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The entire structure boomed and resounded, vibrating like a giant bell as a massive concussion tore Cerulean Dream away from Orbital Station 1210. The officer's club, built directly into the wide docking collar between them, was all but obliterated. First compressed, then stretched past material failure.

The two giant vessels were cloven apart in a tempest of thunderous noise, shredding metal, electrical fire, and hurricane wind. First pitted rock, then the hollow darkness of space showed between them. Momentarily out of control, Cerulean Dream yawed toward Glimmr. Inside the club, that projected crowd flickered, then vanished completely. Chairs, food, utensils and drink went flying as gravity failed. Not so, V47 Pilot and Foryu.

Clocking himself as far forward as possible, the pilot clamped one hand to a bolted-down table, the other to his companion's right arm. Braced himself with magnetic boot soles and palm grip, until the compartment's retention field activated. The howl of escaping atmosphere dropped to a whisper, then ceased. Vents opened up in the bulkheads, refilling the torn compartment. The deck shuddered and buckled in waves. Repeated alarms went off; broadcast as flashing lights, piercing sirens, and a single, urgent looped message.

ATTACK: ATTACK: ATTACK: GENERAL QUARTERS: GENERAL QUARTERS: ALL ASSETS REPORT TO DUTY STATIONS: ATTACK: ATTACK: ATTACK:

He acknowledged at once, checking with Flight Command while triggering V47's launch sequence. Moved with the deck, riding its shock waves rather than fighting them, avoiding snapped panels and sparking, loose wires. Foryu was not as prepared, being programmed for pleasure, not war. She was pried out of his grip by the docking collar's sudden retraction. Spun out in midair, straight for the glowing retention field. It was designed to contain atmosphere, not cyborg companions. Foryu could not brake her tumbling flight or change her direction. She'd be out through the field, lost to the frozen void in micro-ticks. Sending alarm on all frequencies, the companion reached for him; blue eyes wide, brown hair a whipping tornado.

The cyborg pilot converted manna to mass. Extended his left arm 4.79 yards, using the limb like a grappling cable to seize and clamp Foryu. His hand locked onto her shoulder, just where flesh met and bonded with chrome. She grabbed at his wrist with both hands, clinging tight as he drew her back down to the deck. A flurry of impulses passed between them, containing very few words.

"I am required outside," he told Foryu, in a compressed, rapid upload. Next, removing his jacket, the pilot draped it over his companion's slim shoulders, adding, "If the docking collar and club sustain further damage, discorporate. I will return for you."

"And for me!" sent the O-club's AI, flickering badly. "Pilot-Sir, my podium and memory cartridge are here." The system's processing unit lit up in his perception; flashing an error message from a polished steel column just 2.5 yards from the entrance. "Please, return for me, as well."

The pilot transmitted assent.

"You will not be left behind, either of you," he promised, already moving.

V47 was ready for launch, but nearly a hundred miles off, down-ring. He could not reach the fighter in time, using mechanical transport. Instead, the pilot drew manna from the station's Battle Uplink in great, gulping bursts, then ported, crossing that distance in three reckless hops. Strange thing: in the between time… crossing from 'here' to 'there' in the darkness of nowhere… he could see nothing at all but a swarm of attacking Draugr. They burned in that swirling black void like plasma.

The last jump flung him directly at V47's open and waiting cockpit, which gaped like a pixel-edged maw. V47 tracked his approach and synced their momenta. Surprisingly graceful, it dropped through the red-lit bay and arced backward, catching its hurtling pilot straight out of the air. He hit stunning hard, knocking his wind and some wiring loose. Was seized and reoriented by the mech's shifting interior. Probes shot out, finding their sockets. Contact plates first gelled, then bonded to flesh. Most of his newly bought clothing was burnt to ash in the process, being in the way. Pilot and battle-mech interfaced within micro ticks, becoming two minds in one giant warrior.

