Something faint interrupted his dozing, but he didn’t hear it. No, it punched him in the chest. He jerked upright, stars veiled his vision, his brain not yet accustomed to the bloody work that must be done.

  A green triangle icon flashed on his overlay. The beeps agonized his ears.

  “Look alive,” The carryall operator said sternly, “this is as far into the fray I’m taking you—”

  “13th MAV—launch!” Lawrence said. Heavy thuds rattled his panels. The overhead bars released his K?mpfer.

  He yanked down the accelerator lever and surged from the carryall as blue laz threads danced around him.

  They were in a debris field; a mix of celestial bodies and a mixture of capital ships from the looks of things. He slowed down against the upturned hull of one such battleship, he wasn’t sure if it was a Star Monitor’s or a Dreadnought’s, but it didn’t matter.

  A Prussian blue K?mpfer came to a halt next to him in cover, repeater at the ready.

  There was a window portrait that opened up. Lawrence couldn’t help but smirk.

  “Wellington… buddy old pal! Just the man I’d want at my back.”

  “Even more than someone like Atrides?” Boris Wellington responded in his rumbling baritone voice. His attention grabbed by a Tacoma, he fired off precision shots that absorbed its headpiece and the chest. The enemy pilot lit up in both places as it slammed into a colossal asteroid. A golden orb and then a crater.

  Tacoma sharpshooters shot at every angle—from behind asteroids, from allied Star Monitors and hulls of Imperium Star Dreadnoughts alike—even the occasional mobile trooper.

  “That cowboy is too much of a wild hog for me,” Lawrence said.

  Lawrence did all he could to cover the hurried retreat of their carryall.

  Others weren’t as lucky.

  Even as additional carryalls came in, one of them was struck by a laz line. The Shinra attached to it still couldn’t break off from the metal bars in time and were atomized like the rest, whole bloodlines gone just like that. Lawrence counted his blessings he had a brave carrier commander—but not one that suicidal.

  The Yellow Typhoon swung by, supported by several K?mpfers. She tore through them like a tiger upon sheep, the others mainly took pot shots at the few she happened to miss. The Tacoma pilots never had any chance.

  “We can’t let her claim all the credit,” Boris rumbled, “let’s go earn our stripes.”

  “Sounds like Atrides is rubbing off on you, chief.”

  Boris chuckled. “He has that aura to him.”

  They moved up; Star Monitors kept their distance, their capital laz guns tore through any holdouts the mobile assault vanguard missed.

  A Star Monitor in the deep rear sank in an inferno—then nothing.

  Lawrence clicked his tongue. “We’re gonna get an earful from the commander if we don’t do a better job,” he said.

  “Schwarzenberger is moving up too fast, don’t you think?,” Boris answered, regarding Victoria.

  Lawrence felt defensive and wanted to deny it, but she was. Although Tominosky particles jammed his sensors, the scattershot of enemy signatures stained his radar.

  He looked ahead as the walnut Zeta barreled for the glittering defense system of the Farragaig colony laser—and the little blue paradise of Fasnakyle.

  “She’s asserting herself too much,” Lawrence said. “But she can’t afford to slow down—none of us can.”

  “Stay sharp, Mengde!” Boris rumbled. He gestured for them to move forward as Boris took point.

  Lawrence kept up with him as they landed on an upturned platform that they used as a rampart.

  A missile salvo obliterated their last bulwark. The duo had to keep shields up to deflect the lethal debris.

  Both men faced outward, but used thrusters to peak over the edge of the hull.

  “See anything?” Lawrence said, too focused outward to spare a glance at his optical cameras.

  “Nothing—wait, there is something, on our left—”

  Lawrence hesitated to look away, but steered his gaze to see a Shinra team of three. They didn’t stick to any cover as they advanced.

  “Morons!” Boris said.

  “Just what are they doing?” Lawrence squinted, then: “Better pray any gods give them some slack. Wellington, use your targeting system to scope anything out,” he paused, then added: “If we’re lucky, we can warn them in time.”

  “You think the jamming would give us that luxury?”

  Before Lawrence could answer, Boris spun around and poked the repeater rifle over the top. The gun oozed plasma slugs at a position ahead of them, at least a hundred meters away.

  Blue scythed shots invoked a flash of white orbs as the Shinra team was massacred. Lawrence ducked, the cries of the surviving pilots cut short to static.

  “Damn!” Lawrence said, his teeth clattered. He glanced around, does he peek out to help?

  Stolen story; please report.

  “Don’t chance it,” Boris’s brass voice kept him immobilized.

  His warning saved Lawrence from an early demise. The Shrina that survived turned tail. Lawrence’s senses were overwhelmed by the pilot’s vocalized terror. The pilot fired off indiscriminately—a precision scythed shot ripped through his Shinra’s torso.

  It didn’t explode—it missed the reactor core.

