Chapter 2

“I told you I should have stayed on stick!” Zenith shouted, running back to the cockpit.

“They didn’t brief us on any planetary defenses, ZT.”

Zenith flew over the pilot’s chair with a practiced leap and grabbed the controls. Ozzy was a capable pilot when needed, but if their lives were on the line she was taking the reins. A tactical feed appeared in the heads-up display of her helmet. No bogies inbound, but multiple projectiles were lighting up the sky.

“Hilde, assessment.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask, darling,” Hilde said, popping onto the HUD. The AI had chosen the avatar of an exuberant, well-dressed infernum, with horns slightly more curved than Hoxley’s.

“A section of the surface is being obscured from sensors by a scrambler, but given the rate of fire and metrics of the projectiles I surmise we are being shot at by four mark-five lightning javelins.”

“Safe bet that the scrambled section is where the research station is,” Zenith said, jerking the controls to the left and narrowly avoiding a blast of radiant plasma.

“Four is too many for us to charge in, ZT,” Ozzy said.

“For you maybe, but I’m not going to risk it in case there’s another surprise waiting for us,” Zenith said, slapping the comms button, “buckle up everyone, I’m taking us in. Hilde, plot a course taking us as close we can get to that station without taking fire. We’ll use the sloop from there. Javelins can’t touch us if we’re close to the ground.”

The Sunrunner trembled as it dove into the atmospheric barrier. Somewhere behind her, Zenith heard plates fall to the ground accompanied by a succinct curse from Hoxley. Motes of obliterating light zipped past the ship with diminishing frequency as she flew out of range. The rattling of descent disappeared with the incoming fire as they neared the planet’s surface. Whatever else may come, no harm would come to the crew while she was in the pilot’s chair.

Hoxley anxiously fidgeted with the small device on his arm containing his personal shield generator, checking again and again that it was still functioning. The crew had strapped into their seats aboard the sloop and were awaiting contact as Zenith flew them in. The small landing vessel, affectionately named Rockhopper, was slightly more comfortable than a can of fish and equally aromatic. BOB’s visual sensor registered the nervous infernum.

“Your PSG unit is operating within standard perimeters. I inspected it seventy-one hours ago!” BOB said. Whether they were trying to be reassuring or indignant, no one could tell.

“Yea, stop fiddling with your unit,” Odybrix said, smirking.

“I’m not a fighter,” Hoxley said, releasing his death drip on the PSG, “I should be back aboard the ship preparing a victory meal.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Adam said, “I’ve seen you use that weird fire gun. You’re plenty capable.”

“I, uh, yeah. I shoot guns. I know how to do that.”

“And there might be hungry scientists down there who need you to whip up a snack,” Buddy said, without a hint of sarcasm.

Hoxley grew quiet and stared at the cracked vid screen above the door to the cockpit. An arid landscape of rust and slate rushed beneath them under a yellow sky. The atmosphere, according to Xavier, was “mildly corrosive.” This meant two things: you couldn’t breathe it for long without having your lungs look like someone brushed them with a scouring pad and it would eventually eat through the filters on your pressure suit. He felt his jaw click and realized he was grinding his teeth. Just take a breath. We’re going to be fine.

As if given its cue, a distant black dot appeared on the old vid screen and Zenith spoke through their HUD network, “We got incoming.”

The speck on the screen grew arms and legs. A large extension stuck out of its back. The Rockhopper jerked left and Zenith cursed over comms, confirming the mech had a rocket launcher. A series of sharp turns slammed the crew against their harnesses, testing the integrity of the aging restraints. The dull boom of an explosion resounded outside and the vid screen was lit up with the flicker of plasma blasts.

There was a moment of stability when Zenith made a wide turn. Adam seized the chance to disconnect from his harness and dash into the cockpit, operating the single light plasma cannon the sloop had. Bursts of blue light sped toward the approaching mech as he returned fire. The volley intercepted its flight path and was seemingly going to strike it, but the mech spun upward with astonishing agility.

“What the hell is that thing?” Adam asked, “An F2200?”

“Moves like one. Shoots rockets too, but the profile is way bigger,” Zenith said, “a big girl like that shouldn’t do backflips.”

As if in response to confusion, a compartment on the mech’s wrist opened and a cylinder the size of Odybrix sprung into its hand. Blue light erupted from its thrusters as it closed the gap between them. Energy crackled from the object in its hand and coalesced into a colossal blade. Hoxley gripped the tattered cushion of his seat in mortified anticipation of the collision.

“Nope,” Zenith said.

“Holy f-,”

The expletive got halfway out of Odybrix’ mouth before the Rockhopper wrenched to the left and narrowly avoided an unexpected window installation. The maneuvers—or more accurately, G-Force torture—that followed, made Hoxley glad that he hadn’t eaten. That feeling quickly evaporated into concern that he had missed his last meal when he saw the mech soaring toward them. The roar of thrusters drowned the screams and alarms, but the zap of the light plasma cannon intermittently pierced the din—Adam didn’t stop shooting.

The jarring movements came less frequently and the sloop began accelerating. The mech fired hot plasma in their direction but didn’t spare another rocket. After a few seconds, it broke off pursuit and flew back toward the research station. Hoxley released his stranglehold on the seat.

“-fuck!” Odybrix concluded.

“Everyone alright back there? We’re going to go ahead and keep our distance from whatever that is,” Zenith said.

“That has to be a military prototype,” Adam said, “not RC. I would have heard about giant beam blades.”

Adam popped an image of the mech onto the vid screen. The design evoked the word “slick.” The smooth angles of its body and limbs lacked the characteristic form-over-fashion design of most mechs. No performance issues arose despite the apparent focus on aesthetics. If anything, it was faster and deadlier than most of its counterparts.

Its power was intimidating, but something else set Hoxley on edge. It wasn’t the mounted rocket platform or plasma cannon, it was what was the feeling being evoked. A creeping unease skittered up his back and clutched at his chest. Whatever was in the mech felt like something plucked from his nightmares.

“This is a lovely planet,” Buddy said unsarcastically, kicking up clouds of dust as she marched across the barren landscape.

“This?” Adam asked, sweeping an arm out to confirm they were talking about the same ball of dirt, “it’s corrosive and devoid of life.”

“Quit describing BOB and his coffee,” Odybrix said.

“How dare you!” BOB chimed, pleasantly, “Your tongue is obviously defective.”

“I didn’t say I don’t like the coffee.”

“She consumes 2.5 liters of your beverage on average per day,” Jim said, “it is reasonable to assert she enjoys the coffee.”