Not that he could leap off the pad and start fighting. All available units were cleared for orderly launch. Blue Flight before what remained of the Golds, with Red Flight in hurry-up prep. He had to wait, as wave after wave of cobalt, insectoid fighters took off, first impelling, then lighting up like small suns. The entire launch bay thundered and rang with their noise. A seemingly endless 23 ticks passed before it was V47's turn. He got out sooner than his surviving compatriots, though, because they'd cradled their mechs, and he hadn't.

Got the eventual go-ahead from Flight Command, and then launched. He hit the impellers, reversing gravity to shoot himself out through the bay's retention field, getting well clear before he ignited real thrust. The engines kicked in as soon as the go-light flashed up. He burned hard for the battlefront, absorbing 10g acceleration, along with the unfiltered manna of space. The damaged warship and orbital station dropped down and away, spinning like toys in his wake. Glimmr shone like a baleful red-and-gold eye behind them, pocked with sudden dark smudges. He noted it all and archived the images, checking his feed for updates; tracking friendlies and hostiles.

There was a lot to scan. That first attack had been nothing more than a random, blind strike. An asteroid launched through Draug null space at Glimmr. Hundreds more of the craggy rocks tumbled past, seeming to appear from nowhere as they phased out of space-fold, then dropped to the planet below. Those bludgeoning mountains lit up on their way, trailing fire and smoke as they plunged through the cloud giant's atmosphere.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Cerulean Dream responded with calm precision. Following protocol, the warship's AI launched wing after wing of attack drones. Above them, the upper decks unleashed hell from tiered cannons. Guided by hybrid systems, the guns tracked and destroyed any impactors that might have struck Glimmr's harvesting platforms. Right. Not his business. Like the Blues and his newly launched comrades, the pilot was meant to stop those incoming enemy fighters. There were thousands of Draugr ahead; filling space like a boiling, gritty dark wall. Nevertheless, for some reason,

"Good hunting," he wished the warship's AI, getting a rapid blip in return.

Next, he had a decision to make. The Blues hovered in space between Orbital Station 1210 and an onrushing blizzard of Draug. V12, V15 and V27 were just now leaving the bay; acknowledging hails, but not disposed to reply. The question was, where could he do the most good, fighting alone?

V47 uploaded a hundred-and-fifty-three standard battle plans, but those depended on the presence of a full-strength fighter wing. Here and now, he was on his own. The pilot shook his head, feeling the impulse move out to the giant, person-form robot.

"No. Throw anything file-standard at them and we're going to be dust, V. Nearly happened, that last round." Ace had a saying, in Rogue Flight. "It's time to wander off-script, Partner."

'Objection noted. Filed. Querying pilot: Upload substitute battle plan?'

Another good question. The answer came in a sudden flash, from that interface between augmented elf and AI… and whatever it was that had spiked him awake in the first place.

"Got it. Top speed, full burn, everything we've got. Make for coordinates X31, Y-16, Z53 and punch it, V."

V47 complied, burning everything, all of it, heading straight for that wall of tumbling enemy ships. At that speed, the rest of the universe slowed to a crawl, and his effect on space was like somebody pulling one side of a cloth, dragging everything else right along. He couldn't shoot; would have out-sped his own cannon and missiles, barely trailing the lasers. He could project a cutting ram, though, producing an antimatter plow directly ahead of the battle-mech. Meant to disable a warship, the ram flared as it annihilated whatever lay in its path, wreaking havoc with scanning and comm, filling space with hurtling junk.

"Spot-shield, V," he commanded, pulling zero-point energy straight from the void. All around them, the enemy fighter craft swerved; helplessly drawn to his flight path. Nano-ticks passed. Then his cutting ram encountered the first Draug. A searing, slow-time explosion ejected a blossom of gasses, metal and light, causing his optics to darken. He snagged energy as V47 shot past, topping up manna and charge. Next widened his cutting ram, weaving past enemy fighters that seemed to be dropping through mud. Space was all at once dotted with slow-bursting flares. Meanwhile, Draug energy bolts crept past him like tar; their particle beams as slow as flung spears.

