WINGS OF REDEMPTION

BOOK 3 OF THE FORGOTTEN FLEET

CRAIG ANDREWS

ALSO BY CRAIG ANDREWS

The Machinists:

Fracture

Splinter

Martyr

Capture

Exposure (Winter 2024)

The Forgotten Fleet:

Wings of Honor

Wings of Mourning

Wings of Redemption

For Ender and Callan,

this book was supposed to be about

aliens and starfighters going pew pew.

Instead it became about being a son and a father.

I hope you know how proud you make me every day

and how I’ll forever do anything for you.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Afterword

About the Author

1

Bridge, SAS Redemption

Baranyk Space

“Jump complete, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “Sensor data coming in now.”

The words were spoken with a tired crispness—as if he’d spoken them hundreds of times before.

Captain Coleman let himself exhale. He stood in his customary position near the base of the battle map, his sweaty hands gripping the railing that circled it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept or had anything resembling rest. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent any meaningful time away from the bridge and its chatter, beeps, and the flashing lights of the Redemption’s Condition-1 status.

He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d looked at anything other than the imaging display. Blessedly, the battle map was empty. No sign of Baranyk activity.

“Another jump,” Commander Garcia said softly. “Another tempting of fate and another lucky draw.”

Coleman glanced at him, wanting to nod or maybe even offer a smile in relief, but fatigue stood in the way of anything more than the simple look.

The XO looked how Coleman felt. His hair was in disarray, dark circles surrounded his eyes, and his skin had lost its luster. Even his normally jovial personality had soured. He was an empty husk of himself, worn down, stepped on, and punished by life and the impossible task before them.

They were in a race, and if they lost, humanity and everything it had ever accomplished would be destroyed. The enemy fleet, larger than anything ever assembled, was moving. And Coleman had no idea how fast they were advancing, the limits of their jump drives, or where they would strike first. He could only control what he could control, and right now, that meant making every jump as fast as possible.

That also meant that he was pushing his ship and its crew to their limits. More than one member of the bridge crew had already collapsed from exhaustion. Dr. Rydell had given him a stern reminder of the limits of human physiology but hadn’t pressed him too hard. She knew what they were up against and how dire the situation was. Knew what only Coleman and a select few others aboard the Redemption knew.

The enemy had found a way to manipulate human behavior, to turn unwitting people into drones controlled by the Baranyk Overlord. In many ways, that was more terrifying than the massive fleet bearing down on the human worlds. He’d had no choice. He’d pressed his crew to their limits. Pushed himself further than he’d ever thought possible.

The jump marked 1,717 consecutive jumps, nearly one every thirty minutes, except when they’d taxed the EmDrive too much and had to allow it time to recover. But every jump brought them closer to a JumpGate that would unlock their return to human-occupied space and the Sol Fleet.

“System clear, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Coleman said. “Begin initializing jump number one-thousand-seven-hundred-and-eighteen.”

“Yes, sir.”

Coleman turned to Commander Garcia. The other man had closed his eyes and was leaning against the railing beside him. Coleman told himself he needed to do a better job of staggering shifts and ensuring everyone got some downtime. He needed them alert and in fighting shape. If they ran into the Baranyk in their present condition… He didn’t want to think about it.

“I’ll be in sick bay,” Coleman said. “When I get back, you’re ordered to take a three-hour nap.”

The smallest of smiles appeared on Commander Garcia’s face. “I’d love to argue with you, but that sounds too damn nice.”

“We have two hours before the EmDrive will be ready to jump again, and the system is quiet. Have all nonessential personnel report to their bunks.”

“What about you?”

“I’ve got something to see to,” Coleman said. “But I’ll take a rotation after yours.”

“Yes, sir.”

Coleman nodded to his XO, strode up the ramp, and exited the bridge. The adjoining corridor was bright, with crisp white light emanating from the walls. It burned his eyes as if he’d just woken from a deep sleep and had a flashlight shone in his face.

He walked the corridor slowly, his footsteps little more than shuffles. Like the bridge, sick bay was nestled deep in the belly of the ship, but despite his slow pace, he made it there in minutes.

The medical bay was alive with activity, which helped him find a reserve of energy he hadn’t known he still had. He nodded to nurses and doctors then found Dr. Rydell, the lead physician, at the back of the ward. Seated in front of her, having changed out of the white medical gown and into standard-issue sweats and a tank top, was his CAG.

“Morning, sir.” Coda’s skin was pallid, eyes dark, and he’d lost a noticeable amount of weight during his recovery, but he was brimming with excitement.

“Good morning, Coda. How are you feeling?”

“If your appearance is any indication, a hell of a lot better than you, sir.”

Coleman gave him a half-hearted smile. “That’s a pretty low bar, Commander.” He turned to Dr. Rydell. “How’s he looking?”

“We were just going over that.” Dr. Rydell glanced at the tablet displaying his vitals. “The short of it is he’s still healing. By all accounts, he should have died on New Plymouth, but he’s a stubborn kid. His wounds may have healed, but his body is still recovering. I’ve placed him on limited duty, and he’s to work no more than six hours a day. I’ve increased his calorie allotment to help him regain what he’s lost and prescribed sleeping pills to make sure he gets the required amount of rest. We’ll see how he does and reevaluate in a week.”

Coda made a face that said he didn’t agree with the doctor’s assessment. “I’m good, sir. Ready. You say the words, and I’m back in the cockpit.”

“You’ll get there soon enough, Commander,” Coleman said. “But we’re all at the mercy of the doctor on this.”

That wasn’t entirely true, and he was sure Coda saw him hiding behind the words. Physically able or not, Coda wasn’t flight ready. Like his father, who was currently lying low aboard the Redemption, Coda had a brain defect that made him susceptible to Baranyk influence. Above Kryos, the same planet his father had flown above fifteen years before him, Coda had been targeted by the Baranyk. While under their control, he had shot down several of his wingmen before Coleman’s own daughter shot him down. Until they had found a way to protect Coda from the enemy’s influence, he would remain grounded.

“Lieutenant Krylov is acting CAG,” Coleman said. “He’s expecting you.”

“Yes, sir.” Coda slid from the bed and stood straight, snapping a crisp salute, which Coleman returned, then turned to the doctor. Surprisingly, his face took on a softer expression. Coda and Dr. Rydell had an interesting relationship—one part paternal, another part antagonistic. They were like friends who relished their banter. “Thank you, Doc. For everything.”

“Just doing my job, Commander.”

“I mean it,” Coda said, driving the words home. He held out his hand.

Dr. Rydell took it, a smile splitting her face.

“I almost feel bad for all the shit I gave you.” The cocky grin Coleman had come to know so well appeared on his pilot’s face. “Almost.”

Dr. Rydell slapped him with her tablet. “Get out of here before you require more medical attention.”

Coda laughed but did as instructed, slipping through the medical ward to the corridor beyond.

“He’s a good kid,” Dr. Rydell said. “Cocky and arrogant like all of your fighter jocks, but a good kid.”

“How’s he really doing?” Coleman asked.

Dr. Rydell instantly understood the real question he was asking. “He’s not sleeping, and scans show pronounced brain activity, even during REM.”

Coleman frowned. “Is it…” He glanced at a couple nearby nurses and their patients to make sure no one else was listening. “Do you think it’s an outside influence?”

“I don’t know,” Dr. Rydell said. “I don’t think so. Dr. Naidoo is reviewing the data, but she believes its remnants of the Baranyk network. His brain isn’t fully disconnecting.”

“What does that mean?” Coleman asked. “Is he more vulnerable?”

“It’s impossible to say right now. We’re keeping an eye on him, but under no circumstances is he to set foot into a cockpit.”

“Understood,” Coleman said. “I’ll talk with Dr. Naidoo and Commander Payton. Maybe there’s something they can think of. Thank you, Doctor.” He made to leave, but the doctor stopped him short.

“You need some rest, Captain.”

“I know, Doc. Believe me, I know.”

2

Sick Bay, SAS Redemption

Baranyk Space

For the first time in five weeks, Coda left the medical ward without supervision or equipped with a catheter, IV, or some other kind of medical device. Despite his orders to report to the acting CAG, he paused in the hallway to bask in the white light emanating from the walls, as if he were on a beach, soaking up the sun.

He was free.

A smile splitting his face, he closed his eyes, allowing the ship personnel to flow around him like the surf around his feet. They had no idea about the physical, emotional, and psychological hell he’d been through during the last month and a half, and he was fine with that. He was out now, and his mind was sharper than it had been in weeks.

With a purposeful step forward, Coda started for the pilots’ section of the ship and his old office. As he approached the door and spotted Moscow in the CAG’s office with his flight leaders, Coda realized he didn’t know how to address the acting CAG. Moscow was a former rival turned friend, but he was also Coda’s superior officer who hailed from a long line of military family members. Best to stick with formality and go from there.

Coda knocked on the open door then stepped inside, snapping a crisp salute. “Commander O’Neil reporting for duty, sir!”

Moscow looked up from the digital desktop. When his eyes fell on Coda, his face came alive, offering a genuine smile Coda had thought he would never see from his former rival.

“Coda,” Moscow said with equal parts surprise and recognition.

Squawks and Noodle, who had been sitting with their backs to the door, turned sharply. Then they were jumping out of their seats to attack him—pushing, shoving, hugging, and laughing. If they were at all concerned about injuring someone who was only minutes removed from sick bay, they didn’t show it.

“They actually let you out?” Squawks said, eyeing Coda from top to bottom. “I didn’t think Dr. Rydell would ever let you out of her sight.”

“I didn’t think so either,” Coda said.

“You look good,” Noodle said. “How are you feeling?”

“Great,” Coda said. “Aside from just being mauled by you guys.”

Squawks and Noodle laughed, but as the moment faded, they seemed to realize they were the only ones who’d jumped up to greet their friend. Coda’s eyes found Moscow’s, and an awkward silence permeated the room.

“Sorry, sir,” Coda said.

“It’s okay, Commander. I’m happy to see you too.” Moscow cast an amused look at Squawks and Noodle. “Even if I don’t need to jump like a kindergartner at recess to show it.”

“I always thought I was closer to a fourth grader,” Squawks said.

“Nah,” Noodle said, “I had you pegged for a freshman. Fifteen, horny, and full of yourself.”

“Ah, right you are.” Squawks grinned as if his friend had just given him a tremendous compliment. “You know me so well.”

“It’s good to see some things haven’t changed,” Coda said to Moscow.

“They’re every bit as insufferable as they’ve always been,” Moscow said. “I’d demote them if we had anyone else willing to step into their boots.”

“He’s saying the rest of the squadron is too smart to go into command. It takes a special kind of stupidity to take on this kind of responsibility.”

Coda laughed. He had long since learned fighter jocks had the best kind of self-deprecating humor in the fleet. Any crazy person could climb into the cockpit, but one had to be certifiable to make a career out of it.

“How is the squadron holding up?” Coda asked.

“They’re doing well,” Moscow said, returning to his seat. “How much has the captain filled you in?”

“He’s given me the gist of it,” Coda said. “We located the Baranyk fleet, but it’s moving, and we’re racing to beat it back to human space. But without a JumpGate, we’re limited to the range and durability of the EmDrive. It’s a race, and we don’t know who’s ahead.”

“That about sums it up,” Moscow said. “The last few weeks have been quiet, at least in the sense of battle. We’re still operating under Condition-1 and flying a double CAP, but it’s the most rest the squadron has gotten in ages. If anything, they’ve got too much downtime, which is where you come in.”

“Anything I can do to help, sir,” Coda said.

“The first thing you can do is stop calling me ‘sir,’” Moscow said. “In this office, we’re equals. Outside it, well, you understand.”

“I do.”

“Good. The captain said you’d be released to limited duty.”

“Correct.”

“Okay,” Moscow said. “As it stands, we’re significantly behind on readiness training and other fleet-issued requirements. I need you to bring everyone up to speed by the time we return to fleet-occupied space. In addition to that, I want you to schedule the CAP and work with the deck chief to ensure ship repairs.”

“I’ll get it done,” Coda said.

Moscow was right. With their original expedited training, the Forgotten had largely avoided much of the required readiness training the rest of the fleet had to complete. Much of it was bureaucratic nonsense mandated by some govie trying to look good to their constituents. And as ridiculous as it sounded, Moscow was right. They couldn’t let a little intergalactic war get in the way of sexual harassment training.

“Thank you,” Moscow said. “And because I don’t want you to be too bored, I’ve got another task for you. I’ve already programmed the simulators with our latest battles and have been running the squadron through them to keep them sharp. But I want you to think of every cruel machination imaginable that the enemy might throw at us. Situations where we’re grossly outnumbered, where we arrive late. Think of new weapons. Scenarios where we lose radio contact. Where the enemy takes control of one of our capital ships. Anything and everything you can think of. We don’t know what we’re going to step into once we get back, and I need my pilots to be prepared. Can you handle that?”

“Absolutely,” Coda said.

“Good,” Moscow said. “That’s all for now. Squawks, Noodle, show Coda to his bunk. I’ll be along shortly.”

“Thank you, Moscow,” Coda said, nodding.

“It’s good to have you back, Coda.”

Coda followed Squawks and Moscow out of the room and into the corridor beyond.

“Readiness training?” Squawks asked. “Scheduling? Coordinating repairs? God, I’d go insane. How long until your flight status is reapproved?”

“I have no idea,” Coda said. “It’s better than sitting on my ass in sick bay, though.”

“I guess,” Squawks said, sounding unconvinced.

The unfortunate reality was that there were a million tasks aboard the Redemption that needed doing, with a thousand just for the strike fighters. The flight calendar alone needed to be updated almost hourly to deal with unexpected illnesses, injuries, or maintenance issues. Then there was coordinating repairs.

The deck chief was a master at making sure their Nighthawks were properly maintained and performed as expected, but he often had different priorities than the pilots strapped inside. Coda would be the middleman between his pilots and the people maintaining their ships. They weren’t glamorous jobs, but they were necessary, and until Coda was back in the cockpit, he would do them to the best of his ability to keep his friends safe.

The pilots’ barracks wasn’t far from Moscow’s office, and they arrived quickly. The door opened to a long room with rows of bunks inset in the bulkhead. As they stepped in, Coda received several nods, and a few pilots came up to wish him well. Many others, though, lingered in the distance, watching him uneasily.

They don’t know how to react, Coda thought. They don’t know if this is a good moment because I’m back or a bad one because I was demoted.

He tried to put on a good face and nod in the direction of those who seemed the most awkward. All that seemed to do was make them even more uncomfortable. They looked away or tried to occupy their attention with something else.

“Good thing this isn’t awkward,” Squawks said sarcastically.

“It’s okay,” Coda said. “It’s not like I was expecting a surprise party or anything.”

“We did talk about it,” Noodle said. “Oh well. Come on, there’s a free bunk near ours.”

Coda followed Noodle across the barracks to the open bunk. He took a seat on the thin fleet-issued mattress. It was harder than the one he’d had in his CAG’s quarters, but it would do. He supposed Moscow had the private quarters now—perks of the role and all that.

The room had gone quiet, and Coda began to feel self-conscious. Was everyone looking at him? Why wasn’t anyone talking? His friends seem to notice it too.

Noodle offered him a half-hearted smile. “We’ll let you get settled.”

“Thank you,” Coda said.

He cast another look around the room then lay down. He wanted to laugh. An hour ago, he’d thought himself free. How wrong he’d been. He wasn’t free. He was like a dog who’d been let out of his kennel but was now trapped in a fenced yard. He had more freedom than before, but more freedom wasn’t what he needed. He needed to run. Needed to fly.

“How long until your flight status is reapproved?” Squawks had asked.

Not soon enough, Coda thought. Not soon enough.

3

Engineering, SAS Redemption

Baranyk Space

“Tell me what I’m looking at.” Captain Coleman stood with his chief engineer, Commander Brahm Payton, looking at what Coleman assumed was a readout of the Redemption’s EmDrive. Around them, the engineering bay was a hubbub of activity, even more chaotic than the CIC during a battle.

“Well, sir,” Commander Payton said with a hint of exasperation, “we’ve been pushing the EmDrive beyond its limits. We’re making jump after jump, and the only time it gets to recover is the time it takes to plot the next jump. It wasn’t designed for that, and it’s beginning to show signs of degradation.”

“What kind of degradation?”

“That’s the question,” Commander Payton said. “I’ve got a dozen ideas, but without shutting it down and tearing it apart, I can’t know for sure. What I do know is that the green numbers on the readout in front of you are good, and the red numbers are bad.”

Coleman scanned the readout again. “There aren’t any green numbers.”

“Then you understand the extent of the issue.”

Coleman took a deep breath. He didn’t have the mind of his chief engineer—not many did—but did the man have to flaunt it? Part of him wondered if Commander Payton even did it consciously. He assumed not, which was why he hadn’t dressed him down. The man was the best at what he did, personality quirks be damned.

“What are our options?” Coleman asked.

“Well, there are three. One, we shut it down. Full stop. Run a full diagnostic and repair what needs repaired. The second is shutting it down for a short period of time. The heat and pressure readings are the most alarming. It may just need time to cool off.”

“And the third option?” Coleman asked, not liking either of the first two.

“We leave it.” Commander Payton scratched his cheek nervously. “It’s held together this long, and we only have thirteen jumps until we reach the JumpGate. We monitor it, review the readings after each jump, and take it one jump at a time. If anything grows too alarming, we shut it down.”

