance decreased to point-blank range. His sights settled firmly on the projectile. Gabe whispered one last prayer and fired.
The plasma burst caught the missile dead center. The explosion filled his view for a moment, nearly blinding him with its intensity before the sensors of the rig scaled down to compensate. It should have been soundless, but the BCI helpfully provided a roar that replaced the missile warning alarm for a moment. Then he flew through the dissipating wave of destruction and paused.
His heart still pumped, and he could feel his breath coming quickly. The near-death experience had been more than enough to get his adrenaline pumping, even despite the buffers in place between his mind and his real body. Struggling to get a hold of himself, Gabe cleared his throat. “Stroke-Four to Stroke-Three. Where are you? I’m clear.”
Derek did not answer. Gabe frowned, his joy fading. “Stroke-Four to Stroke-Three. Respond.”
Silence. He searched the area where the two rigs had gone, and his stomach filled with dread. It took him only a moment to find his friend.
Derek’s rig was a mess of wreckage; though it had not exploded, the suit was obviously shot up. He saw no sign of a survival pod, which meant that Derek was either unable to eject or already dead. Even if he was still alive, if the rig continued along its current trajectory, it would fall into Eris’ gravity well within the hour. At that point, any chance that his flight-mate would survive would be gone.
A quiet determination filled Gabe, and a moment later he found the last MSSR. The enemy pilot was not charging toward him. Instead, the rig was head out away from Eris, moving at top speed. For a moment he wondered if the MSSR was running, and then he caught sight of Tyrone at the edge of his field of vision. He magnified his view and watched Stroke-Two make a firing run on the asteroid. Each burst showered plasma down on the rock, and explosions erased a maneuvering jet turret when Two landed a hit. The CSR pilot had killed enough of the jets that his small tetherdrive could pull the rock off its lethal trajectory. Given enough time, Tyrone could single-handedly push the rock off into space.
All of which would mean nothing if the MSSR reached him first.
Gabe accelerated, feeling the wind howl against him as he reached the maximum speed for the CSR. As he closed with the MSSR, Gabe took a moment to magnify his view of the enemy rig and study his opponent. While the other rig had the advantage in momentum, armament, and armor, the CSR did have an advantage in both acceleration and maneuverability. The range dropped quickly. Derek had gotten a few of his own hits in too; the sensor panels meant to provide the rig pilot with warning of a threat from behind were scarred from battle damage, and from the looks of things, the rig’s right knee had been brutally mauled, ruining any equipment there. If he could do enough damage on the initial attack, Gabe could still win.
He closed in, careful to keep in the MSSR’s blind spot. The other pilot didn’t react, perhaps so focused on the asteroid that he did not even think to confirm that his missiles had finished off their prey. Gabe settled his aiming reticule just off the MSSR and waited for the distance to narrow; he did not want a targeting laser giving even a small warning before his initial strike. He tensed as the remainder of the space between them vanished, and he began to tighten his trigger finger.
Then he heard Stroke-Two signaling him from up ahead. “Stroke-Two to Stroke-Four, why aren’t you firing?”
Gabe didn’t bother to answer. The signal beam had passed straight through the MSSR’s interception range; while encryption would keep the pilot from knowing exactly what had been said, he would know that it had been said to someone closing in on him from behind. Having seen the damage the MSSR’s plasma rifle could do at close range, Gabe immediately dodged to his left and opened fire.
The bursts of energy shot across space towards their target. They caught the MSSR just as it began a clumsy, slow turn. Plasma bolts exploded into the armor, shattering it into small glowing flakes as the shots dug into the rig’s body. The plasma rifle in its arms fired sporadically, sending an aborted stream of energy off to the right of Gabe’s position. Then the final bursts of Gabe’s salvo struck home and the MSSR settled into a fitful, silent tumble through space, its rifle drifting away from it, floating into oblivion.
Gabe watched it for another moment, ready to fire a second long salvo. Then he sighed in relief and signaled back to Tyrone. “Stroke-Two, the contacts have been dealt with. I’m going to start recovery operations.” He paused and clicked his tongue to activate his long distance communications. As he transmitted he started back towards where Derek still fell through space, dead or wounded. “Stroke Flight to Eris Defense Station, we are inbound with possible wounded pilots. Another asteroid attack has been stopped. Repeat, we have encountered another attack force and we are inbound with wounded. Do you read me?”
It was a long moment before the Station responded, but Gabe had expected the delay. The distance between the Guard’s defensive base for the system and the Wayfarer rigs was considerable, after all. “Confirmed, Stroke Flight. Your report of hostile forces will be logged and presented to Eris Command. We will have med teams prepped for your arrival.”
Gabe clicked his tongue to close the channel, and then went after his fallen friends to start the process of towing them home. The skepticism in the Station controller’s voice was a bitter draught to swallow. Five times the followers of the Way had nearly been destroyed, and their small fleet of private defense rigs had paid the cost. Four times before, the Guard had denied their reports about the incident. Any damage had been blamed on inexperienced handling accidents, and any records dismissed as doctored.
As Gabe established gravitic tethers with the wreckage of the two dead rigs, he prayed that Derek and Jacobs were still alive. He prayed that today would be the last time the Outriders tried to destroy New Sonora. More than that, with all his soul, he prayed that the Lord would protect and guide his people to safety. Gabe did not know where the Wayfarers would find peace. He only knew it would never be found here.