  Instead, his sentinel coffin rammed into a rock and a big white sphere atomized what remained of the mobile trooper.

  Lawrence’s K?mpfer stood up. He took a deep, long breath, and held the lever down to increase thrust power.

  “Mengde!” Boris noticed too late as he blasted off from cover into the open—he jerked the joysticks on occasion, the evasive zig-zag to avoid any laz shots. His oval shield held over his front profile.

  There, to his lower something glimmered. He zeroed in on an optical camera and saw a Tacoma as it drifted. But it was the long barrel of a laz gun that made him double-take. It was only the upper half of a Tacoma but he saw a silhouette behind it—he was sure of it.

  Solar light removed the cloak and Lawrence knew it wasn’t just any plain Tacoma. It’s armor plating wasn’t the typical gray scheme of one. No, it was crimson red; adorned with golden trimming. Goose bumps splashed on Lawrence like water.

  The Red Blitz shoved the husk of its ally out of the way and fired another salvo.

  Lawrence raised his shield just in the nick of time—the plasma absorbed. His paneling shook.

  He lowered it, briefly, to fire a shot—gun brandished. He was about to squeeze down when he realized the Blitz was already gone.

  “Wellington! Where are you?” Lawrence hissed.

  Debris from a Star Monitor fast approached and he lowered the power output to avoid a collision with it. He landed on it. He tried again: “Boris, damn it… the Tominosky jamming is making my life hell.”

  He spun to face outward, his back now to the Star Monitor hull, his shield still up.

  He released his breath, a quick scan.

  It didn’t seem there were any Tacoma, so Lawrence used his backpack thrusters to have the K?mpfer propel upward and turn around as he peered over the hull. He held out his shield arm to cover his rear as he did so.

  —But he was forced off it as a blade sliced through the hull. The Red Blitz stood over him and fired rapidly.

  He sped down the hull but the sudden assault ripped through his shield.

  “Damn it!” Lawrence hissed. He threw it overhead at the Blitz but all it accomplished was to force the ace killer to drop down on the opposite side.

  “This is bad, real bad,” Lawrence said, beads of sweat attacked him. He escaped the explosions by a thin margin. He couldn’t possibly predict where the Blitz could pop up next. He hoped for a miracle, for Victoria or Boris or anyone else to back him up.

  He kicked himself off the hull and kept his trigger finger tight on the button.

  His sensors whined as a heat signature emerged from his left. With lightning reflexes he pushed the overhead targeting system—he couldn’t wait for the solution to finish. He squeezed the trigger.

  His gun belched—but it was completely off-mark. The three-burst laz javelin shots was akin to a sprinkler squirt in terms of accuracy.

  “Miscalibration?!” Lawrence hissed. He kicked the footing of his seat—it was a spare he picked up along the way, but the carryall technicians flubbed the job!

  He smacked the targeting system aside.

  He aggressively changed orientation and landed on another rock.

  An exchange of laz rounds but it was futile. Even with his skill it was near impossible to compensate; none registered.

  Before long the firefight ended and he lost sight of the Tacoma ace.

  But Lawrence knew this wasn’t the end of it.

  The Red Blitz zoomed overhead, an MT panzerfaust equipped and fired it off—Lawrence jumped and yanked down on the acceleration lever.

  He pulled away just as the warhead splashed the asteroid.

  It fractured; debris shrapnel forced Lawrence into in extremis maneuvers for the lack of a shield.

  The assault never relented, like a torrent the pilot raged shots between the debris. Lawrence was too distracted by the celestial pieces and once again confronted up close and personal. The Tacoma’s monoeye flashed with determination.

  He swung and missed Lawrence’s torso by a thin miracle.

  Lawrence fired off his vulcan cannons and it forced the pilot back—it struck him in several non-vital shots.

  At this range, Lawrence knew he had a chance. He took a chance with the headpiece—if he could at least take that out, this fight would be more evened. He’d be left blind.

  A shot fired off—it struck the neck but the Blitz didn’t back off. He grabbed Lawrence’s barrel and tore it from him—and whirled to roundhouse kick him.

  His K?mpfer spiraled—his vision blanketed by whiteness.

  He stabilized just in time to avoid collision with twin rocks and touched down on one of them.

  And now, he had only at his disposal a photon naginata and the chain mines curled within his backpack.

  He stood up, the Red Blitz stood perched upon the chest remains of a Shinra opposite him. The Tacoma defiantly threw both guns—and reached for a chromium hilt. The maroon blade cut through the wine-dark cosmic sea.

  The K?mpfer drew the long chromium pole-arm. With a click of the tertiary trigger, the azure photon blade answered her duel.

  But then, he saw its monoeye shift in its headpiece. A bright orange light bathed their surroundings. From a rear window Lawrence saw a flare had gone off like fireworks against the backdrop of Fasnakyle. It wasn’t one of his own. Was it an Imperium signal to retreat?