“What does too alarming look like, Chief? You just told me that red was bad, and all I’m seeing is red.”

“It’s a fair question, sir. What you’re seeing are elevated levels. They’re not critical yet. The risk is letting one issue become many. A chain reaction leading to complete system failure.”

“Complete system failure,” Coleman repeated.

Commander Payton made a fist then opened it, spreading his fingers wide, mimicking an explosion.

Coleman’s eyes drifted to the engineering personnel occupying the space. He was responsible for the more than nine thousand souls on board, but he also had valuable intel on their enemy, intel that could spell the end of the war if not relayed. He’d sent probes detailing everything in a full report but had no way of knowing if they’d made it.

“If we shut it down, how long are we dead in the water?”

“It’ll take forty-eight hours for the system to cool enough to work on. Whether we’re letting it take a break or we’re running a full diagnostic, that has to come first.”

“Forty-eight hours,” Coleman repeated. “Minimum.”

“Minimum, sir.”

“And the repair time will depend on whatever needs to be fixed,” Coleman said.

“Exactly, sir.”

“We don’t have forty-eight hours to spare,” Coleman said. “We’re in a race against the enemy, and we have no idea if we’re winning or losing. Every minute we wait, our lead either shrinks, or we fall farther behind.”

Commander Payton opened his mouth to speak, but Coleman held up a hand, silencing him. His comments weren’t meant for Payton; they were meant for himself.

“Our intel is only effective if we get it to Fleet Command before the enemy arrives. If we don’t… How much damage can the enemy inflict in forty-eight hours? Seventy-two? A week? A month?” He looked toward his chief engineer. “Where’s the line, Chief?”

“That’s a question you need to answer, sir. I’m just giving you the data.”

Coleman nodded. Leadership was a lonely bitch. “We’ll continue as planned. Push it, Chief, but monitor it and let me know if anything goes critical.”

“Will do, sir.”

Coleman left engineering. He took his time making his way back to the bridge, striding through the corridors, taking the long way. As he did, he ran a hand along the bulkhead, feeling the smooth hardened plastic. His ship would hold together. It had to.

4

Forgotten Barracks, SAS Redemption

Baranyk Space

Coda woke with a start. A dark figure stood overtop him, pinning him down. He tried to pull away, but the figure held him firmly. His heart was racing, breathing ragged. Sweat coated his face and back. Coda thrashed, but the harder he fought, the harder the figure held.

“Coda,” the figure said. “Hey, it’s me.”

With his fight-or-flight responses fully triggered, the words didn’t register. Coda thrashed harder, grunting with the effort. Suddenly, as if realizing they were doing more harm than good, the figure let him go. Coda slid across the bed and pulled himself close to the wall in a defensive position.

“Coda, it’s Squawks. What’s wrong?”

When he was no longer restrained, Coda’s panic receded, and awareness washed over him. He was in his bed inside the Forgotten barracks. Faint light from the bulkhead illuminated the side of Squawks’s face. His friend was shirtless, hair disheveled, and had clearly been asleep.

Coda held a hand to his forehead, trying to catch his breath. “I’m okay.” That wasn’t true, but he didn’t know what else to say. “I’m okay.” Maybe if he repeated the words, they’d become a reality.

“You were screaming,” Squawks said.

Coda ran a hand across his head. It came away slick with sweat. Screaming?

He had been… The images came back to him.

Running.

The Overlord and his warriors chasing him.

Flanking him.

Funneling him toward a specific location.

The Overlord had shown him the end of the world.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” There was something in Squawks’s voice, not just concern but a tinge of… embarrassment? Squawks looked to the side.

Coda followed his gaze, noticing for the first time the other figures in the distance. Other pilots. They were watching, listening. Like Squawks, Coda must have woken them up with his screaming.

The heat of humiliation washed over Coda’s face. “I’m fine.”

Coda slid across the bed and stood wearily on unsteady legs. The deck was cold under his bare feet, bringing additional awareness. He nodded his appreciation to Squawks and strode across the room. He passed several bunks on his way, feeling the eyes of his comrades following him. How many had he woken up with his fit? How many had heard Squawks wake him? It was impossible to tell, but even for those who hadn’t, word would quickly travel.

As if things aren’t awkward enough.

The squadron’s shared bathroom was nearby and blessedly unoccupied. The lights flickered on as Coda strode in. He paused in front of the mirror, looking at his pale reflection. Finally away from the watchful eyes of others, he let out a long breath.

What was that? A dream or something more? It was reminiscent of the times he’d been connected to the Baranyk network, though… fuzzier. Dreamlike. That didn’t make the images any less terrifying. The dream had shown him death and destruction on a scale he’d never thought possible. If he had been connected to the Baranyk network, the Overlord was behind it. The question was, was the Overlord showing him something that had already happened or things yet to come?

One thing was for certain—Captain Coleman needed to know.

Coda splashed cold water on his face then checked the time. 0430. The captain wouldn’t be awake yet, and Coda had no interest in going back to the barracks. Instead, he showered then wrote the captain, detailing what he’d seen and been through. When Captain Coleman woke and was ready to discuss it, he would find Coda.

With nothing else to do and with a laundry list of to-do items, Coda got to work. The first order of business was scheduling the CAP. The Redemption was still in Baranyk space, and though they hadn’t seen the enemy in weeks, they’d maintained Condition-1 throughout the ship. That meant a full flight would fly CAP instead of the standard fighter pair. With their reduced forces, that also meant the pilots hadn’t gone a full twenty-four-hour rotation without time in the cockpit.

He’d once heard that tackling the day’s simplest task first helped build momentum to tackle the next. From a scheduling standpoint, once the flight rotation had been set, little needed updating. Small daily tweaks to accommodate for sick or injured pilots were necessary but uncommon. Finalizing the CAP took all of fifteen minutes, but it was fifteen minutes that Coda didn’t have to think about his dreams. Once complete, he sent the schedule to his pilots and made sure it was displayed in the Nighthawk ready room. With the CAP schedule in place, Coda moved on to the next order of business.

The flight deck of the Redemption was bustling even during the off-hour. Nighthawks lined the deck. Mechanics performed routine maintenance, while others used yellow roller skids to load the next wave of Nighthawks into the launch tubes that would catapult the next flight of pilots into space.

He found the chief overseeing a hull repair on one of their dropships. Slightly overweight with thinning hair and grease-covered overalls, the chief was clearly someone who preferred to get his hands dirty.

“Good morning, sir,” the chief said. “You’re up early.”

“Lots to do,” Coda said. “Looks like things are moving along pretty well here.”

The chief wiped his hands on an orange shop towel, his eyes scanning the deck. “The break in action has given us an opportunity to catch up on repairs. Your squadrons should be back to fully operational by the end of the week. Assuming nothing happens in the interim, of course.”

“Of course.” Images of devastated fleets and floating debris orbiting fallen planets flooded Coda’s mind. “Where do we stand today?”

“Forty-four of our forty-eight fighters are flight ready, and two more should be ready by tomorrow. The others”—the chief pointed into the distance where a Nighthawk was getting a full wing replacement—“are undergoing more extensive repair.”

“Excuse my ignorance, but I’m stepping into the middle of this without a lot of background. We haven’t had a battle in weeks. What’s the holdup?”

“The repairs themselves don’t take much time. The parts in these Nighthawks were meant to be rip-and-replace, and as you can see, I’ve got plenty of help. No, the issue is supply.”

“The parts themselves?”

“No, sir,” the chief said. “We don’t store the parts here. We use additive manufacturing to build the parts we need, but even working around the clock, that takes time. Especially with the larger repairs.” He motioned once more toward the Nighthawk getting the new wing.

“Makes sense,” Coda said. “If you can get me your estimated repair timelines, based on ship type and availability date, I’d appreciate it.

“Will do, sir.”

“Thank you, Chief.”

Coda nodded and left the chief to his work. Short of getting his hands dirty himself, there wasn’t much he could do to speed up the repairs, and he wasn’t entirely convinced that would help efforts anyway. His responsibility would be to hold the chief accountable to his timelines, alleviate any bottlenecks, and reprioritize repairs based on anything that came up in the meantime.

Such was Coda’s morning—completing what many would have considered mundane tasks. The worst of it was reviewing and organizing the readiness training they had neglected in lieu of their compressed flight training and battle schedule. Scanning through the required trainings, Coda couldn’t help but laugh. What kind of bureaucratic dickwad requires sensitivity training during war? Don’t we have bigger issues to worry about?

He took the question to Moscow, who took the issue up the chain, and the answer Coda got back was no. In their downtime, the Forgotten were expected to complete all required training.

Coda was the first to take it and thus the first to see what the other pilots had to look forward to. They were going to hate it. And they were going to hate him more because it was his responsibility to ensure they completed it. Just another thing driving a wedge between him and his comrades.

A week after scheduling and assigning the trainings, he overheard some pilots referring to him as “HR.” If he hadn’t already had a call sign, the name might have stuck. As it was, it was already catching on, and even though he outranked every pilot except Moscow, they weren’t afraid to say it within earshot.

The only thing that kept him from losing his pilots entirely were his simulations. Moscow had tasked him with developing a new flight curriculum based around new scenarios. Coda had a few initial ideas, including battles in debris fields, enemy cloaking devices, and new enemy weapons, but after the first week, he was beginning to run dry.

He reviewed old battles, seeking inspiration, but those had been the basis for training exercises ever since their time at the flight academies. He was able to repurpose a few of them since those scenarios had been built for training drone pilots, but he still felt like he was failing Moscow.

It was his friends and their dinner conversations that triggered new ideas. What started as a simple vent session turned into a series of “what if” questions.

“What if our communications failed or were hacked?”

“What would happen if we lost sensor data?”

“How would we address gravity fluctuations?”

No idea was too obscure, and each idea was crazier than the last. With them, Coda had everything he needed to build a new training program that would build on itself, growing more difficult by the day.

The Forgotten devoured it. Battle starved, they attacked the new simulations with renewed vigor. The flight leaders held extended training sessions, repeated scenarios, and analyzed them until they were victorious with what Moscow considered acceptable losses.

As the days drifted by, Coda fell into the rhythm of his new life, and his former pilots became less bitter. Seeing Coda surrounded by his friends in the mess hall—friends who were still the Forgotten’s flight leaders—helped end the frustrated comments. Coda didn’t know if anyone ever addressed the pilots, but as quickly as the HR taunts started, they disappeared.

He doubted he’d reearned their respect, but at the very least, he didn’t have their hatred. If only the same thing could be said about his strange dreams. They returned every night with the same intensity, though fortunately, his reactions were less dramatic than the first. He would wake soaked with sweat, with an accelerated heart rate, but he rarely woke those around him. He was suffering but silently.

Captain Coleman ordered him to see Dr. Naidoo, but a series of scans showed no outside influence. If Coda was connecting to the Baranyk network, it was by his own volition, and they didn’t have a way to test for that. Dr. Rydell didn’t seem concerned, chalking it up as posttraumatic stress, prescribed sleeping medication, and extended his restricted duty. When that didn’t have an effect, she ordered him to see the ship’s psychiatrist.

Coda couldn’t help but feel like there was something more. Something they were missing. And his father agreed.

“The Overlord isn’t done with you,” Joseph O’Neil said. “He’s not done with either of us. We have to be ready when he comes.”

That was the rub. He and his father were both one step up from being prisoners on their own ship. Coda was running a race, falling farther behind with every lap, and was running out of time to catch up. And he couldn’t shake the feeling that when he lost, humanity would lose with him.

5

Bridge, SAS Redemption

Baranyk Space

Captain Coleman tapped his fingernail on the railing that surrounded the bridge’s battle map. Like much on the Redemption, the railing was made of a composite then coated in a rubber material to make it soft. It wouldn’t do to have ship personnel crashing into walls, corners, or railings during the thick of battle. The unexpected consequence was that Coleman’s tapping fingernails emitted a deadened sound, not the satisfying tinging he craved.

Thirteen jumps. That was what had stood between them and the JumpGate when Commander Payton had warned him of the damaged EmDrive. Thirteen jumps. Ten of them had gone off without a hitch, but every time Coleman ordered a jump, he wondered if it would be the last.

If the EmDrive suffered a full system failure and exploded as Commander Payton had predicted, would it take out the entire ship or only damage it enough that if left them to suffer a long and slow death?

Ten times crisis had been averted—but not the eleventh.

“The temperature spiked,” Commander Payton said directly into Coleman’s earpiece.

Coleman cursed silently. They were so close. They couldn’t afford to stop now. “Any ideas why?” He kept his voice quiet so that nobody else on the bridge could hear him.

“It could be any number of reasons, sir.” Commander Payton was breathless, distracted, and obviously evaluating readings while updating Coleman. “There could be a coolant leak, a damaged pump, or cracked line. Hell, it could even be an issue with the thermostat itself. As we talked about before, there’s no way to know without shutting it down.”

Coleman slapped the railing. “We’re two jumps away, Chief.”

“I know, sir.”

“Damn it,” Coleman said. The words came out soft and defeated, barely more than a whisper.

“What was that, sir?”

“Nothing.” Coleman pinched the bridge of his nose. How does one choose between two terrible options? He let his eyes drift around the bridge, ignoring the lights and readouts, focusing on his people. Every one of them was an expert at their job, molded through training, dedication, and war. He trusted every one of them, including his chief engineer, with his life.

“Give me your assessment, Chief,” Coleman said. “Will my ship hold together?”

Commander Payton sighed. He shared a lot in common with Dr. Naidoo, especially his disdain for conjecture. To them, if it didn’t exist on a spreadsheet, it didn’t exist at all.

“The temperature readings are dropping, sir. Not back to their previous levels, but no longer critical. Will it hold together? I don’t know. It’s a calculated risk.”

A calculated risk. The words were as close to a prediction as he was going to get, and that gave Coleman a strange confidence. His decisions were based not on blind determination, hope, or luck but on the best information he had at his disposal. Information on a spreadsheet, so to speak.

“Proceed with the jump, Commander.”

“Yes, sir.”

The line went dead.

“Everything okay, sir?” Commander Garcia asked. He’d sidled next to Coleman during the conversation. He kept his voice soft, quiet enough that only Coleman could hear it.

“The chief was just giving me an update on our EmDrive,” Coleman said. The best kind of lie was the one that was entirely truthful.

Commander Garcia looked skeptical but didn’t pry. He knew that if the captain was keeping something from him, he probably didn’t want to know anyway.

Thirty minutes later, they jumped for what Coleman hoped was the second-to-last time. His hands were moist against the metal railing as he issued the order. It might have been his imagination, but the world-stretching sensation seemed to last longer than usual. He closed his eyes as he always did during a jump, wondering if he would get the chance to open them again.

One breath.

Two.

Why haven’t we arrived yet?

Coleman opened his eyes to a world that looked as though he were seeing it through a funhouse mirror. Everything was distorted, elongated, wrong. His breakfast threatened to come up, and he had to slam his eyes shut again to keep it down.

Deep breath. Three seconds in. Hold. Three seconds out.

“Jump complete, sir.”

Coleman let out the breath in a rush. The bridge crew did the same. He suspected they felt his unease. He hadn’t done a good job of hiding it today. He nodded to Commander Garcia then made for his captain’s chair. He couldn’t undo the damage he’d already done, but the ship was only one jump away from their destination. They were going to make it if he had to will it into existence, and he would exude confidence all the way there.

Coleman brought up a direct line to Commander Payton. “Talk to me.”

“Temperature and pressure readings are critical,” Commander Payton said. The engineering bay was loud, full of shouting engineers and blaring alarms. “Critical but stable. We might only have one jump left in us, sir.”

“One is all we need,” Coleman said, daring to hope.

“She’ll give it to you, sir,” Commander Payton said with a strange confidence he hadn’t had before.

One more jump.

“Begin the jump sequence,” Coleman said, this time loudly enough for everyone to hear him. “Let’s go home.”

The crew answered him with a small cheer.

The jump would take them to the JumpGate on the edge of human space, which would then take them back to the fleet. A different fear wormed its way into Coleman’s gut—what would they find when they got there?

6

Control Center, JumpGate Vega-3

Edge of Human Occupied Space

Ensign James Larson had done things with his life. Growing up in a small, rural town in the United States’ Pacific Northwest, he’d never expected to live a noteworthy life. No fame, riches, glitz, or glamour. After all, his family had raised cattle for six generations. His future had been chosen for him, and he wasn’t man enough to look his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather in the eye and tell them that life, their life, wasn’t for him.

When the Baranyk attacked, slipping through humanity’s defenses and killing indiscriminately, life had changed, even in small-town USA. The world was bigger than their ranch and its cattle, and there were more important things than small-minded feelings. Life had been built on what had seemed like an indelible foundation, but when that crumbled, James was left without a present, let alone a future.

Lost and unsure where to turn, James followed in the footsteps of many of his former townsfolk and joined the service. In the same way cattle ranching had been chosen for him, fate, it seemed, had placed him on a different path.

That was what brought him to JumpGate Vega-3 on the edge of human-controlled space. It was also what kept him from complaining about being stationed on one of the most out-of-the-way posts in the system. Every person had a part to play, even a lowly controller in the middle of nowhere, and there was honor in that.

