NoCro leaned back with a wisp of a smile as her new Stratoknight broke back through the low clouds north of San Cristobal. The cacophony of alarms filling her cockpit overlapped each other and a cursory glance at self-reported damage indicated that the machine was effectively dead. To punctuate the point one of the pieces of sympathetic armor shielding what would be her left shin caught the wind and snapped off. Reflexively she tilted her head and watched the curved panel tumble away into the dark clouds, as if Cristobal were demanding one last piece of her in return for her cheating death.

The umbilical which now connected her to the Stratoknight was providing main power, keeping the lights on and providing power to the main CPU. Only a little over an hour had passed since her Ghost was in perfect condition and preparing to make a final run-in on Prism’s strike group.

“All razors offline. Silence all alarms.” she said. Immediately the citadel fell silent, with the only noise being the barely audible hum of the Stratoknight’s six massive turbofan engines which were positioned in groups of three outboard each of the mirrored twin fuselages.

Again in response to some internal wish of hers rather than a command she had issued, her main monitor array flipped over to a plan view of the theater of operations: the southwestern Pacific off the coast of South America and around Isabela Island in the Galapagos. Most of the work of picking up the pieces of her airgroup and reassembling them had been accomplished back on Cristobal while she was waiting for her drone. As for the rest, she needed to get these guys rearmed and back in the air.

Gradually she became aware that she had her hands balled into tight fists and her red-painted nails were digging painfully into each of her palms. She looked down and willed herself to relax her fingers. In the same way that a drowning man is able to burst through the surface and take in one last watery breath, at once relieved that he has breathed and dreading that it might be his last, so too did the realization come across her that she had gone completely insane at some point in the last hour.

What had started as a simple but concerning condition of being unable to log out properly had by now graduated into a full on reality crisis. She bit her lip hard and drummed her fingers frantically on the aluminum side panel as she mentally walked back the last hour or so. There was a precise moment, actually, marking her departure from sensibility. That was meeting No-chan in the Sandbox and making that stupid bargain!

As NoCro was trying to get a grip she was interrupted by Linear, who relayed the bad news that she didn’t know what was going on either. After this conversation, NoCro was forced to reexamine what had happened—whether it had, strictly speaking, happened at all.

“Missus Markov,” she said, “I made it off, so it’s time to hold up your end. Hello? Pretty please?”

No response. She repeated the question several more times over a period of a few tense minutes. The melodic chime of a mesh-network transmission pierced the silence and she nearly jumped out of her chair with fright. Signa appeared in a picture-in-picture window, a silver-haired gentleman with closely cropped military-style hair.

“Impressive little exfil, Crow. Not sure if you’ve been following what happened with Tats’ broadcast, but the entire community is buzzing.” he tossed off casually. It was such a normal little thing to happen. NoCro cycled through a few different responses before settling on one, framing her eyes with a peace sign and smiling brightly.

“Oh no! Oh no no no, here comes No-chaaa-“ she said. The transmission cut off right there, terminated from Signa’s end. She tapped her finger on the console rapidly, trying to reestablish communications. When she did she launched right back into it: “-aaan. The Ultimate Idol of Justice has—“ The process repeated a couple more times until she beat him down and was able to complete the entire monologue: “—has arrived to smite evildoers and defend the weak. A beacon of love and faith in the ruins of the dead world! Say it with me… Absolute Conviction… ONLINE!”

Signa pressed his lips into a line and gave her performance a reluctant golf-clap.

“I’m impressed you’re keeping that up to the very end.” he said. NoCro tousled her hair and slitted her eyes, looking satisfied.

“I made someone a promise.” she said.

“Hah. Lose a bet?”

“Something like that… say, Sig, what’s the name of that demon who deceives you completely? Like you’re unwittingly trapped in its private universe. Laplace?”

“No, Laplace is the mathematician. His was a different concept, too. You’re thinking of Descartes and his evil genius. Couldn’t you just search all this up on the internet? We have more pressing matters.”

NoCro exhaled smugly through her nostrils.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

“Why don’t we put all the human knowledge into a big book and never talk to each other again?”

“Point. However there’s no sense in handing out answers to people who haven’t seriously thought of the question.”