Only, there were so many Draug, and everyone else… the Blues, V12, V15 and V27… was adhering to published, accepted maneuvers, flying in small groups, attacking the enemy one at a time. He could speak to the mecha, but not to their pilots. The other elves were just ride-along meat; not even fully awake. There would be no Rogue Flight "togetherness", here.

'Systems update, Pilot: Engine efficiency dropping. Engine power at 83.61%,' sent V47, seeming concerned.

Why was clear enough. Those Belkor-Shunt engines weren't meant to be redlined at all, much less continuously. He risked burning them out completely, if he didn't slow down. Well…

"Understood, V. We'll do this another way. Drop to three-quarter thrust, then give off a wide-band irritant signal. Something to make them come after us."

In the absence of irresistible speed-mass, that is. V47 considered for nearly a tick. Then,

'Searching. One possibility located, pilot: A gravitic fluctuation with a period of 12 wpt has been observed to interfere with Draug intelligence fields. Such a broadcast might prove motivating.'

He nodded again, sensing the motion through servos, pistons and micro-fine gears.

"Right. Affirm. Only, how do we generate twelve gravity waves per tick without light speed or planet-sized mass?" Then, "Move past them, V. We're going to need plenty of room to think."

Again, V47 had a response.

'Rapid hyper-jumps are one possibility. Move in and out between real and null space, twelve leaps per tick, without changing position, Pilot.'

"No… input? No destination coordinates?" asked the cyborg, as V47 doused the cutting ram and swooped clear.

'Affirm. Lack of arrival coordinates yields a 97.25% likelihood of return to initial conditions,' V47 replied, simultaneously projecting a very old data file. By this time, they'd slowed to cruising speed. The Draugr were moving like tumbling, shape-changing rocks again, surrounded by hundreds of searing explosions; already preparing their attack run on station and ship.

"Sounds like a plan," said the pilot, unconsciously quoting a show-vid character. Fortunately, V47 had downloaded and watched every episode, too. It recognized Ravn's affirm. "Fingers crossed," whispered the pilot, causing his mech to do just that as it slowed to a halt in open and hostile space.

He began that series of jumps, then. Twelve leaps per tick. Not going anywhere, just disturbing the kruft out of space-time.

"Come on," he urged, beckoning with one giant mechanical hand. "Come and stop me."

Worked like a charm, as every Draug ship in the surrounding three light-ticks changed course at once. He didn't have time to celebrate. Just input a short space-fold, further away from Cerulean Dream and the station. Just out of enemy reach, he made another quick series of frenzied hyper-jumps. Now, two sets of gravity ripples spread out through the Draugr, disrupting their guidance and group intelligence. He saw for himself the darkness between being shaken and punctured with each of his leaps. Took no direct attention, merely archiving his observations and data, then leaping away again.

Hurt. They were… he was hurting them, somehow. Each null-space jump was a slash through their dark-world reality. But he'd seized their attention and couldn't stop, now. Through a fretwork of particle beams and spacecraft, he flickered and leapt, drawing the entire attack fleet to the space between stars. Out where sullen Titania shone as brightly as Oberyn, and Glimmr was only a spark.

There, he was quickly surrounded by tumbling Draugr. Relative speed, next to nothing. Actual motion… not the best he could do. And it was time to drop the hammer.

"Ready," he sent to V47. Then, as those boulder-like fighters closed in, "Drop a gear, disappear," he quoted Ravn (episode 6, season 3, 15 mega-ticks runtime).

He switched their form with a thought, pulling manna from space and the stars, changing instantly from warrior-mode to fighter craft. Tons of physical mass converted to energy all at once, giving V47 a sudden boost through that clenching gauntlet of Draugr. In his wake, the pilot fired a cloud of electromagnetic pulse bombs, barely clearing their range before setting all of them off. Chaos erupted behind him, looking like nuclear fire. Victory.

It's the one you didn't see that got you, though... every drek time.