The JumpGates were manned and operated with a skeleton crew of ten who were responsible for everything from operations to maintenance—a perfect job for someone used to working from sunup to sundown and never finishing everything that needed finishing. It was a solitary life, filled with long hours and homemade alcohol, card games, and the occasional fight.

Letting out a long sigh, James let himself look forward to his after-shift drink. His friend and fellow controller, Mickey, had found a new way to cheat in their nightly games, and he was going to figure out how. It was about the only thing worth looking forward to out here, where the silence and lack of anything eventful made it difficult to maintain a steadfast concentration on one’s duties.

That was how he nearly missed the blip that appeared on their scans.

“Contact!” James shouted. His thick, callused hands toggled the station, isolating the new ship, bringing up its telemetry data. He felt his CO, Commander Maldari, step closer, likely looking over his shoulder to view the information.

“What is it?” Commander Maldari asked.

“Not sure yet, sir, but it’s headed directly for us and coming in hot.”

“Bring weapons online,” Commander Maldari said. “Track the target, but don’t fire. I repeat, do not fire.”

“Yes, sir,” Mickey said from the station beside James’s. He gave James a wicked grin. He hadn’t fired the JumpGate’s defensive canons since the last maintenance cycle.

“Transponder signal coming in now,” James said. “It’s… It’s one of ours, sir. Designation SAS Redemption, sir.”

“The Redemption?” Commander Maldari asked. “Never heard of it.”

“It checks out, sir.”

“Get them on the comm,” Commander Maldari said. “But keep weapons online. Something doesn’t look right.”

The commander was right. The Redemption was coming in hot, and its starboard hull had been breached. Gases and fluids leaked into space, leaving a trail behind the massive starship. If it had been one of his old farm trucks, it would have been rolling with a broken windshield, nursing a flat tire, and backfiring.

“SAS Redemption, this is Ensign Larson of JumpGate Vega-3. Do you copy?”

“We copy, Ensign. It’s good to hear another human voice.”

“Copy, Redemption. Decrease speed to two hundred KPH and prepare to rendezvous with these coordinates.” James sent an updated set of coordinates, accommodating their uncharacteristic speed.

“We’re working on it, Ensign. Our EmDrive blew, and we’re navigating on thrusters. It’s going to take us some time to slow down.”

“On thrusters?” Commander Maldari repeated.

James was already ahead of him. “Copy that, Redemption. In that case, please alter course to the following bearing and try and avoid a fender bender. There’s an awful lot of space out here. I’d hate to see us fight over the same parking spot.”

“Agreed, Ensign. Altering course now. We’ll see you soon.”

* * *

Coda collapsed onto the bed with a groan. It had been another long day of performing mundane tasks and reminding his pilots of things they should have already known and completed. He’d told himself he could handle it if it helped him get back into the cockpit, but damn, it was getting hard.

He missed the speed, the constant movement, the forces pushing him into his seat and shoving him around the cockpit. He longed for the pilot banter, Squawks’s bad jokes, and Noodle somehow always finding himself at the butt of them.

More than anything, he missed the feeling of making a difference. It was easy to measure his impact when he could count his kills. It was much less gratifying to measure how many of his pilots had completed their sensitivity trainings.

“You look like hell,” his father said.

Coda gave him a short laugh and leaned back on the bed, closing his eyes. They were in his father’s quarters, something Captain Coleman had given him after his rescue and their escape from New Plymouth. It was cramped, barely large enough for the bed and a small table fastened to the deck, but they were a large upgrade from the cell Joseph O’Neil had spent his first several rotations in.

“Still not sleeping?” His father wore a worried expression that Coda wasn’t accustomed to seeing. In the weeks since New Plymouth, they had grown close, seeing each other almost nightly. After being separated for more than a decade, they had a lot of catching up to do.

“No,” Coda said with a resigned breath. Every night was plagued with dreams—or visions; Coda wasn’t sure how to refer to them—each similar to the last. Always death and destruction. Fallen worlds. The Overlord was giving him a front-row seat to humanity’s downfall. “I went to see Dr. Naidoo again. She assures me I’m not being hit with any sort of outside signal. She’s not convinced they’re anything more than dreams. And Dr. Rydell thinks it’s stress.”

“Have you been working on the mental exercises I taught you?” his father asked.

“I’m trying to,” Coda said.

“That doesn’t sound very convincing.”

Coda opened an eye to look at his father. He sat on the edge of the bed with him, his expression firm and unrelenting. His father knew he was lying. How does he do that? Was it something in my voice?

“Okay,” Coda said. “I tried. But I didn’t see any difference, so I haven’t done them in a while.”

“Callan…” His father often called him by his birth name rather than his call sign. If it were anyone else, Coda might have been frustrated by it, but coming from his father, the name just sounded right. “You didn’t learn to fly a Nighthawk in a week. It needs time and practice.”

“I know. I’m just—”

“Making excuses.”

Coda clamped his mouth shut. He wanted to respond but didn’t have anything to come back with. His father was right. He hadn’t given the exercises his all.

“The Overlord plagued me after Kryos,” his father continued. “It didn’t matter how far I was from him. Distance means nothing with the Baranyk network. But I learned how to keep him out of my mind, to only connect with the network when I wanted to, and to only let certain parts of my mind do it. Use the exercises, Coda. They work. And the sooner you prove that, the sooner you can get back into the cockpit.”

Coda had serious doubts that he would ever be allowed back into the cockpit, but it was his ultimate goal. First, he had to prove to Captain Coleman and Dr. Naidoo that he was no longer a liability, that he had control over when and how he accessed the Baranyk network, and that the Overlord had no influence over him.

“You’re right,” Coda said. “I know you’re right. I’ll do a better job.”

“We can do them together,” his father said, not letting him end the conversation there. “At night, when you visit. I’ll coach you through them. I should have been doing that already.”

“We had other things to discuss.”

“Still,” his father said. “I was selfish. I wasn’t thinking about what you needed. I was just making up for lost time.”

“Me too,” Coda said. “We’re nearly back to human space now.”

“I know.”

Word had traveled quickly through the ship. The EmDrive was damaged in their last jump, but they had somehow made it to the JumpGate. Within the hour, they would be jumping back to the fleet.

Where the prospect of returning home had been a welcome one for most of the crew, it haunted Coda and his father like a ticking clock counting down to his execution. The name Joseph O’Neil wasn’t well regarded in the Sol Fleet, and nobody knew what would happen when they returned.

“Listen, Callan—”

“No,” Coda said. “Don’t.”

“When we return, they’re going to take me into custody and try me for treason.”

“Dad, stop.”

“No, Callan, I need you to hear this. At the very least, I’ll be convicted of the deaths of my wingmen. My name has been tarnished for too long, and it’s going to take years before Fleet Intelligence accepts that the Overlord is controlling us. Years I don’t have.”

“You have Captain Coleman, who will testify,” Coda said. “Dr. Naidoo too. Me. You’re not in this alone.”

His father placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a wan smile. “I know, son. And I’m not going to give up. Getting you back in my life has been the single greatest gift I could ever ask for. These last few weeks have been some of the best of my life. I’m going to fight, but I want to make sure you understand the battle we have in front of us.”

“I understand.” The words came out softly. Resigned. Like so much of what he had already said this night, his father was right. They had a battle in front of them. Many of them. With enemies coming from all sides and directions. Coda had no idea how they would keep from being overwhelmed.

His father squeezed his shoulder. “Now, let’s practice those exercises. Hopefully, I have at least enough time to leave you with the gift of life without the Overlord.”

7

Bridge, SAS Redemption

Europa Station, Sol System

Coleman let out a long breath. Without even opening his eyes, he knew they were back. They weren’t home in the sense of familial home but the little part of the galaxy that humanity had claimed as theirs. Despite all odds—weeks spent in enemy territory, servicemen under enemy control, a taxed EmDrive, and a near collision with the JumpGate that had shot them the rest of the way—they had made it back.

Had they made it in time, though?

Opening his eyes, he immediately found the battle map. Readings were already being returned, green wireframe images appearing as more sensor data came in. They quickly filled the entire map, even as the white-and-red glow of Europa filled a good quarter of it.

The moon had been the first human colony established beyond the belt, and it had quickly grown to be the largest in the Sol System. Because it was within jump distance to other occupied celestial bodies and close but not too close to Earth, it had become the Sol Fleet’s headquarters. Dozens of warships waited in dock or patrolled the perimeter.

The sight of their fleet triggered a spark of hope. If they were here, they weren’t fighting elsewhere, and that meant Captain Coleman had beaten the Baranyk back. Europa had more JumpGates than any other system, making it the best option to move the fleet in a hurry. The fact that the ships were idle and not yet deployed had to be a positive sign.

“Sir,” Ensign Richey said, cutting over the din of the bridge, “we’re being ordered to dock with Europa Station.”

“Make it happen, Ensign.”

“Yes, sir.” Ensign Richey sent their acceptance back. “There’s more, sir. The admiral is onboard as well and requesting direct communication.”

Coleman shared an ominous look with Commander Garcia then made for the door to the bridge. “Put him through.”

“Patching him directly into your earpiece, sir.”

Coleman nodded as he passed Ensign Richey then stepped into the corridor beyond. “Sir, this is Captain Coleman. Do you read?”

“Captain,” came the familiar voice of Admiral Orlovsky, “it’s damn good to hear your voice.”

“Yours too, sir.”

“Welcome back.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“My tactical officer says your ship is a mess.”

“She’s seen better days, sir. Nothing a few days in dry dock won’t fix.”

“Glad to hear it, Captain. Once you dock and get your repairs in order, I need to speak with you.”

Something in his tone gave Coleman pause. “Of course, sir. I’ll take a shuttle over first chance I get. But, sir, can you do something for me first?”

“What is it, Captain?”

“Did our drones make it back? Do you have our reports?”

“They did, Captain,” Admiral Orlovsky said. “We do. Thanks to you and your crew, we know the enemy is coming. And when they arrive, we’re going to give them a warm welcome.”

It felt like a thousand kilograms fell off Coleman’s shoulders. They’d done it. They’d made it back before the enemy, and their data on the enemy’s fleet had arrived too.

We have a chance, Coleman thought. We have a chance.

* * *

The SAS Abraham Lincoln was once the flagship of the Sol Fleet, representing the full might and technological prowess humanity had to offer. But after serving aboard the Redemption, Coleman could spot its age. Little things like a scuffed deck that had been worn down by thousands of feet, bulkheads that showed signs of burns or smoke damage regardless of how well they’d been scrubbed, or entire sections of bulkheads that had been replaced but were a slightly different color. It wasn’t as different as the Jamestown but still a gentle reminder of how good they’d had it aboard the Redemption.

He was escorted through the corridors by a marine guard who had greeted him at the airlock. Like all marines, they had little to say and set a brisk pace. The general layout of the ship was similar to the Redemption, and Admiral Orlovsky’s quarters were near the bridge at the heart of the ship. Once they arrived, the two marines knocked then took up guard beside the door as it opened.

“Come in,” Admiral Orlovsky said.

Coleman stepped inside.

Admiral Orlovsky stood with his back to Coleman, looking through the window behind his desk as space traffic flew against the backdrop of Europa. It wasn’t a real window, of course, but a digital screen mimicking one. Still, it helped the room feel less claustrophobic.

Coleman snapped to attention. Admiral Orlovsky turned and offered his old friend a weak smile. “At ease, Captain. And take a seat.” He gestured at one of the two armchairs on Coleman’s side of the desk.

“Thank you, sir.” Coleman took a seat.

“It’s good to see you, Chadwick.” Admiral Orlovsky sat in his thick leather-backed chair. “I must say, there were days I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“There were days I wondered if I’d ever make it back myself,” Coleman admitted. “But I’ve got a hell of a ship and an even more impressive crew.”

“How are they holding up?”

“You saw my ship,” Coleman said with a smirk. “The crew’s in better shape. Many of them had some downtime on the race back from Kryos. They know this isn’t the end, just the first move in a bigger game. They’ll be ready for whatever comes next.”

“Good,” Admiral Orlovsky said. “Good.” He stood and walked to a small bar in the corner of the room. He poured two drinks and offered one to Coleman.

“Thank you, sir,” Coleman said, taking the drink.

“You look like you need it.” Admiral Orlovsky returned to his seat. “You’re wound up tighter than a bull’s ass.”

Coleman gave him a small laugh. “I guess I’m just wondering what does come next. To be honest, I was a little surprised to see our fleet.” He took a sip, letting the sharp notes of vanilla linger on his tongue, using it as an excuse to force the admiral into a reply.

“The truth is,” Admiral Orlovsky said, “your scans helped, but the drones didn’t return much quicker than you. In the little time we’ve had to prepare, we’ve done everything we can to ready ourselves for their arrival. Every system is on high alert, every available ship has been mobilized, and any undergoing repairs or new ships near enough to completion have been pushed into production. Not only that, but reserves have been called up, retirees called back, and personnel at the end of their training promoted into service. Your scans showed hundreds of ships. We’ll never be able to match that, but we’ve done what we can to even the odds.”

“What about the brain abnormality?” Coleman pressed. “We’ve seen the damage even a single enemy combatant can do. Imagine a dozen of them. A hundred.”

“Medical personnel on every ship, station, and orbital platform are scanning their crews to look for your brain anomaly as we speak. But it takes time.”

“Good.” Coleman had been afraid Fleet Intelligence wouldn’t take that part of his report seriously. Enemy mind control sounded crazy even to him, and he’d seen it firsthand.

“The biggest challenge is not knowing where they’ll strike first. That’s why I’ve mobilized the fleet here. Europa Station has more JumpGates than any system. The moment we catch sight of the enemy, we can respond in force, and after a few battles, we’ll be able to predict where they’ll hit next. We’re not as flat-footed as we appear.”

The admiral’s plan was sound, and if they really hadn’t had much time to prepare, Coleman wasn’t sure he would have planned any differently.

“And,” Admiral Orlovsky continued, his voice tinged with a spark of excitement, “we have a few surprises of our own.”

“What kind of surprises?” Coleman asked, taking the bait.

Admiral Orlovsky gave him one of his famous smiles, broad and with teeth even whiter than his hair. In that moment, he was the very image of leadership. “Fleet Intelligence has finally countered the Baranyk disruptor weapon. Our drones are operational again.”

The admiral obviously meant the news as a grand flourish, but it hit Coleman like five G’s to the chest without inertial dampeners. For months, the Forgotten had been doing the impossible and were all that had kept the Baranyk at bay. Humans had returned to the cockpit of starfighters, flying at impossible speeds, risking life and limb on every flight. In a single sentence, all of that was in jeopardy. Again.

Coleman was immediately reminded of a similar conversation with the same man. His old friend had told him the Nighthawk program was being shut down. That the war was moving on without him. That he would never fly again. Though the fleet’s drone squadrons being operational again was good news, Coleman couldn’t help but feel like something was being taken from him. Couldn’t help but wonder if he’d flown for the last time without even realizing it.

“How?” was all he managed to get out.

“Something about quantum, fluctuating, variable frequencies or something. It’s too complicated for me, but Fleet Intelligence says they’ll work, and that’s enough for me.”

“That’s great,” Coleman said—and it was. The drones would take some of the stress off his pilots.

“It is,” Admiral Orlovsky agreed. “You did it, Chadwick. You and your squadron. We asked for a miracle, and you delivered. But we’re not through with you yet. We want to maintain the secret for as long as we can. Funnel the enemy into a large confrontation and unveil them then.” He made a fist and punched the palm of his hand. “We mean to hit them hard and where it counts and turn the momentum of this war strongly in our favor.”

“Yes, sir,” Coleman said. The excitement wasn’t gone yet. He hadn’t flown his final flight yet. “We’ll be ready.”

“Good.” Admiral Orlovsky stood. “In the meantime, get some rest and patch up your ship. We’re going to need you in fighting shape.”

“Of course, sir.” Coleman stood as well then lingered, not taking the obvious dismissal. “There’s… one other thing, sir. Something not in my report.”

“Oh?”

“During our investigation, we returned to Kryos.” Coleman took a steadying breath. What he was about to do could go in a thousand different directions, most of them bad, and he wasn’t ready for any of them. “We found him, sir. We found Lieutenant Joseph O’Neil.”

The words hung in their air like a foul stench. Joseph O’Neil. Coda’s father. Someone who had long been thought to be a traitor to humanity. Only a small handful of military personnel knew he had evaded capture and had not been tossed out an airlock like the official story claimed.

“What?” Admiral Orlovsky whispered.

“It’s a long story,” Coleman said. “And I’m not sure you want to get into it now, but we found him on New Plymouth. He’s been hiding from the Baranyk as much as he’s been hiding from us. I know what you’re thinking, sir, but he has information about the Baranyk that’s vital to the fleet and was instrumental in helping us find their home world.”

“You have a war criminal on your ship, and you somehow forgot to mention it?”

“There’s more to his story than anyone knows,” Coleman said. “He never turned on his wingmen. He was the first of us to be controlled by the enemy.”

Admiral Orlovsky rubbed his hands together nervously. “He’s to be taken into custody.”

“Please listen to me, sir. He’s not a traitor. He never was. He was controlled by the enemy by the same brain abnormality outlined in my report. And he’s found a way to resist it. Don’t you see, sir? He’s got critical information on the enemy. We need him.”

“I need more time to think about this,” Admiral Orlovsky said, rubbing his temples. “But he can’t remain on your ship. I’ll send a marine guard back with you and have him escorted to my brig.”