  Surviving Tacoma—there weren’t many—took flight and raced for Zeta.

  But most didn’t make it; cut down by allied laz threads.

  The Red Blitz jumped; but not for Lawrence.

  But Lawrence wasn’t about to let Benny’s killer get away again, not if he could help it!

  He sprang to intercept the Tacoma—he swung overhead but it was too predictable for the Tacoma; the attack was parried with ease.

  And now, caught unable to get a ready on the next move, again found the center of the naginata hilt grabbed.

  “No!” Lawrence screamed. Was this the end?!

  Using it like a pole, the Tacoma slammed him in the chest with a double kick.

  The console’s airbag activated in reaction to the force—it completely knocked the wind out of Lawrence. His head rattled as his vision saw stars for what seemed like forever.

  His cockpit was an uncontrollable roller coaster. His paneling fizzled, the K?mpfer creaked and groaned.

  The airbag receded into the console.

  The K?mpfer auto-stabilized before long. However there was no sight of the Red Blitz.

  Three K?mpfers came up upon him, their guns and shields brandished. Two of them floated in place, but the third one planted itself on a nearby flat metallic surface. It extended out a hand and a cable shot out—it landed on his right shoulder pauldron.

  A video feed popped up—it was Boris.

  “Thank god you’re alright,” he said.

  The other portraits sprang up: they were his squadmates Friederika Trachenberg and Luke Atrides.

  Despite the bewilderment of Luke, Friederika got the word in first. “We were caught up with some hooligans, love…”

  “I should’ve let them handle it,” Boris said in a graver, deeper tone. He slammed his armrest. “If I had been there—”

  “Was that the Red Blitz?!” Luke blurted. “You fought the Red Blitz yourself?” Luke was astonished, eyes wide. He glanced off-screen at the others.

  Lawrence could only nod weakly.

  “You all did what you had to do,” Lawrence said. “Benny of all people couldn’t even take him out. Yet, I couldn’t avenge Benny.” He cupped his hands together and rested them on the top of his helmet. “I completely let him down.”

  “No love, you didn’t,” Friederika said. “You survived, didn’t you? Is that not the best…” her gaze lowered, she cleared her throat.

  “You’re alive and with us now, is that not the best you can for the dead?” Boris said.

  Lawrence looked up at them all. He smiled, and leaned back in his chair. He glanced up at the photograph taped to the top of his dome, of the 13th MAV, of Benny, his perfectly captured grin, the radiant rise of his whiskey bottle.

  “Who else could fight the Red Blitz and survive?” Luke said. “It’s like fighting the Yellow Typhoon and living.”

  Friederika glared at Luke but added nothing.

  “Yes,” Boris rumbled, “if I was there—if I didn’t turn back, we could’ve nicked the Blitz. Our final offering to Benny, no mercy for the likes of him as he gets a piece of Benny’s mind.”

  Lawrence slid off his helmet, the heat from the engagement left him cooked alive in his flight suit. He zipped it down slightly.

  Behind them, Star Monitors like their mothership the Yilan caught up. Carryalls and Shinras scanned the flanks.

  They couldn’t afford to rest now. None of them could.

  “Any word from Schwarzenberger or the others?”

  “The XO is wrangling Erwin,” Friederika answered. “No word from Vicky.”

  “Well, she can handle herself.” The three of them hailed their carryall as they jumped to get into position.

  “By the way lieutenant,” Luke said, “what happened to your weapons?”

  For a moment, Lawrence didn’t answer. He struggled just to remain upright in his seat. But he worked the energy to answer, and frankly, until that moment he didn’t know. “Damn thing wasn’t calibrated,” Lawrence said, dryly. “Sliced through both with ease, if they didn’t have that signal to retreat… I…”

  “But how do you expect to go on without a gun? You can’t just fight with a naginata!”

  “Boy’s right,” Boris said. “Or a shield… that Red Blitz did a number on you for sure, lieutenant.”

  “Not sure if they have any spare in here,” Lawrence answered. “Nothing a little scavenging can fix.”

  That put a lid on the matter. None voiced their objection despite Lawrence’s clear state, not to mention their own. They all knew the stakes of wasting time, sleep can come—but not now. No more sorties, this’ll be the last one. The four blasted off ahead of the Yilan—for asteroid fortress Zeta.

  Every so often, along the way, Lawrence looked up at the taped photograph of the 13th MAV.

  From the right: Kaz Jasmin stood coolly, honcho Benny Morrison leaned on him with a radiated whiskey toast, Friederika Trachenberg and Victoria Schwarzenberger on either side of Lawrence, Boris Wellington held Luke Atrides in a headlock.

  And lastly, the curious, innocent little Frank Erwin who ran into the photo last minute, and the abundance of the Yilan’s MT mechanics. And Lawrence wondered… how much more of his comrades will be a fleeting memory like Benny?