NoCro made a swan-faced little pout but seemed to accept his reasoning. She was aware of the fact that it was once again No-chan who had thrown her this psychological lifeline. It had dragged Descartes out of her memory. Whatever it was, that thing was getting her out of one scrape after another.

“Listen,” NoCro said, suddenly serious, “There’s a chance I might lose the plot in a big way. If that happens I want you to log me out.”

“Forcibly? Can’t do that while you have Cygnus group.”

Signa didn’t here understand that Northern Cross was asking him to kill her. Nor could he, ever. Nor could anyone here. That much she resolved, before responding.

“Maybe. I understand. There’s something I have to do first, though.” NoCro said. The silver fox onscreen in the PIP cottoned on to her mood.

“Before you do that—or anything.” he said, “You saved me.”

She paused, here.

“I had lost everything.” he said, “So I say to you, don’t die.”

“I know.” she shot back naturally. “I’ll be there for you.”

She quietly added this to the pile of completely insincere white lies she had uttered in her life. She would be dead within the day—of that fact, she was more convinced than ever. She did bite her lip coquettishly at affixing him with such a loaded label.

“Don’t start with me, Crow.” he said, warningly.

“Yes, Daddy.” she said, all sultry, “I know your wife and son aren't around. What a shame. I can fix all that y’know. Not too late to make a new family.”

“Have you got a screw loose?” he said.

“Many. I can’t the only one unleashing her desires at the end. Aren't you?”

“What about Prism?”

“I love him. I still want you to fuck me. Also? He rejected me. Time to show him what that means.”

Signa had a good laugh about that.

“You really are playing her to the hilt.” he said, “I almost forgot it. We’ll need to keep them off balance. Don’t suppose you have a plan?”

That she did, a plan which she had to assiduously remind herself of. She shook her head several times and slapped herself on the cheeks again and again. Maybe NoCro really was taking her over, and had a thing for older men. Or just sex in general. That wasn’t her at all. None of that was! Even though in her heart of hearts, she always found Signa at least a little attractive.

“R-right,” she said, recentering herself more or less, “S-so Operation Vulcan Wolf?”

“I heard about that. Master class in refueling.”

“Let’s just do it again.”

“Literally?”

“Well…”

—

The entire alliance command hierarchy was presently collapsing into the factions which gave it birth. That was what Odin was seeing from his perch at NS Wolf. The various little parts of Isabela which each one controlled would probably soon be fighting each other openly, and Titan would roll them shortly after. The endgame was already visible from his perspective, both on his light map and the map of internal relationships he was aware of in his mind. His lightmap displayed the major factions arrayed across Isabela and their various territorial boundaries, as well as skirmishes that his drones and the remaining NetWar connections were displaying to him. He opened up a channel to NoCro.

“Miss, it’s all breaking up. The coalition.” he said.

“Good.” came the response. He winced.

Trusting her was the wrong choice. It was unbelievable that he’d allowed himself to be rolled by a 24 year old civilian. He’d been previously described as the greatest warrior on the planet, a fact he’d more or less proved during Operation Meteoric and then later again facing off against Prism directly. To say nothing of his escape from Afghanistan, which was its own sort of legend.

Maybe, in light of all that, he hadn’t taken her seriously enough. That was more than possible.

“Was that what you wanted?” he said.

“The coalition won’t survive Titan as it is. It needs new leadership. Wartime leadership!”

“You?”

“Sure, why not.” NoCro said, “You know our original agreement. You pretend to be bombed out of existence to the council, I give you a final battle worthy of participating in!”

That is something she had promised him in return for pretending the airbase NS Wolf was out of commission. Now with the Alliance breaking completely apart, it seemed more likely to be a Titan divide and conquer scheme. Odin sighed and ran a hand through his buzz cut, thinking perhaps his judgment had failed him. A depressing thought.

He found himself looped into a call with NoCro and Signa, who were engaged in reforming a final preliminary action against Titan forces prior to their landing. That was nothing they could stop even in the most optimistic terms.

“Odin!” she said immediately, “Have you ever read Rules for Radicals?”

“Sure.” he said, figuring it was a setup. He was well known in the community to be at least a little right wing. It seemed a perfect setup for a defenestration.

“A good tactic is one your people enjoy.” NoCro said, “So that’s what we’re going to do.”