“Sir—”

“No, Captain. This goes beyond our friendship. Joseph O’Neil is a fugitive and a war criminal. We can’t sweep this under the rug because of what he might know. There are protocols to follow here.”

“What will happen to him?”

“I don’t know,” Admiral Orlovsky said. “It will be up to a military tribunal to decide. In the meantime, I just don’t know.”

It’s not the worst-case scenario. “I stand behind him, sir. Everything I’ve learned, everything I’ve seen speaks to his innocence.”

“Then he’ll get that chance, Captain. Until then, he’ll enjoy the comforts of my brig. Ensure that he returns on your shuttle.”

“Of course, sir,” Coleman conceded.

“Dismissed.”

8

Quarters, SAS Redemption

Europa Station, Sol System

Joseph O’Neil’s quarters could hardly qualify as a closet, let alone an accommodation. Still, having a private room to himself at all was something of an unexpected miracle. With just enough room for a cot and a simple chair, it lacked the luxuries of other private rooms, likely because it had, in fact, been a storage locker.

Captain Coleman had said he didn’t want to keep him in the brig, not after Joseph had proved his loyalties, but he couldn’t have him bunking with the enlisted personnel, either. On a ship where space was at a premium, he’d found a seldom-used storage locker just large enough to house a human being.

Coda had made himself comfortable on the cot while his father sat in the chair. It had been a long day at the end of a long week, full of the same monotony as before—schedule the CAP, check with the chief, ensure that the pilots were completing their required trainings even though they attempted to shirk them at every opportunity, program new battle scenarios, and review previous simulator flights.

The last two items were far and away the most interesting, and the flight reviews gave him time with his friends. Squawks, Noodle, Moscow, and Nails reviewed every flight together, analyzing how their squadrons had done and brainstorming what they could have done differently.

But it was an endless march through uniformity, every day the same, every interaction the same, and all without an outlet. These nightly conversations with his father were as close as Coda ever got to blowing off some steam, and even then, he felt like he was just complaining.

“I would do almost anything to get back into the cockpit,” Coda said. His head was at the foot of the bed, nearest his father’s chair, eyes locked on the ceiling. If he squinted just right, the dirt and imperfections on the ceiling looked like constellations. “Just one more time. Feel the weight of acceleration, let inertia toss me around, rip through space at speeds most people can’t even imagine.”

“It’s a drug,” his father said. “We used to talk about it. The pull. The addiction.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” Coda said.

“How else can you explain why we climb in the cockpit time after time? Why a man, when given an ultimatum, his fighter or his family, would choose his fighter?”

“I don’t know,” Coda said. “For me, it was the times I felt the most alive.”

“Says every addict who’s ever lived.”

“I guess.” Coda didn’t want to think about it too deeply. He missed flying and the comradery with his wingmen. That didn’t mean he was addicted. “What about you? Is there any part of you that misses it?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

The following silence pulled Coda’s attention from the ceiling. His father had his eyes on the deck, his face sullen, eyes haunted.

“Sorry,” Coda said. “I wasn’t…”

His father didn’t seem to hear him. It had been a stupid question. Of course his father didn’t miss it—he was terrified of the cockpit. The last time he’d flown, he’d shot down his wingmen, killing some of his closest friends.

“It’s okay,” his father said. “The truth is, I do miss it. There was a freedom in the black. Just you and the enemy, surrounded by nothing but the cold void. There was no hiding. No faking. If you weren’t up to snuff, you were done. There’s no greater test than that. In a way, it was liberating.”

There was a longing in his father’s words, an ache in his tone. Maybe he was afraid to admit it to himself, but Coda had the feeling his father missed the cockpit every bit as much as he did.

“Let’s find out, then,” Coda said.

“Hmmm?”

“Yeah.” Coda sat up, swinging his legs around so that his feet were on the deck. “C’mon.”

“What are you talking about? They’ll never let us in a Nighthawk.”

“No,” Coda agreed. “But there’s no restrictions on the simulator.”

His father leaned back in his chair, suddenly understanding where Coda’s head was at. “I’m sure they’re in use.”

Coda shook his head. “They’re not. I’d know—I make the schedule.” He laughed. For once, the tedious task had worked in his favor.

“I don’t know,” his father said.

“Why not?” Coda pressed. “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

“Dr. Rydell grounded you.”

“From flying,” Coda said. “She’s worried the strain would be too much. The simulator is different.”

His father looked at him, his breathing faster. Coda could see the desire in his eyes. The same excitement he felt.

“It’ll be fun.” Coda stood. “Let’s go.”

His father’s face broke into a smile. “All right, fine. Let’s do it.”

Coda led his father out of his room and through the ship to the Simulation Room. He set a brisk pace, both excited and worried that his father would back out. Coda wanted this. Needed it. He’d thought he would never get the chance to fly with his father, to share a mutual love the same way so many boys and fathers shared their love of sports.

As Coda had expected, the Simulation Room was empty. The lights turned on automatically as they entered, and he made directly for the control panel. “We can start with a basic survival scenario. Let you get your feet under you again.”

His fingers raced across the panel, pulling up the hop that he and every other member of the Forgotten had flown a thousand times. The objective was simply to stay alive for as long as possible while wave after wave of enemy fighters swarmed in in an ever-increasing level of difficulty. The perfect warmup scenario, it was often used if someone just wanted to blow off some steam. The simulator’s equivalent of working out or going on a run.

With the scenario selected, Coda turned for the simulator but stopped dead in his tracks. His father stood in front of one of the machines. He grabbed one of the bars and gave it a gentle push. The whole simulator spun, the cockpit in the middle rotating with it.

Coda made his way across the room and stopped beside his father’s shoulder. “They’re pretty impressive, aren’t they?”

“Yeah.”

Coda couldn’t tell if it was awe or fear in his father’s voice. “I remember the first time I ever flew in one. We were aboard the Jamestown, and my friend Uno, who had earned the privilege of flying in it first, threw up all over the deck. I guess his anxiety got the best of him. So Captain Coleman, Commander Coleman then, let me take his spot. I’d trained to fly the Hornet drones and thought I knew what to expect, but I’d never experienced anything like it. It was incredible. ‘Fucking incredible,’ I think my exact words were.”

His father remained quiet, watching as the rotating bars slowed to a stop.

“C’mon,” Coda said. “I’ll help you get strapped in.”

“No need. I remember how.”

“All right.”

Coda strode toward the other simulator. He pulled the ladder into position and climbed the steps to the cockpit. With a hard push, the ladder rolled away. Coda strapped in and closed the hatch.

Pulling on his helmet, he was suddenly transported to a field of stars. The simulation was running. As he turned his head, the field of stars shifted with him, and he found a second Nighthawk off his starboard wing. His heart hammered with excitement.

“You ready?” Coda asked over the comm.

“Yeah,” his father said.

Coda hit the flashing green Start icon on his instrument cluster. “Let’s do this, then.”

9

Simulation Room, SAS Redemption

Europa Station, Sol System

Coda was home. For the first time in weeks, every move, gesture, and maneuver was done with complete confidence. Anxiety, self-doubt, and guilt washed away like soap down a drain. He wasn’t just home—he was free, unshackled from every side-eyed look, concern, and tragedy. But even as Coda lost himself in the rhythm of the fight, his father did not.

As the first wave of enemy fighters flew in, Coda let out a yell and plotted an aggressive attack vector. It wasn’t until the first two fighters were down and Coda was attempting to get missile lock on a third that he realized his father hadn’t engaged. His ship flew in the same direction at the same speed as it had when they’d first plugged into the simulator. Worse, the final enemy fighter was closing in, and if he didn’t take evasive action, he would be shot down.

The simulators were programed to provide a sharp electric shock any time a fighter was shot down. Captain Coleman didn’t want death to be taken lightly, even during a simulation. That, in addition to whatever else his father was feeling, would surely be enough to prevent him from ever getting back into the cockpit of anything, even the simulator.

“Everything okay back there?” Coda asked over the comm.

His father didn’t reply.

Cursing, Coda broke off his attack, performing a hard turn that would have been impossible in a real Nighthawk, and burned hard in his father’s direction. “You’ve got a bogey bearing down on you, six degrees positive-Z. On my mark, cut portside sixty degrees, okay?”

Still no reply.

“Dad, did you hear me? Cut portside sixty degrees on my mark. Acknowledge.”

Nothing.

He’ll be all right. When it comes to it, instinct will kick in, and he’ll do what he needs to do.

As the enemy closed in, his father didn’t show any signs of altering course. The enemy opened fire.

“Mark!”

His father’s ship didn’t move. The Baranyk’s plasma fire was nearly upon him.

“Dad!”

Joseph O’Neil’s ship flared, the blues of its Shaw Drive thrusters burning brighter, and it darted port exactly sixty degrees. Baranyk plasma fire narrowly missed his Nighthawk, disappearing into the black.

The enemy fighter moved directly into Coda’s line of fire. He sprayed cannon fire across its path. The enemy fighter broke apart, spewing digital goo into space.

“Splash three!” Coda bellowed. “Well done.”

Only one enemy fighter remained, the one Coda had been pursuing before breaking off his attack to aid his father. And it was coming around on Coda’s tail. He could easily take it out, but with his father finally getting into the action, Coda wanted to see how far he could push him.

“Looks like I picked up a clinger,” Coda said. “Altering course too…”

The entire time they’d been in the simulator, his father had been silent, but his father’s laughter suddenly filled the line.

“What is it?” Coda asked.

“Clinger,” his father said. “I haven’t heard that word in a long time. I had a friend whose call sign was that.”

“His call sign was Clinger?” Of all the unfortunate call signs he’d heard, that had to be among the worst.

“Yeah. He was one of those guys that always overstayed his welcome, never knew when to leave, and he’d follow us around everywhere we went, from the gym to the mess to the simulator, wherever. Then one hop, he had an enemy on his tail he couldn’t shake, and he radioed for help. ‘I’ve got a clinger I can’t wipe,’ he said. We were all laughing so hard, he nearly got shot down. But from that day on, we called him Clinger.”

Coda laughed. “That’s hilarious.”

“Yeah,” his father’s said wistfully.

The enemy in pursuit opened fire, spraying plasma across Coda’s flight path. He dove negative-Z then spun, corkscrewing around to reverse course.

“You want to help me wipe this one?” Coda asked as the enemy fighter dove in pursuit.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve wiped your ass.”

Coda smiled, watching on his HUD as his father’s fighter moved into position. Coda’s maneuver had brought the enemy perfectly into his firing range. A yellow indicator appeared on his display and streaked toward the enemy vessel. His father had launched a missile. In moments, it turned the enemy fighter into digital slag.

“Good work,” Coda said.

“You could have had him.”

“I know, but it was funner to do together,” Coda said. “You up for another?”

“Yeah,” his father said. “I’m just getting warmed up.”

“Good, because here comes the next wave.”

There were six enemy fighters this time, and in addition to more fighters with each successive wave, their proficiency grew as well. With Coda and his father coming into range, they split into two groups of three. One fighter plotted a direct course to each of them, while the other two attempted to flank. It was a tried-and-true strategy that the enemy employed in every battle. It rarely worked since the human pilots had long since adopted a fighter-pair strategy, but with his father—

Joseph O’Neil’s fighter moved into position off Coda’s starboard wing in the dash-2 position. They’d never flown together, let alone fought a battle together. It would be crazy to think they could fight as one, but just like the Forgotten had had to start somewhere, so did they.

“Fighters will be in range in six seconds,” Coda said. “Target the intercepting fighter with missiles, then maintain course and rotate ninety degrees to protect your flank.”

“Yes, sir,” his father snapped. Coda couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or just getting into the spirit of the battle.

Coda thumbed the switch on his joystick, switching from cannons to missiles, and a targeting bracket appeared on his HUD. He let the computer autotarget the lead fighter and waited for it to come into range. Because they were flying on a straight course, it didn’t take long. A steady tone sounded through the cockpit, indicating that his computer had achieved missile lock.

“Hawk One,” Coda said. “Fox four.” He squeezed the firing stud. The cockpit rocked as the digital missile sped away, now indicated by a yellow marker on his battle map. It streaked toward the incoming Baranyk fighter, and in a millisecond, both disappeared.

“Splash four!” Coda bellowed just before his father shouted, “Splash five!”

What remained of the Baranyk formation split apart, one going to their port and starboard flanks, the last two darting above and below the battle plane. With the first two fighters vanquished, Coda used a burst of his nose-mounted navigation thrusters to rotate his fighter to port. After switching back to cannons, he sprayed thirty-millimeter slugs across the enemy’s trajectory to the tune of fifty-five per second.

“Splash six!” his father said. Coda thought he heard a hint of pride in his father’s voice.

“Splash seven!” Coda said. It wasn’t lost on him that his father had vanquished his target first.

Glancing at his HUD, Coda saw that the last two enemy fighters were finishing their loop, but the Nighthawks had rotated to their port and starboard sides, so the maneuver brought the enemy toward their flanks.

Without a command, Coda and his father rotated another ninety degrees so that the enemy was coming in head-on. Coda switched back to missiles and got missile lock just as the enemy opened fire. He squeezed the trigger, pressed his joystick to the right, and yanked back, performing a tight turn away from the incoming plasma fire. To his surprise, Coda’s father performed the exact same maneuver.

“Not bad, old man,” Coda said. “Looks like you’ve still got it.”

“Just like riding a bike. If that bike was going forty thousand kilometers per hour.”

Coda smiled as the new contacts appeared on his HUD. “Well, I hope you’re ready to take the training wheels off, because here we go again.”

There were eight enemy fighters this time, and instead of coming in with a simple formation, they were broken into two formations of four, each offset by one hundred meters. There was no simple strategy this time; it would be a dogfight requiring equal parts skill and speed.

“Contact in… eleven seconds,” Coda said. “Break formation and cut to starboard at least one hundred kilometers. I’ll do the same to port. See if we can give ourselves a little room to operate in.”

“Sounds good.”

“Break in three… two… one… Break!”

Coda fired his thrusters and cut hard to port. Immediately, four enemy fighters moved to intercept him. Another four moved to engage his father.

Time to see how good you really are.

Settling into the seat of his cockpit, Coda let the rhythm of the battle wash over him. He fired thrusters, dove, spun, corkscrewed, and looped, and was flipped, shaken, and thrown around the cockpit with a dizzying onslaught of movement. His seat rumbled when he fired his cannons and lurched when he launched missiles.

Through it all, he kept one eye on his father’s progress. With every passing moment, he was shaking off rust and showing glimpses of the pilot he’d been. Already, he would have been one of the top pilots of the Forgotten, flying with precision and a subtle hint of flamboyance. Coda was surprised to see shades of his own style in there. It was like he was watching himself walk and talk beside a video of his father, noticing how his gait and facial expressions were the same. The way his father flew wasn’t identical—Coda had been originally trained to fly a Hornet drone after all—but there were similarities. He couldn’t explain it, but something about that made Coda proud.

They completed the third wave without issue then the fourth. It wasn’t until the fifth that they began to struggle. When they completed the sixth, Coda had officially lasted longer than he ever had, whether flying solo or with a wingman. They finished the seventh by the skin of their teeth and were finally blown to hell on the eighth.

Coda took off his helmet, a broad smile splitting his face. Sweat coated his hair and soaked his back, but it was a therapeutic feeling, as if his body was expelling mental, physical, and psychological toxins. He glanced over and saw his dad smiling and sweat stained as well. It was an image he expected to remember for the rest of his life—the first time he’d seen his father truly happy since they’d been reunited.

A single person’s clapping echoed through the Simulation Room. Captain Coleman waited near the back of the room. He’d toggled the display wall so that he could watch the encounter. Coda had no idea how long he’d been watching, but considering their success, he hoped it had been a while.

The smile on his father’s face faltered a bit at the sight of his old friend, and he gave Coda an uneasy look. Coda thought he understood why. They were back in the real world now. That carefree feeling they’d experienced was as much of a simulation as the enemy fighters themselves. Their real-world issues still awaited them.

“That was a hell of a show.” Captain Coleman crossed the room then rolled the ladder into place beside Coda’s cockpit.

Coda yanked a lever near his seat, locking his simulator in place, then climbed onto the ladder and stepped unsteadily down its steps.

“How many waves was that?”

“Eight,” Coda said proudly.

“Not bad.” Coleman rolled the ladder over to the second simulator. “How many was our record, Joseph? Eleven?”

“Twelve,” Coda’s father said, stepping out of the simulator.

“Twelve?” Coda asked in disbelief. “That’s incredible.”

“We used to live in these things,” Captain Coleman said. “We probably would have slept in them if we could.”

“Still,” Coda said. “Twelve? How many fighters did you face then?”

“Thirty-two,” his father said.

“That’s more than an entire squadron,” Coda said.

“It’s not as impressive as it sounds,” his father said. “And you have to realize that we believed that for every minute we spent in here, we’d get better out there. If we could just get to the next wave in here, we could save more pilots out there. It was an obsession, and in the end, it didn’t make much of a difference.”

“I don’t know about that,” Captain Coleman said. “There’s no telling what would have happened if we hadn’t pushed ourselves. If everyone hadn’t pushed themselves.”

Coda’s father shrugged, but it felt like some of the air had been sucked out of the room. “You speak with the admiral?” he asked, changing the subject.

Captain Coleman nodded curtly. “We beat the enemy back, and the fleet is on high alert. It’s just a matter of time.”

“Why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming, sir?” Coda asked.

Captain Coleman winced. His eyes darted to Coda’s father, to Coda, then back. “I’m sorry, Joseph. I really am. I tried everything I could. But the admiral ordered me to take you into custody and escort you to his ship.”

“What?” Coda said.

His father didn’t say anything. He just nodded as if he had known the moment was coming.

“Sir,” Coda said, “you can’t. My father’s not a traitor. He’s a hero.”

“Coda—” Captain Coleman said.

“Without him, we never would have learned about the Overlord. We never would have found the Baranyk home world and discovered their fleet. You can’t let them do this.”

“I have my orders.”

“Forget your—”

“Stand down, Coda!”

The voice cut Coda short, and it took him a moment to realize that it was his father who had addressed him. He took a deep, steadying breath, imagining his anger and frustration leaving his body with his exhale. It wasn’t enough to calm him completely, but it was enough to bring him under control.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Coda said. “I just thought that with everything we’d been through, everything he’d done, that the admiral would understand.”

“I did too,” Captain Coleman said. “And he promises me nothing has been decided yet. But he has to follow his protocols, and we have to follow our orders.”

The anger was swelling again, threatening to take control.

“We knew this was going to happen,” his father said.

“It doesn’t make it right,” Coda said.

“And it doesn’t make it wrong, either.” Joseph put both hands on Coda’s shoulders. “Everything you’ve done has given me a chance. This isn’t over, Callan. Have faith it’ll all work out.”

“Faith,” Coda spat. “I’ve never had much of that.”

“I haven’t either,” his father said. “Until my son found a way back into my life. I refuse to believe this ends here. You hear me? I refuse.”

Coda swallowed the emotion building in his chest and took a shuddering breath. “I refuse too, Dad.”

His father pulled him into a tight embrace. “Thank you, Callan.”

For as long as Coda could remember, he’d fought for his family. To undo the wrongs done to and by his father. Those demons had originally been personal, but now, they’d become external and went to the very top of the Sol Fleet. The odds were forever being stacked against him, and in the moment, they felt insurmountable.

“For what?” he asked bitterly.

“For this. For giving me one more chance to hug my son and tell him I love him.”

At some point in his childhood, Coda had, without knowing it, hugged his father for what could have been the last time. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again. He squeezed his father tighter. “I love you too, Dad.”

It felt like his dad held on to him for several minutes, which felt like both an eternity and not enough time.

When the embrace ended, his father gave him an encouraging smile and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you soon.”

“See you soon,” Coda said.

With that, Coda’s father walked with Captain Coleman into the corridor, where a marine guard waited. The last image Coda saw before the door closed was his father, head held high and seemingly ready for whatever the world threw at him next, being placed in cuffs.

Years before, Coda had vowed to restore honor to his family name. He’d fought in countless battles and even earned a little prestige, but for some time, he’d known that his job was incomplete. This was proof that there was still work to do.

10

Control Center, Orbital Platform

Low Orbit, Morning Sun

Ensign Richard Black needed a fucking drink. He was tired. No, he was exhausted—the my-eyeballs-feel-like-they’re-bathing-in-a-tub-of-alcohol kind of exhausted. He’d been on alert for more than thirty-six hours, and his next sleep cycle wasn’t for another six. It wasn’t the longest he’d ever been awake, not by a long shot, but those two- and three-day bingers had been fueled by cocaine, methamphetamine, and a whole host of other uppers.

Those were the days, he thought.

Life had seemed so much simpler then. He’d lived every day with a singular purpose—to find his next drink, his next hit, his next bump. Things like jobs and responsibilities had taken a back seat to feeding his cravings.

Those cravings were what had forced him into the Sol Fleet to begin with. Not the cravings exactly, but when he couldn’t hold a job and he didn’t qualify for unemployment, he’d had to find money somehow. The first time he’d been caught stealing, he’d broken into a dilapidated apartment in the housing complex he’d recently been kicked out of. It had only gotten worse from there, until his friend Kevin convinced him that they needed to up their game, that if they continued to steal a couple hundred dollars’ worth of items, jewelry, and cash at a time, then they would have to do it regularly. If they went bigger and knocked off a store, then they’d be set for a long time.

In the haze of whatever they’d been on at the time, it had sounded like a great plan. Unfortunately, it was a lot harder to knock off a store than the vids suggested. With a growing rap sheet, the judge had given him two choices: a ten-year prison sentence or enlist in the Sol Fleet. Either way, he would have to get clean and kiss everything that made life interesting bye-bye.

The first two weeks had been the hardest. The sweats, the inability to sleep, and the cravings that made him want to crawl out of his skin would have been unbearable if a ten-year prison sentence hadn’t been staring him in the face.

The second week was better, except for the fact that every day was boring, lacking any semblance of goals or outlets. By the third week, the brain fog, something that had been settled for so long that Richard hadn’t even known it was there, began to dissipate, and he was reminded of who he used to be and how he used to feel.

When the fourth and final week of the program rolled around, he was actually proud of what he’d accomplished and excited for what the future held. That didn’t mean the cravings had gone away. Not by a long shot, but at least out here, manning an orbital defensive platform above the planet Morning Sun, temptation was few and far between. Yes, he wanted a drink, but when he’d given up the drugs, he’d also been forced to give up smoking, alcohol, and the occasional bet. He was an all-or-nothing kind of guy, and returning to one meant returning to all.

Sitting in his pod, eyes on the terminal, he battled through the fatigue with a newfound determination. It was also why, when his terminal beeped and a single red indicator appeared on its edge, that he was slow to react. Could he be hallucinating? It wouldn’t have been the first time.

A second indicator appeared. Then in an instant, there were a dozen, two, three. The entire terminal went red. He blinked, willing the red indicators to go away, but when he looked at the terminal again, it was only filled with more red.

“Contact,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Contact! Multiple bogeys incoming, four hundred thousand kilometers and closing.”

He heard the heavy thump of boots rush up behind him. Commander Hobb peered over his shoulder.

“Get a priority one drone through the JumpGate!” Commander Hobb bellowed. “The fleet needs to know what’s coming.”

“Yes, sir!” Ensign Card, the communications specialist, said from her terminal.

“How long until they’re on us?” Commander Hobb asked.

Ensign Black read the indicators on his terminal. “They’re showing no signs of slowing down, sir. If they maintain their present speed, they’ll be on us in sixteen minutes.”

“Thank you, Ensign,” Commander Hobb said. “If something changes, let me know.”

“Yes, sir,” Ensign Black said. “But, sir, the system only has a single battleship and our orbital platforms. We’ll be overwhelmed, sir. What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to trust our fleet to arrive on time to provide assistance.” With that, Commander Hobb returned to his command chair.

Yeah, I really need a fucking drink.

11

Engineering, SAS Redemption

Europa Station, Sol System

There were few places Captain Coleman was truly uncomfortable, but Engineering was at the top of that list. It wasn’t just that he had only rudimentary knowledge of how things like the EmDrive functioned or that the men and women who read and relayed sensor data sometimes made him feel like a toddler playing with colored shapes. It was more personal than that. In this realm, he was well and truly out of his element. Useless. Just a broken part gumming up the gears.

The engineers seemed to know it too. He’d tried to stay out of their way as he wound through the engines bay, but he’d collided with more than one who’d had their noses buried in their tablet. They’d looked at him, surprised, as if they’d just run into a wall that hadn’t been there before. The current of the engineering department moved in different ways than the currents of his pilots or even the deck crews. Here, he just felt like he was walking into a strong headwind.

Taking a deep breath, he came to the edge of one of the workstations. A brightly painted bar was all that stood between it and a vast chamber at least six decks tall, where the massive EmDrive resided. There were so many moving parts, tubes, pistons, wires, and vents that Coleman couldn’t make heads or tails of it. The drive was a far cry from the Shaw Drive that powered the Nighthawks. Those were simple. Those, he understood. The EmDrive, which had opened the stars to humanity, might as well have been a Baranyk invention.

Commander Payton stood on a piece of scaffolding about midway up the engine, listening as one of his engineers gave him an update. Coleman scanned the chamber and its network of metal-grated catwalks, seeking a way to his chief engineer, then started his way.

“How’s she looking, Chief?” Coleman asked once he was in shouting distance.

“Ah, Captain.” Commander Payton turned to face his approaching senior officer. “We’re nearly there. The grunt work is over, and now the real work begins.”

Grunt work, Coleman thought. As if removing a six-story tall engine and installing a new one was something that any old mechanic could do. Five days had passed since the Redemption entered dry dock for repairs, and Coleman had quickly acquired a replacement engine. Commander Payton’s team had wasted little time getting to work.

“What’s next?” Coleman asked.

“Adjustments, calibrations, fine-tuning.” Commander Payton waved his hand as if Coleman wouldn’t understand any of it. “We’ve got it operating at ten percent. As we continue to bring it online, we’ll slowly ramp up the power output.”

“How long do you need?” Coleman asked.

“It’s hard to say, sir,” Payton said. “This part is more an art than a science.”

“And yet artists work on deadlines every day, Chief. How long until my ship is in fighting shape?”

Payton let out a sharp breath. Clearly, he didn’t like being pushed. “We’ll probably be making adjustments for weeks, maybe even months. But your ship should be operational within a few days.”

“A few days,” Coleman repeated.

“We aren’t talking about swapping out an air filter or a spark plug here, sir—”

“I realize that,” Coleman interrupted. “We also don’t have the luxury of a few days. We have an enemy fleet bearing down on us, and they’re not going to care how much time you think you need. I can’t tell you what to do—this is your domain—and you’re right, I don’t understand. But we need to be faster.”

Commander Payton opened his mouth to speak.

“We need to be faster, Chief.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s the minimum power output where she’ll be operational?”

Commander Payton looked at his new engine. “It depends on a number of factors—”

“Chief,” Coleman pressed.

“Twenty-five percent,” Payton said. “Twenty-five percent, and she’ll be combat ready. But every percent above that will represent a marked improvement.”

“Good,” Coleman said. “Let me know when she’s at twenty.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Carry on.” Coleman left Commander Payton to his work.

12

Baranyk Network

Unknown

For all the time Coda had spent in the Baranyk network, the space still felt just as alien as it ever had. In particular was the way he maintained his sense of self in an otherwise-out-of-body experience. He had no body, no nerves, no brain, but he still felt phantom feelings of seeing, hearing, and touch, the impression of speed and distance. The entire experience felt real yet artificial at the same time.

He drifted aimlessly, another lost soul among a sea of stars. Except he knew the lights around him, burning like distant suns, were actually other forms of consciousness—Baranyk and other alien creatures alike, all a part of the same network. A part of him was still in awe that the universe was full of alien life. In the hundreds of years humanity had traveled the stars, they had only come across one intelligent alien life form—and were at war with them. But his connection to the Baranyk network had shown him a universe even bigger than he’d imagined possible.

The lights of consciousness drifted past him, giving him the faintest impressions of feelings and images. The fuzzy, almost dreamlike qualities would come into focus the closer he got. He ignored each of them, keeping his distance. None of them meant anything to him, though he knew somewhere out there, among the billions of lights, was the one he wished he could talk to, the one that had been taken from him for a second time. He’d returned to the network every night since his father was taken into custody, hoping to find him.

As if responding to his feeling of need, one of the distant lights drew nearer, growing in size and brightness as it closed the metaphysical distance. A sense of knowing and belonging grew with it. Coda moved toward it. When they were nearly upon each other, he felt something else, feelings of concern and frustration. He met it with his own sense of confusion as the glow of the light enveloped him.

Coda was transported to another world.

He didn’t know how it was possible, but his father brought him to a place only the two of them would know. A place where the Overlord should never be able to find them. When Coda was a child, his father had been an avid baseball fan and had often taken him to the local minor-league stadium to watch the local boys play on their quest to make the big leagues. It was the same stadium that his father had referenced to help Coda find him in the real world.

They sat as they had in those days, on the first-base side in line with first base itself so that if a ball was overthrown it might land in their waiting hands. No one else was there. No other spectators, players, or vendors shouting about peanuts, cotton candy, or ice-cold beer.

Joseph O’Neil was dressed in the Sol Fleet’s standard sweats and T-shirt. His physique appeared more chiseled than his real body. His hair was darker and fuller, and his face showed fewer signs of age and stress. This was how Coda’s father saw himself.

“I was afraid I’d find you here,” Coda’s father said.

“Afraid?” Coda cocked his head to the side in confusion. “You pretty much asked me to come.”

He didn’t respond, just gave Coda an expression that made it clear he had no idea what his son was talking about.

“You told me you’d see me soon.” Coda held up his hands, gesturing to the world around them. “Unless you were planning on breaking out of the brig, commandeering a shuttle, and returning to the Redemption, I didn’t see another way how.”

A small smirk appearing, his father let out a small breath. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I see that,” Coda said. “No wonder you didn’t come sooner.”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve looked for me?”

“No.” Coda shook his head. “I’ve been here every night since you were taken, waiting. But you never showed up. I was afraid they were somehow preventing you from coming.”

“I see,” his father said. “No, I didn’t come because it is dangerous. This isn’t our domain, Coda. We’re outsiders here, and if the Overlord is paying attention, he’ll be drawn to us. We should go.”

“No.” The word came out stronger than Coda expected. “The fleet took you away twice. I’m not going to let the Overlord take you away too.”

His father eyed him for a moment, then he put his arm around Coda and threw a foot up on the empty seat in front of them. It was a small gesture, but its meaning was clear. His father wouldn’t rush them away, and Coda appreciated it.

“I’m sorry,” his father said.

“It’s not your fault.”

“I’m not sure about that.”

Coda left his response unsaid. “So, how are they treating you?”

“Not bad.” His father’s eyes were distant, scanning the emerald field in front of him. “The marines brought me to the Abraham Lincoln and threw me in the brig. Aside from the marine guard inside the door and the other who brings my food and water, I haven’t seen or spoken with anyone.”

“That’s good, I guess,” Coda said. “Could be worse.”

“Could be worse,” his father agreed. “What about you?”

Coda shrugged. “Same ole same ole. Though now that we’re in dock, Captain Coleman has me…”

His father’s face had taken on a pained look.

“What is it?”

“Do you feel that?”

“Feel what?” Coda’s eyes scanned the stadium. He half expected to see the Overlord or a small army of Baranyk, but the stadium remained as empty as it ever had, almost eerie.

“Pain.” He looked at Coda, eyes firm, focused, and scared. “We need to go.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Now, Coda.”

The world disappeared, and Coda was back in an infinite sea of blackness, broken up only by tiny dots of light. His father’s presence was still beside him, but beyond that, nothing felt amiss.

Wait…

Something pulled Coda toward a particular collection of lights. As he drew closer, he realized the bright lights were actually made up of thousands, even millions of smaller lights. Now that he was closer, he could feel distant sensations.

His father was right. Whatever was happening was causing great amounts of pain. And he had the vague sense that some of the lights were disappearing.

“What’s happening?” Coda asked.

“They’re dying.”

“Who’s dying?” Coda asked.

“Baranyk.”

A chill went through Coda’s body. “How?”

“I think,” Coda’s father said, “the Baranyk fleet has arrived.”

13

Bridge, SAS Redemption

Europa Station, Sol System

“Report!” Captain Coleman bellowed as he dashed onto the bridge. News had come down only moments before. The Baranyk fleet had been sighted, and rumor was swirling that it had attacked one of humanity’s larger outer colonies.

“Orders coming in now, sir,” Ensign Richey said. “Transmitting.”

Coleman’s tablet chimed as the orders were relayed to his personal tablet and those of his executive staff across the bridge.

“Looks like our vacation is over,” Commander Garcia said, reading the message.

Captain Coleman appreciated his XO’s levity, but he’d been dreading this day for weeks, and he couldn’t help but feel like he was living a nightmare made manifest. Anticipating a call, he made one of his own, patching through to his chief engineer.

“Commander Payton,” Coleman said. “How’s our new engine looking?”

“We’re still working through a number of anomalies, sir,” Commander Payton said into his earpiece. “Current output measured at thirty-two percent.”

That was well beyond the minimum output Commander Payton had mentioned before.

“We’re in fighting shape,” Coleman said.

“We’ll be stepping into the ring with a swollen eye and a busted nose, but yes, our ship is in fighting shape.”

“Great work, Commander. Keep it up. We’ll need everything you can give us.”

“Of course, sir.”

No sooner had Coleman ended the communication than his personal earpiece rang again. He knew who would be on the other side even before he heard the familiar voice.

“Captain Coleman,” Admiral Orlovsky said.

“Sir,” Coleman said.

“How’s that new drive of yours coming along?”

“Just got off with my chief engineer, sir. We’re in fighting shape.”

“Good,” Admiral Orlovsky said. “Rendezvous with the Oklahoma, Montana, and Abraham Lincoln at JumpGate-4 at 1540 and prepare to jump to the Morning Sun.”

The Abraham Lincoln? That was the admiral’s flagship.

“You’re coming too, sir?”

“You bet your ass I am, Captain,” Admiral Orlovsky said. “I have to see this fleet of yours with my own eyes.”

“Of course, sir,” Coleman said. “We’ll see you at JumpGate-4 at 1540. Good luck, sir.”

“You too, Captain.” Coleman ended the call.

“Daddy’s coming to supervise?” Commander Garcia asked.

“Yes,” Coleman said.

He thought back to his last conversation with the admiral, when his old friend had told him of the fleet’s preparations. It might have been his imagination, but he couldn’t help but feel there were somehow doubts in the fleet about Coleman’s report. That some believed the numbers were an exaggeration, that the brain experiments and human control sounded too outlandish, that maybe the whole thing was made up by an old pilot trying to stay relevant.

Admiral Orlovsky had said he believed Coleman, but Coleman couldn’t shake the feeling that more had been left unsaid. The admiral was about to put himself directly in the sights of the enemy. It was a catastrophically stupid tactical decision. The person in charge of their fleet had no business putting himself in jeopardy like this. If the battle went the way Coleman expected it to, the admiral would be in very real danger.

There will also be no doubting the true threat the Baranyk have brought to bear.

Was that why his old friend was putting himself in harm’s way? To make an incredibly public statement? Too much of military leadership was playing politics—he would leave that to Orlovsky and do his own job.

Coleman turned to Lieutenant Poiu. “Set Condition-1 throughout the ship and plot a course to JumpGate-4.”

“Yes, sir.”

The lights dimmed, and the familiar soft-amber glow of the heightened status lit the tops and bottoms of the bulkhead.

“Patch me through the entire ship,” he said to Ensign Richey. It was time to break the news to his crew.

“You’re on, sir,” Ensign Richey said.

Coleman nodded and took a deep breath, realizing that he didn’t know what he was going to say. The speakers let out a soft hiss of dead air, his breathing faintly audible.

“This is the captain,” he said, breaking the growing silence. “For the last few months, we’ve battled through enemy territory to uncover the secrets of our enemy. Because of your hard work and dedication, we succeeded in that mission. Because of your perseverance, we were able to bring our discoveries home, where our comrades could do something with them. To help us prepare. To give us a fighting chance.”

He looked around the bridge from the lower tier near the battle map, feeling the eyes of his crew on him, the eyes of the entire ship. “But we always knew we were in a race against time, that the enemy was on our heels, that whatever respite we had earned would be short-lived. That our worst fears would catch up to us. I’m sorry to say that that day is today. The enemy fleet we uncovered at the Baranyk home world has been sighted and is currently engaged in a battle at the human colony Morning Sun. We and three other ships, including the Abraham Lincoln, are en route to provide aid.

“You all know the challenges ahead. You, better than anyone, know the odds we face. But you also represent the best this fleet has to offer. You’ve pulled off the impossible more times than I can count, and you will do so again. And through your actions, you will give us a fighting chance. Remain steadfast. Remain vigilant. Trust in yourselves and your comrades. Let’s do the impossible. Coleman out.”

He pressed his earpiece, ending his direct line to the entire ship, not sure what to do next. Thankfully, he felt Commander Garcia step up beside him.

“You’re getting better at those,” Commander Garcia said softly.

“Thank you, Commander.” Unfortunately, we both know words alone don’t win battles, and even the best words aren’t going to be enough to stop what’s coming.

14

Bridge, SAS Redemption

High Orbit, Morning Sun

Unlike many of humanity’s colonized worlds, the planet Morning Sun was a close proximity to Earth. From space, it appeared as a beautiful blue marble with streaks of white, and on its three large continents were mountainous peaks, white sandy beaches, and green flora and fauna. It was slightly warmer than Earth, with a tropical climate, making it a comfortable home for its first settlers, who’d largely come from many Asian countries.

Today, it burned.

The Baranyk fleet invaded the system like a swarm of locusts, simultaneously attacking its moon bases, orbital platforms, and the miniscule defense the planet could muster. The Baranyk outnumbered the human ships, vessels, and batteries by an overwhelming margin. Explosions lit the surface and flashed in space in a constant visual symphony of destruction, and still, the Baranyk struck.

“Good god,” Commander Garcia muttered as the first readings came back. “We need to do something. They don’t have much time left.”

Captain Coleman wasn’t the superior officer on this mission. He had to wait for his orders, and the flagship hadn’t arrived yet. Thankfully, the Baranyk hadn’t moved to engage the arriving fleet, likely because they’d arrived so far out of system.

Not that four ships would do much against a force like that anyway. Captain Coleman steeled himself, setting his jaw, hoping he looked more confident than he felt. The planet and its moon were lost. The only thing they could do now was save as many lives as possible.

“Active scans,” Captain Coleman said, “entire system. I want every ship and fighter logged, categorized, and designated. I need to know how many ships we’re facing, their losses, where they’re focused, weakest, and strongest. Everything you can give me.”

“On it, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said.

Coleman opened a channel to Moscow. “What’s your status, Lieutenant?”

“Locked and loaded, sir,” Moscow said. “Just waiting for your command.”

“This isn’t going to be a normal engagement,” Coleman said. “We’re outnumbered in a way we haven’t been outnumbered before. Keep your fighters tight. You’re a scalpel here, not a sword, understand?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Good.” He closed the line.

“All ships have arrived, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Coleman said. Orders should be arriving any moment.

Seconds went by. Seconds that felt like minutes. Hours. Days. Each moment another that ended with additional human loss.

“The Abraham Lincoln is hailing us, sir,” Ensign Richey said. “Patching them through to your earpiece now.”

Captain Coleman didn’t move. He remained at the center of the bridge, taking up his customary spot before the 3D tactical display that took up the center of the space, watching the Baranyk fleet ravage the planet.

“Are you seeing this, Chadwick?” Admiral Orlovsky asked.

“I am, sir.”

“You were right.” Admiral Orlovsky didn’t even try to hide his tone of disbelief. Maybe he had believed Coleman, but believing wasn’t seeing, and it sure as hell wasn’t understanding.

Coleman looked at the count of ships at the top right corner of the tactical display. It was still increasing, but not at the same speed it had originally. The ship’s computer was getting close to finishing its count.

“This isn’t all of them, sir,” Coleman said. “This isn’t half of them. Not even a third.”

Admiral Orlovsky whispered a sharp curse. “Where are the rest?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Coleman said. “But I fear this isn’t the only attack. It’s the only attack we can do something about, though. What are our orders, sir?”

“The Morning Sun is lost,” Admiral Orlovsky said after a moment. “That much is clear. We must save as many as we can. The Abraham Lincoln will protect the JumpGate. You and the Oklahoma will provide additional firepower to the dual rings of the orbital platform and give the evacuees an avenue of escape. The Montana will engage the force attacking the moon and give the lunar citizens a chance.”

The plan was nearly the same as the one Coleman had been devising. In a situation like this, one could only plan for the broad strokes. Best to keep it loose and flexible and to respond in real time.

“I’m putting you in charge of the planet’s defenses,” Admiral Orlovsky said. “Get as many people to safety as you can, but do not sacrifice your ship. This is just the undercard, Chadwick. The main event is still coming.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Good luck and Godspeed.”

15

Ready Room, SAS Redemption

High Orbit, Morning Sun

For the second time in his career, Coda was left off the flight roster during a major military engagement. The first time had been his fault. He’d let Moscow goad him and lost his temper. He’d vowed never to let that happen again and had, so far, lived up to his promise, even becoming friends with his formal rival. This time was different. This time, he’d had no control.

Coda sought refuge in the one place that reminded him of everything he’d lost—the Forgotten ready room. This time, he was alone, no Moscow to share his anger and disappointment with. The Redemption was outfitted with state-of-the-art visualization equipment. When he’d been grounded on the Jamestown, he’d only been able to listen to the battle, but here, he could watch it unfold.

Coda dimmed the lights and took a seat in the front row of the ready room’s stadium seating as the first-person view of Moscow’s cockpit came onto the screen at the front of the room. He used his tablet to split the screen, bringing up a three-dimensional rendering of the battle map beside it. Lastly, he piped Moscow’s comms through the ready room’s speakers.

Moscow and the rest of the Forgotten were loaded in the launch bays, going through final preflight checks. Watching the battle rage across the system, he could easily see why the captain had chosen to keep his fighters close, relying instead on the Redemption’s antiaircraft batteries and torpedoes as it entered the fray.

This was an invasion at a scale he’d never seen before. The Morning Sun wasn’t so much being attacked as being overrun. The Baranyk were an infestation, and nothing they could do would equalize the numbers.

The deck rumbled with cannon fire, vibrating the soles of Coda’s boots. The sound echoed distantly through the bulkhead as the Redemption and Oklahoma burned toward the planet’s orbital defense platform—a pair of rings that circled the planet’s equator and were armed with heavy antiaircraft cannons. The two human vessels were met with surprisingly little resistance as they approached. Coda had expected enemy fighters and at least a capital ship to engage, but so far, the enemy had let them move into position. It was almost as if the Overlord had rolled out the red carpet to provide them with a front-row seat to the destruction.

The two rings, separated by ten kilometers, had sustained only minor damage. The enemy had focused its attacks on the planet’s surface and the neighboring moon. The ten-kilometer gap between the defense platforms left a narrow window for escape, and a group of ships were approaching it now.

The Redemption focused its cannons on a swarm of Baranyk fighters moving to engage the incoming vessels. The Redemption’s firing crews, aided by computer-aided targeting, fired indiscriminately at broad swaths of enemy fighters, spraying slime, mucus, and other organic Baranyk matter into the black.

In a single moment, more than a hundred Baranyk fighters descended on the two human capital ships. There might have been even more—the ship’s targeting sensors were having a difficult time keeping track of all of the moving vessels. But it was clear the Baranyk indifference was at an end.

On the second viewscreen, Moscow’s ship launched. He was suddenly speeding through the launch tube. Racing into the black, Moscow opened fire without hesitation, and it was fortunate he did. If he hadn’t, he would have immediately collided with one of the enemy vessels swarming the Redemption. More than one human fighter did exactly that, turning to slag before they even had a chance to engage the enemy.

“Nighthawks, break into sections,” Moscow said over the comm. “Finger-four formations, and only fire when necessary. We’re a distraction here. Our job is to escort as many of these ships to the JumpGate as possible.”

Moscow had the right idea. Even heavily outnumbered, they had to preserve their ammunition. If they fired on every exposed enemy in range, they would exhaust their missiles and cannon fire in seconds without doing anything to alter the course of the battle.

The Redemption and Oklahoma situated themselves just outside the orbital platforms, extending their protection a little farther into space. The Forgotten and the Oklahoma’s own squadrons cleared the way, eliminating fighters that moved to engage the convoy. In a short time, the fleet, coupled with the orbital defense platforms, had created a fragile tunnel for escape. But like all tunnels, if a single cog was removed, the whole thing would crumble.

16

Cockpit, Nighthawk

Morning Sun

“Another convoy inbound,” Moscow said. “Looks like a big one. Bad Dogs, break off and give these guys a proper escort.”

“You got it, Moscow,” Squawks said. “Dogs, on me.”

Squawks pulled the joystick back and to the left, leading his flight away from the other formations. The flight’s designation Bad Dogs still didn’t feel right to him. He’d originally wanted to call them Horn Dogs because his pilots would be on the enemy like a pent-up Jack Russell terrier, but Coda had failed to see the metaphor and denied his request. As Tex would have said, Coda could be a right stick-in-the-mud when he wanted to be.

But Coda isn’t the CAG anymore.

Maybe Squawks could talk to Moscow about it. He might get the humor. Probably not, though. Moscow was twice as serious as Coda ever was, with half the personality. If he wasn’t scowling, he was barking. Crazy Russian pride or something. He probably even pissed vodka.

Worth a shot, though.

Together, the Bad Dogs and Gold Flight—what a pretentious fucking flight designation—angled toward the planet, meeting the six-ship convoy as they broke atmo. It was a big convoy. They would definitely draw Baranyk attention.

“All right, Dogs,” Squawks said over their private channel. “Break into sections. Finger-four formations. I got point. Nails, take middle. Noodle, you got the rear where you like it.”

“I’m pretty sure that violates at least half a dozen sexual harassment laws,” Noodle said.

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” Nails said.

“Tell you what,” Squawks said, “live through this shit, and you can sue me.”

That got more than a few laughs. Good. That’s good. His pilots were tense. Too reactive. They needed to be loose and aggressive, to fly on instinct. That was when they were at their best.

The three sections formed up on the starboard side of the convoy, with Squawks leading their escape. Nails’s section was behind Squawks by nearly a kilometer, with Noodle and his fighters protecting the rear. Moscow’s sections did the same on the other side of the convoy. Between the orbital platforms, which launched a continuous volley of protective fire, and the Redemption and Oklahoma adding muscle to the battle, they’d been able to hold this narrow crevice long enough for dozens of ships to slip through.

Squawks smirked. His friends liked to complain about the shit that came out of his mouth. If they only knew what went through his head.

The moment they were beyond the range of the orbital platforms and Redemption’s defensive fire, the Baranyk attacked. The convoy was comprised of civilian vessels without weapons, so their survival depended on the Dogs.

A host of Baranyk fighters swarmed in, opening fire immediately. Outnumbering their enemy by a massive, unknown number, the Baranyk didn’t need to be precise with their targeting and instead sprayed plasma fire across a wide swath of space.

“Evasive maneuvers!” Squawks bellowed.

His pilots took immediate action, darting away in a series of dangerous high-G maneuvers. Squawks’s G-suit tightened around his limbs and torso, preventing his blood from being pushed to his feet, while his mask forced extra oxygen into his body. Blackness still creeped in from the edges of his vision.

Once he leveled out, it took half a moment to regain his bearings. The plasma fire hadn’t hit a single fighter, and the angle of the attack had left the convoy unharmed. Even better, the Bad Dogs were in a great flanking position.

Time to jump on them like a pent-up Jack Russell terrier.

Squawks had the computer divide the swarm into thirds, then he launched an equal number of missiles. They hit the swarm just before the enemy fighters changed course. Being outnumbered like this was a real bitch, but it also meant the enemy was clumped up, allowing his missiles to inflict maximum damage.

The swarm disintegrated, replaced by Baranyk goo and a couple dozen straggling fighters that struggled to regroup. His fighters made quick work of them.

“Well done,” Moscow said. “But conserve your weapons.”

Conserve? It was hard to conserve anything when they were under near-constant bombardment.

“Doing what I can,” Squawks said.

The enemy attacked at will now, swarm after swarm engaging and disengaging. The Forgotten were being hit from all sides in a relentless assault, and since they were in the dead zone between the safety of the orbital platforms and the JumpGate, they were truly on their own.

Squawks grunted as he nearly took a splash of plasma fire to the cockpit. “This isn’t working. We need to be nimbler. Break into fighter pairs.”

They would lack a cohesive strategy in fighter pairs, but Squawks trusted his pilots to do what was best in the moment. They didn’t have time to think. Only react. And working in sections wouldn’t enable that.

“Nails, where are you?”

“Forming up,” his wingman said. “Why do you think you’re still alive?”

“Ha!” Squawks barked. He risked a quick glance at the battle map and saw Nails was already flying just off his wing. “Glad someone is looking out for me. Guns only. Save your missiles for large swarms.”

“You got it.”

“The Abraham Lincoln is only six minutes—”

“Squawks,” Moscow interrupted, “another convoy is headed our way. I’ll take my flight back and give them an escort. After you see these ships through, double back and give us a hand.”

“Affirmative,” Squawks said. “Go get ’em, Moscow.”

He watched the green indicators on his HUD as Moscow’s flight broke away from the convoy and doubled back toward the planet. In a single moment, their numbers had been cut in half.

“All right, Dogs. It’s just us now. The Abraham Lincoln is only five minutes out. Keep these vessels flying until then.”

His fighters didn’t have time to respond. Several formations of Baranyk fighters darted in, going straight for the open flank where Moscow’s fighters had been. Squawks and Nails flipped and burned, coming at a dozen enemy fighters from under the convoy. Noodle and his wingman came from the opposite side, and the four of them used controlled bursts of cannon fire, knocking out several fighters, but not before the enemy unleashed a barrage of plasma fire.

If the enemy attack had hit the Redemption with its reinforced hull, it would have only caused minimal damage, but these weren’t military vessels. These were private civilian ships, luxury liners, and industrial ships meant for hauling cargo. The plasma fire tore through their hulls like molten lava. Hulls depressurized, venting oxygen, fluids, and human lives into the void.

The remaining Baranyk fighters stayed on a tight attack vector, strafing the convoy, firing more plasma fire along the full length of the fleeing vessels. Squawks and Nails followed. Noodle and his wingman did the same. The remaining enemy fighters were relentless, though. Blue fire peppered the hulls of the human ships like someone had flung paint from a paintbrush. Everywhere it struck, fire burned, and precious life support escaped.

“Missiles!” Squawks thumbed the trigger from cannons to missiles, allowing the computer to autotarget the farthest ship, trusting that Nails and the other fighters would take the ones trailing behind.

He squeezed the trigger. His Nighthawk rocked as the missile detached and sped forward, quickly disappearing from view. The yellow indicator on his HUD caught up to the lead Baranyk ship, turning it to slag. Several other missiles did the same, taking out the strike force.

Squawks performed a quick scan on their immediate battle space. The battle raged around them, but for the moment, their small convoy was unmolested. He let out a short breath.

“Squawks!” Noodle bellowed.

Squawks double-checked his battle map, expecting to see another wave of inbound fighters. Before he could determine what had spooked his friend, a blinding flash enveloped everything.

Squawks was shoved against his seat, his G-suit constricting around his appendages. He couldn’t see anything but blackness, and for several terrifying seconds, he thought he was either in the void or had lost his vision.

Emergency claxons wailed. That was a good sign. The blackness was slowly replaced by bright afterimages of whatever the terrible light had been. That was when he realized he was flipping out of control. On instinct, Squawks countered the spin with subtle movements until it dissipated. By the time he had his spacecraft under control, his vision had partially returned.

“What the hell was that?” Squawks asked.

“The ship’s reactor blew.” Noodle sounded as breathless as Squawks did.

Squawks almost asked what ship, but the battle map told him everything. The ship hit hardest from the Baranyk’s attack run had gone nuclear. Worst of all, it had taken out the two ships closest to it.

“Get the ships to the JumpGate,” he’d said. They’d failed.

No, Squawks told himself. The blast had taken out the Baranyk fighters too. There are still other ships. We can still get them to safety.

“Bad Dogs,” Squawks said, making his voice as strong as possible, “form up. We’re nearly there. We can still do this.”

Affirmatives rang through the radio, but not as many as he’d expected. Another look at the battle map told him why. The explosion had knocked out four Nighthawks.

His first thought was to do a quick roll call or have his computer provide a report of the fallen pilots, but he pushed the thought to the back of his mind.

“You still with me, Nails?” He could afford himself that one question.

“Shaken but still here.” Her voice was breathless. She’d probably been thrown like he had, but she was tougher than anyone had a right to be.

“Good.”

The explosion had thrown him off course, but once he and Nails formed back up with the remaining convoy, he had his computer recalculate their time of arrival. The Abraham Lincoln was only two minutes away.

Come on.

This close to the JumpGate, the Baranyk launched one final attack, sending in two waves of fighters and coming at them from the rear. This time, Squawks was ready.

“Bad Dogs, cut them off. Do whatever you have to do. Nothing gets by us.”

He targeted the lead fighter, squeezing the firing stud. The fighter broke apart into a series of organic fragments, taking out the nearest fighter behind it. Nails launched a missile, aiming for center mass of the swarm. It took out several more, but half a dozen still remained, and they were incoming fast.

Screaming in defiance, Squawks pressed the firing stud, holding it down, spraying cannon fire across the fighter’s incoming trajectory. There were more flashes of light, more organic debris. Noodle joined in the cacophony as Squawks watched his available rounds rapidly decrease. They had to get these refugees to safety—nothing else mattered. It was the only objective. The only mission.

It wasn’t enough. Two Baranyk fighters slipped through.

“No,” Squawks whispered. Then again, stronger, he said, “No!”

He slammed on his front thrusters. His flight harness dug painfully into his chest and shoulders, then he flipped his fighter nose to tail and punched the throttle. Something in his body twisted, and pain exploded across his chest and abdomen.

Eyes watering, Squawks targeted the Baranyk fighters, waiting agonizing seconds for the computer to lock on, then fired two of his remaining missiles.

“C’mon,” he said, encouraging the missiles. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon!”

The two ships erupted in a flash of light. Squawks let out a whoop then an agonizing cry, as the movement made the pain even worse.

We did it. We fucking did it.

“Abraham Lincoln,” Squawks said as fighters from the capital ship flew past his wing, “look after the convoy and make sure they’re seen safely home. The Bad Dogs are rendezvousing with the rest of the Forgotten.”

“Well done, Lieutenant,” the voice over the comm said. “We’ll take care of them. Good luck out there.”

“Thank you.”

With a slight nod toward the convoy and a long breath, Squawks pulled back on the joystick and moved into an attack vector that would take him back into the heart of the battle. Their first objective was complete, but the battle was far from over.

17

Bridge, SAS Redemption

Low Orbit, Morning Sun

“The first evacuees are away, sir,” Ensign Richey said.

Captain Coleman let out a thankful breath. The battle was lost. Hell, it had been lost before they’d ever arrived, but looking at the Baranyk’s numbers, he realized that even the full might of the Sol Fleet wouldn’t have been enough. They needed to evacuate all outer systems to prevent a catastrophic loss of life. He wasn’t sure why the fleet hadn’t done that already.

“Moscow’s Gold Flight is enroute to the JumpGate, but he’s reporting he’s down another fighter,” Ensign Richey continued. “Do you want Squawks’s Bad Dogs to reinforce?”

Coleman stared intently at the battle map. The four capital ships and their fighters were single beacons of light in an otherwise-endless sea of enemy red. The steady rumble of cannon fire through the deck was a constant reminder of the odds they faced. How long could they keep it up? How long could they hold out? A series of blue wireframe images joined the melee, flying up from the Morning Star’s surface. More evacuees.

“No,” Coleman said. “Have them return to our position and escort the new ships to the JumpGate.”

Every human life they saved was a small victory in and of itself.

“Yes, sir.” Ensign Richey’s voice softened as she relayed orders.

Coleman didn’t take his eyes off the battle map. Something felt off. The Baranyk were focusing their forces on the planet and moon themselves, assaulting the major cities with devastating plasma fire, inflicting as much death and destruction possible. Baranyk fighters attacked the defense platform and the Redemption and Oklahoma, but the larger capital ships stayed on the outskirts of the battle.

He had no doubts that if the enemy focused their attacks on the human vessels, they would be overwhelmed in moments. It was almost as if they were intentionally avoiding a heavy engagement but doing just enough to keep the stronger human warships occupied. But why? The Overlord was a showman—did he want them to see firsthand the devastation he wrought? To show humanity how powerless they truly were?

Is that sonuvabitch here?

Another, simpler thought came to mind. The enemy didn’t engage the human vessels because they didn’t have to. The human resistance was little more than an annoyance to a fleet of this size.

And this isn’t even their full force.

The thought left a pit in Coleman’s stomach. They were virtually powerless to prevent this—how bad would it be when the enemy assaulted with its full force?

“Sir!” Lieutenant Poiu’s voice cut through the bridge’s chatter. “The Montana’s reactor is going critical!”

Coleman squeezed the metal railing surrounding the battle map, watching the green wireframe above the digital moon. Unlike the planet, the moon didn’t have an orbital defense platform, so where the Redemption was operating more as a defensive force, allowing ships to escape the planet, the Montana was attacking, trying to create a path to escape.

He hadn’t focused on that part of the battle, so he wasn’t sure how many lives the Montana had been able to save. He prayed it was worth their sacrifice.

The wireframe disappeared.

“The Montana is gone, sir.” Lieutenant Poiu’s soft voice seemed to echo across the bridge as if he’d yelled the news. Silence followed in its wake, broken only by the soft beeping of consoles, the heavy breathing from the bridge personnel manning them, and the distant, ever-present canon fire.

“Damn it,” Coleman grumbled. “How many ships are still on the planet?”

“Hard to say, sir,” Ensign Richey said. “It’s an unorganized evacuation, and many are flying without transponders.”

“Tactical,” Coleman said. “What do you see?”

“Not much more than Ensign Richey, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “The ships don’t appear on our sensors until they’re entering atmo, and even then, the enemy is on them.”

“They’re attacked into atmo?” Coleman asked.

“Yes, sir. There are swarms of Baranyk fighters patrolling the skies, attacking the fleeing ships until they reach firing range from the orbital platform.”

Coleman let the explanation wash over him. There was something he was missing. Something he didn’t understand.

“Sir!” Lieutenant Poiu said.

No longer engaged with the Montana, a large force of enemy fighters left the moon, burning hard toward the JumpGate and the Abraham Lincoln.

“I see it.” Coleman channeled a direct line to the admiral. “Sir, you’ve got a large force of enemy fighters inbound.”

“We see them,” Admiral Orlovsky said. “We can’t last much longer, Chadwick.”

“I know.” The words were bitter. Coleman hated to admit defeat.

“We’ll see the newest convoy through the JumpGate, but the moment we’re gone, we have to pull back. We won’t have time to use the JumpGate, though, so jump to the Iridium System and use the JumpGate there to rendezvous back in the Jovian System.”

“Yes, sir,” Coleman said, words cold, emotionless. He couldn’t help but think of the millions of souls they were leaving behind. The billions. It was unfathomable. That kind of loss of human life hadn’t been seen since the early parts of the war.

“Sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said, “I’m picking up multiple evacuees. A swarm of Baranyk are on their tails and not breaking off.”

“Where’s Squawks’s Bad Dogs?”

“En route, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “Twenty seconds out.”

The evacuees’ wireframes were just appearing on the battle map. There were nearly a dozen ships, but all smaller, private vessels likely owned by some of the richest families on the planet. He wasn’t sure, but he thought those ships could fit in the Redemption’s hangar.

“Squawks,” Coleman said, “there’s another convoy inbound, and they have a Baranyk force hot on their tails. I want you to escort them to the Redemption and see them land safely on our deck.”

“Yes, sir,” Squawks said. There was a slight hesitation to his voice, a weariness that Coleman wasn’t accustomed to hearing. But if Squawks was slow in receiving his orders, he wasn’t slow in obeying them. His fighters moved into a crisp delta squadron, knifing through the atmo toward the human vessels attempting to escape.

Coleman put himself in Squawks’s shoes. As a pilot, he’d hated flying in atmo. Compared to spaceflight, it was rough, bumpy, and slow, lacking the freedom of movement zero-g provided. It took a very different kind of pilot to fly in atmo, and for all of the missions the Forgotten had flown, only a handful had ever ended up there.

Just get them aboard, Squawks. No hero shit.

Trusting his pilots, he shifted his attention back to Moscow and the JumpGate. Their fighters were nearly there and would beat the enemy by several minutes. Just long enough for the civilian ships to get away.

“Order Moscow to dock on the Abraham Lincoln when the last of the civilian vessels are away,” Coleman said.

“Yes—”

“Sir!” Ensign Richey bellowed. “I’m picking up a high-intensity signal from the Baranyk capital ships.”

“What kind of signal?” Coleman asked, already dreading the answer.

“It matches the frequency of the Kryos Signal,” Ensign Richey said.

The Kryos Signal. The same signal that had exploited the genetic defect in Coda’s and his father’s brains, allowing the enemy to use them like puppets.

“Can you tell where it’s directed?” Coleman scanned the bridge, looking for any signs that his bridge personnel were under enemy influence. Doctors Rydell and Naidoo had scanned the entire ship, looking for anyone else who suffered from the same brain anomaly, but hadn’t found anyone. Based on their limited intelligence, nobody else aboard the Redemption should have been susceptible to the Baranyk attack.

“Not precisely, sir, but it’s aimed in our general direction.”

“Overlay it on the battle map,” Coleman said.

An orange funnel representing the signal appeared a moment later. It originated from one of the capital ships on the outskirts of the battle and enveloped the Redemption, the Oklahoma, and a section of the orbital platform. Fortunately, the fighters Coleman had just ordered to enter atmo were spared.

“Captain Williams,” Coleman said, opening a line with the captain of the Oklahoma. “Listen to me. We’re picking up a strange signal from the Baranyk capital ships. We’ve seen it before. The signal exploits a brain defect that allows for enemy control. You may have an unwilling enemy combatant in your midst.”

“It’s not directed at us, Captain,” Captain Williams said.

What is he talking about?

“Sir!” Lieutenant Poiu looked up from his terminal, his dark face ashen. “The orbital platform is firing on the Oklahoma.”

18

Control Center, Orbital Platform

Low Orbit, Morning Sun

Terrible screeching pierced Richard Black’s head. He cupped his ears and squeezed his eyes shut, praying for it to end. When none of that helped, he clawed at his face, his nails raking across his cheeks, gouging trails across his skin. But the pain was only a distant distraction to the terrible pain in his head.

It continued for what felt like an eternity, then, as quickly as it had begun, it stopped. He sat dazed for several moments, eyes unable to focus. He tried to flex his jaw and open his eardrums, but his body didn’t respond. His first thought was that he was still in a state of shock, still recovering, his body protecting itself from further abuse. But then his hands and arms moved under their own volition.

At first, he believed that the movement was some sort of neurological response, almost like a muscle spasm, but the movements were too precise. His hands returned to his controls, one on the firing trigger, the other cycling through the computer’s targeting system with practiced precision. In a few quick taps, he’d bypassed the system’s internal safety systems, manually taking fire control.

This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.

It was an out-of-body experience unlike any he had ever experienced, not even during his drug-filled days. A nightmare he lived in in real time.

He didn’t know what was happening to him, but he’d fought too long, overcome the most powerful drug addiction in the world, lost or intentionally said goodbye to the people closest to him, and remade himself at a point in his life when it would have been easier to just give up. He wouldn’t give up now.

Richard resisted with everything he had, trying to hold his hands back, tried to scream, to do something to warn his comrades that something was truly wrong. When that all failed, he tried to stand up from his station and remove himself from the situation. Every action was met with inaction, his body refusing to listen.

He would have done anything to stop himself, but he had no control.

* * *

“All engines, full burn!” Captain Coleman ordered. “Get us away from that platform!”

It was happening again, and just like before, Coleman was powerless to stop it. At least he knew what was happening and could respond. The Oklahoma took several direct hits from the platform’s nearest turret before it moved to counter. Only instead of retreating, it was moving into an attack angle.

Coleman reopened a direct channel to the Oklahoma’s captain. “Captain Williams, someone on that platform is an unwilling enemy combatant. I repeat, an unwilling enemy combatant.”

Captain Williams didn’t respond. The Oklahoma continued to move into an attack vector, angling its reinforced port-side hull toward the platform even as it continued to take a pounding.

“Captain!” Coleman bellowed. He might as well have been talking to himself.

“The Oklahoma is firing, sir!”

The battle map was good for many things, particularly showing strategic positions and tracking missiles and other heavy bombardment, but it didn’t display cannon fire.

“If they destroy that platform, we’re sitting ducks out here,” Commander Garcia said, echoing Coleman’s thoughts.

“Captain Williams,” Coleman said. “Cease fire. I repeat, cease fire. If you destroy that platform, we lose all fire support, and you’re liable to take us out too.”

“It’s been compromised,” Captain Williams said.

“There’s another way.” Coleman had only a vague idea of what that other way looked like, but he didn’t tell the other man that.

He didn’t get a chance to flesh it out further. Two missiles appeared on the battle map. With their close proximity to the platform, Coleman didn’t have a chance to issue a deactivate order.

The yellow indicators struck.

“Damn it!”

The platform was made up of two separate rings and was armed with thousands of turrets, but they were all controlled by the central command center that had just been destroyed. If Captain Williams had just let them contact the platform’s command, they wouldn’t have lost the entire thing.

But the orbital platform was destroyed. Its rings had shattered and were now flying dangerously into space or the planet below. Worse yet, their combined firepower had kept the enemy at bay, and already, Coleman could see the tides of the battle shifting.

“How long until the Bad Dogs are aboard?” Coleman asked.

“We’re burning hard away from them,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “And they’re engaged with another Baranyk swarm. Current ETA in… eight minutes.”

“We’re not going to make it eight minutes.” Coleman channeled Squawks directly. “Lieutenant, things have taken a turn for the worst up here. Increase speed and return to base.”

“Negative, sir.” Squawks’s voice was pained and breathless. “We’ve drawn heavy fire. Without us, these civies will last as long as a sophomore on prom night.”

“Issue the order for maximum burn and prepare for emergency landings,” Coleman said. “You have three minutes.”

“Sir—”

“Three minutes, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

Coleman closed the line. On the battle map, two massive swarms were inbound. Coleman’s initial assessment was correct—Squawks and his pilots didn’t have eight minutes. Coleman wasn’t sure they even had three.

19

Cockpit, Nighthawk

Morning Sun

I am not leaving them behind. Squawks angled his Nighthawk, using the drag of atmo to his advantage, and fired another cannon burst, destroying a pair of Baranyk fighters. Nails corkscrewed then looped around his port side to take out another fighter pair coming in on Squawks’s flank.

“Thanks, Nails,” Squawks said. He hadn’t seen the enemy fighters closing in on him.

Nails grunted a reply. She didn’t have time for a proper response—more fighters were already harrying the convoy.

“Communications,” Squawks said, “patch me through to the leader of the convoy.”

“Copy,” Ensign Richey said over the comm. “You’re on.”

“Captain, things are getting hairy out here,” Squawks said. “Our ride leaves in three minutes. I need all ships burning at one hundred and twenty percent and prepared for a bumpy landing.”

“Some of the ships are already at maximum,” the ship’s captain said. “We go any faster, and we’ll leave them behind.”

“You worry about your ship,” Squawks said. “We’ll take care of any stragglers.”

The captain didn’t respond, but their engines flared, and they began to pull away from some of the ships behind them. Squawks checked his altimeter. He didn’t know this planet well enough, but they had to be getting close to the Karman Line, the boundary where the planet ended and space began. Already, his vision was closer to a hazy view of stars than it was of clouds.

“Bad Dogs, mission’s changed,” Squawks said. “On my wing and increase thrust. Only engage when necessary. We’re going to cut through any incoming swarms and let them get on our six. It’ll be a merry chase back to the Redemption.”

“We’re leaving the convoy behind?” Noodle asked.

“Not if we can help it,” Squawks said. “Most of the enemy fighters are coming in from orbit, not the surface. Once past us, they’ll have to slow down before reversing course or risk burning up in the atmosphere.” He spoke with a confidence he didn’t have. “We don’t need much time anyway. We rendezvous with the Redemption in less than three minutes.”

His flight moved into a small delta formation at the tip of the convoy. They were the tip of the spear, cutting through the outer layers of atmo, their ships bucking and shaking less and less, bodies growing lighter as gravity’s pull grew weaker. Three new swarms of Baranyk fighters hurtled their way.

“Enemies inbound!” Squawks bellowed. “Dashes one through three, target dead ahead. Four through eight, offset ninety degrees and protect our flank. Use missiles, aim for center mass, maximum casualties. Anyone returning with unfired missiles will owe me a drink for every unused weapon.”

“He says that like he doesn’t brew his own moonshine,” Noodle said.

“I meant back on Europa, jackass,” Squawks said. “That swill burned away my taste buds. I’m ready for a real drink.”

Noodle laughed. “Tell you what. Get us out of this, and I’ll buy you as many as you want.”

“You hear that, ladies?” Squawks said. “That’s a real friend.”

As Squawks expected, the three incoming swarms moved together. The smallest angled directly toward them while the others darted to the sides to flank the human convoy.

“Fire!”

His Nighthawk bucked as the missile unlatched and burned into the black. It rocked again as a second sped from his other wing. He watched on his HUD as the two missiles, now accompanied by missiles from two other fighters, raced toward the swarm of fighters. They exploded, taking out a wide swath of the middle formation. Blood and organic material smeared across his fighter.

“Dashes four through eight,” Squawks said. “Fire!”

Another wave of missiles launched toward the remaining enemy formations, carving deep rents into their numbers. Then… chaos.

The three swarms dove in and were met with a hail of gun- and missile fire. Coming from above, their speed was significant, and they shot past the convoy just as Squawks had anticipated. The atmosphere was thinner than Squawks expected, though, and they changed course much faster than he had anticipated. He’d hoped to have a lead of several seconds on the enemy, but he had nowhere close to that.

The enemy fighters were able to right their course in time to come up directly behind the slowest ships in the convoy. They peppered the rear of the civilian ships with plasma fire, and Squawks had to watch in horror as two human vessels exploded.

He was about to order his fighters to engage when something streaked past his cockpit window. It was large, bigger than even his Nighthawk, leaving a trail of fire as it hurtled past him and slammed into the nearest civilian vessel. The following explosion sent Squawks’s fighter hurtling away and left another civilian ship destroyed.

Squawks glanced at his HUD, trying to make sense of the object. It wasn’t an enemy fighter. There were no other Baranyk fighters inbound.

Another object burned past his fighter. This looked almost metal as if it were a part of a ship. No, not a ship—this had the wrong coloring. That was when he saw it. The planet’s orbital platform, once a protective ring that circled the planet, had been destroyed. Huge chunks of it were caught in the planet’s gravity well and fell like iron rain.

“Evasive maneuvers!” Squawks shouted. “The orbital platform is raining down on us.”

A particularly large chunk hurtled toward him, its dark metal glistening faintly as it caught the sun’s light, and headed straight for the convoy.

Squawks ripped his fighter left and right, his body screaming as it was thrown around the gel seat, flight harness digging into the already-tender parts of his body. Molten metal screamed past his fighter, and he did his best to dodge it. The ships behind him weren’t so lucky as what remained of the orbital platform tore through the human vessels and Baranyk swarms without prejudice.

His first thought was to fly adjacent to the debris field, to somehow get around it, but whatever had destroyed the platform had done so with enough force that debris was blasted over a thousand square kilometers. They couldn’t go around it.

“We have to go through it!” Squawks bellowed.

“There’s too much!” Noodle said.

Squawks opened his mouth to respond but couldn’t spare the little focus it required. Screams, confusion, and maydays filled his radio. And still large chunks of wreckage rained down, metal burning, cables whipping, larger chunks hurling. Squawks dipped, dodged, turned, and corkscrewed, maneuvering his Nighthawk without thought, relying purely on reflex and instinct.

Explosions lit the black like tiny fireworks as falling debris struck Nighthawks and civilian vessels alike. He didn’t know how long it took, but when he was through the debris, he saw what remained of the orbital platform. A large chunk of its ring was missing. What had once looked like a glittering ring of human might protecting the planet was now nothing more than dead and lifeless metal.

In the distance, the Oklahoma was engaged with a horde of Baranyk fighters. They swarmed its dark hulls, darting in and out like a cloud of bees, biting, stinging, leaving gouts of flame in their wake. The ship’s antiaircraft batteries loosed a constant barrage of firepower, destroying fighters by the hundreds, but it did little good.

The Redemption was less than a minute away and engaged in a battle of its own but had somehow avoided getting caught in the middle of an enemy cloud. Before long, they would be in a similar situation.

“Status check,” Squawks ordered. His fighters should be through the debris field now, free and clear for a full burn back to base.

Squawks’s initial elation at getting to safety was short-lived as he looked at his battle map and the roll call came in. Less than a quarter of the convoy remained, and his flight had taken heavy casualties. One voice in particular was missing.

“Noodle,” Squawks said. “Noodle, come in.”

Silence answered him.

“Noodle?”

Still nothing.

“Goddamn it, Lieutenant, come in.”

His wingman, Wrath, answered. His voice was firm. “He’s gone, Squawks.”

“No,” Squawks said. No.

“A chunk of debris hit his fighter,” Wrath said. “He didn’t… I… There was nothing any of us could do.”

Squawks was numb. How could one of his best friends die without him knowing about it? Their final exchange floated back to the center of his consciousness. Noodle screaming as if he saw his future, telling Squawks he couldn’t make it—and Squawks ordering him ahead anyway. He’d killed his best friend. For the first time in his life, Squawks was speechless. There was nothing to say.

20

Bridge, SAS Redemption

Low Orbit, Morning Sun

“The Forgotten are reengaging, sir!” Lieutenant Poiu said from his station.

“They’re what?” Coleman bellowed.

“Sir!” Lieutenant Poiu looked up from his station. His eyes were wide, hair frayed, his troubled thoughts clearly visible on his young face. “I said our squadrons have reengaged with the Baranyk forces.”

Coleman couldn’t believe the words. His eyes found the battle map, and as his tactical officer had said, the green indicators representing his fighter squadrons were altering course to take on the horde of the enemy vessels. He channeled a direct line to his flight leader.

“Squawks,” Coleman said, filling his voice with every ounce of command he could muster. “You were ordered to RTB. What the hell is going on out there?”

Squawks didn’t respond immediately. Sounds of heavy breathing echoed in Coleman’s ears. Hollow breaths of pain and loss.

“Lieutenant?”

“They killed him.”

Coleman sighed. There was no telling who Squawks was talking about, and in the end, it didn’t matter. Grief was grief. And his flight leader was letting his personal grief endanger the entire squadron. Coleman cursed himself for ordering Moscow to rendezvous with the Abraham Lincoln.

Squawks may have been a flight leader and one of his most experienced pilots, but he hadn’t been put into a higher level of command for a reason. The man was too emotional.

“Squawks,” Coleman said, his voice softer this time. He knew exactly what the other man was feeling. He’d felt it on too many occasions himself. “The fleet is retreating. If you and your squadron are not aboard in ninety seconds, you’ll miss your bus back, and the enemy will kill a lot more.”

“They killed him, sir.” The words were hardly more than a whisper.

“I know, Squawks. Death is always our companion. He’s been flying your wing since the moment you stepped into the cockpit, just as he has mine. I know the pain you’re feeling now. The anger. I’ve seen it and felt it more times than I can count. And I promise you this: you’ll get your chance to say goodbye. To exact revenge. But this isn’t the way. This isn’t the time.”

Squawks’s breathing became more ragged. Coleman feared the man had fully broken.

“Lieutenant…”

“I know.”

“Then I need you to get your ass back to the ship.”

“Okay.” His voice was stronger. Firmer. “Yes, sir.”

Coleman turned off the communication.

Commander Garcia was watching him from the other side of the bridge. His face was expressionless, but his eyes betrayed the truth. He knew what had happened. They all did. His pilots had been fighting combat missions for fourteen straight months with barely any respite. They were at their breaking point. Maybe beyond it. Sprinkle in their relative inexperience, and it was a piss-poor recipe.

“Sir, they’ve broken off their attack,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “ETA in forty seconds.”

Good. Finally, something was under control. Squawks’s reckless assault had kicked the hornets’ nest, though. If the Baranyk fighters hadn’t focused on the Forgotten before, they were now. Enemy fighters were coming in from every direction.

“All batteries, open fire,” Coleman said. “Get our boys home.”

Lieutenant Poiu relayed the order into his headset. The batteries were largely automated, but like most computer-aided systems, they needed to be guided by a human hand.

Eyes locked on the battle map, Coleman watched as the green indicators methodically moved toward the Redemption. The Oklahoma and Abraham Lincoln disappeared, jumping to the rendezvous point Admiral Orlovsky had sent out.

Enemy ships, too many to count, came from every direction. The battle map couldn’t display them all. The constant rumbling through the deck told Coleman that the batteries were firing nonstop, but it made no difference. For every enemy fighter they destroyed, three more took its place.

The Nighthawks unleashed everything they had, firing a full barrage of cannon fire, loosing every missile, even dumping chaff, which proved incredibly effective. The combined might and desperation kept the enemy at bay, but just as Coleman was about to let out a relieved breath, the civilian ships began disappearing.

His pilots had hope. An escape. A path to survival. The inhabitants of the Morning Sun did not.

Coleman watched as more ships disappeared, knowing each one represented the lives of hundreds, perhaps thousands of people. And there was nothing he could do.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

He felt the eyes of his command staff turn to him. He hadn’t meant to speak the words aloud, but his pain was their collective hurt. His words, their words. A quiet pall fell over the bridge, broken up by only the chirps and beeps of the sensor data and the rumbling of the antiaircraft batteries.

It was the Redemption’s version of a ten-shot salute, the best honor they could give the people they were about to abandon. But like Squawks, he took solace in the fact that living for another day would give them a chance to exact revenge. To scour the galaxy of the Baranyk so that humanity might one day live in peace.

Lieutenant Poiu broke the silence. “All ships are aboard, sir.”

“Jump,” Coleman said.

21

Ready Room, SAS Redemption

Rendezvous Point, Human Controlled Space

Coda stumbled out of the ready room and into the corridor, dragging his hand against the bulkhead for support. His steps were slow, aimless, adrift, as if he were in his fighter without any controls. Lost in the blackness of his sorrow.

Squawks’s words echoed through his memory. His pain. His grief. They might as well have been Coda’s own.

“He’s gone, Squawks,” Wrath had said. “There was nothing any of us could have done.”

Squawks hadn’t believed that, and Coda didn’t, either. Guilt was an angry mistress capable of crushing even the strongest man, and it weighed on Coda’s shoulders, threatening to buckle his knees. He should have been out there. He should have been with his squadmates. His friends.

He found himself in the hangar as the Nighthawks landed. The nearest one had markings on its wing, telling Coda that it was Squawks’s fighter. Coda closed the distance, dodging mechanics and forklifts that were already moving the fighters into a more organized line, where they could be worked on.

The cockpit canopy opened, and a technician rolled over a ladder, but Squawks didn’t move. He didn’t even take off his flight helmet.

Coda climbed the ladder, his heavy boots clanging against the metal grating, and froze when he made it to the top. He knew he needed to be with his friend, that the other man needed him too, but now that he was here, he had no idea what to say.

“Squawks.”

His friend looked up then slowly slid off his helmet. His face had lost all color, making his bloodshot eyes even more piercing. “He’s gone.”

“I know.”

“It’s my fault.” Squawks’s voice was quiet, barely audible over the din.

“No,” Coda said. It’s mine.

“I should have… I ordered him…” He didn’t finish the sentence. There was nothing to say. Squawks had been with the Forgotten long enough to know that.

“There’s nothing you could have done,” Coda said.

Life returned to Squawks’s eyes. “You should have been out there,” he said angrily.

The words hit Coda like a truck. It was one thing to blame himself. It was quite another for someone else to share the same feelings. Coda opened his mouth to speak, but the words dried up on his tongue.

“We needed you,” Squawks said. “He needed you. If you’d been out there…”

“If I’d been out there…” Coda said. “Then Noodle would still be alive.”

Squawks didn’t say anything, instead unbuckled his flight harness.

“I know,” Coda said, agreeing with him. “Noodle died because of me and my weakness.”

The anger faded from Squawks’s eyes. “I don’t… You don’t… That’s not true either.”

They were the words and tone of a broken man. The anger faded from Coda as he realized he was looking at a mirror of himself. Two men, two friends, one with their grief. But Squawks was right. Coda was the best of them. If he’d been out there, the squadron would have been stronger for it. He would have been able to protect him. If it hadn’t been for his weakness, they never would have reorganized the fighter pairs. Nails would have been flying with Coda and Noodle with Squawks. If Coda had been out there, Noodle wouldn’t have been in the path of that falling debris. It was really quite simple when he boiled it down.

Squawks must have seen something in his face, because it was his turn to look concerned. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Coda said, though he had a suspicion they were talking about different things.

22

Bridge, SAS Redemption

Rendezvous Point, Human Controlled Space

It was a broken fleet that arrived at the rendezvous point. Of the four ships that had left for the Morning Star, only three returned, and of them, only the Abraham Lincoln had avoided serious damage. Worse were the handful of civilian vessels with jump capabilities who had retreated to the rendezvous point with them. Maybe a handful of other vessels had escaped through the JumpGate, but all told, the thousands they’d saved was a pitiful percentage compared to the billions they’d left behind.

The time for mourning would come. Right now, Coleman was furious. As soon as he was sure his ship repairs were underway and that nothing critical would require his attention, he opened a line to the Abraham Lincoln. To his surprise, the communications officer told him the admiral would take his call and put him on hold.

Coleman excused himself from the bridge, giving temporary command to Commander Garcia, and retreated to the privacy of his personal quarters. He was nearly there when Admiral Orlovsky’s voice came through his earpiece.

“Captain, we need to talk.”

Coleman bit back an angry curse, falling back on decorum to both mask and express his anger. “Yes, sir.”

“In person.”

“Even better, sir.”

“How soon can you be aboard?”

Coleman had stopped in the corridor directly outside his door. “Right away, sir.”

“Good,” Admiral Orlovsky said. “I’ll see you shortly.”

* * *

“Say it,” Admiral Orlovsky said.

“Say what, sir?” Coleman asked.

“That was a colossal clusterfuck, and you knew it would be.”

Coleman let out a breath. Having the other man speak his thoughts aloud eased some of the tension. “It was worse than even I feared.”

“I need a drink.” Admiral Orlovsky turned from Coleman, strode across his personal quarters to a decanter in the corner filled with a brown liquor, and filled two glasses. He returned and handed one to Coleman before unbuttoning his uniform jacket and taking a seat on a nearby chair. Coleman followed his lead and did the same.

After he’d arrived on the Abraham Lincoln, a young ensign had met him in the hangar and escorted him to the admiral’s quarters. All told, Coleman had only been onboard for a few minutes.

“How many did we save?”

“Not enough.” Admiral Orlovsky took a sip then leveled his gaze on Coleman. “I have your report. I knew what was possible, but part of me didn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it.”

Coleman kept his thoughts to himself. The admiral was coming to terms with the situation. Given time, he would arrive at the place where Coleman had been for months. Coleman just had to make sure the admiral got there.

“We’ll order a sector-by-sector retreat,” Admiral Orlovsky continued. “Centralize our forces. We can’t fight on their terms. Can’t afford to be spread thin. There’s too many of them.”

“It’s a good start, sir.”

“Stop with the ‘sir,’” Orlovsky said. “We’re licking our wounds and drinking to the dead. We’re human right now. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“Then let me say this,” Coleman said, taking the opening. “Consolidating forces won’t be enough. As you said, there are too many of them. Even with our drone squadrons, the best we can hope for is stalling them. And that’s assuming anyone susceptible to Baranyk control are accounted for and relieved of duty. Even picking the battlefield is fighting a battle on their terms. It’ll never work.”

“What are you suggesting?”

Coleman slid to the edge of his seat. “We take the fight to the Overlord. You saw the power he has. The damage a single person on the inside can inflict. How many more like him are there across the fleet? How many more weak points do we have?”

“The fleet is screening all active personnel,” Orlovsky said.

“Yes, but how long will that take? And what happens when the Overlord gets closer to civilian populations? Imagine the damage he could instigate on the surface of Europa or our stations in the belt. Imagine the damage he could inflict on the surface of Mars. Or, god forbid, Earth. There’s no getting away from it. We have thousands, maybe millions, of vulnerabilities. They have one.” Coleman let the words hang in the air. “But…” He held up a finger for dramatic effect. “That’s both our greatest weakness and our greatest advantage.”

“I don’t follow.” Orlovsky slid forward in his seat too. Coleman had his attention.

“The Overlord is more than a king,” Coleman said. “He doesn’t just rule the Baranyk; he controls them. Eliminate him, and you eliminate his influence across billions of enemy soldiers.”

“And what? They’ll die?”

“Maybe,” Coleman said. “Maybe they’ll go brain-dead the same way our drones do when you remove the signal that controls them. At the very least, they won’t be under his influence anymore.”

“And maybe another advanced Baranyk takes control.”

“Who maybe has other desires.”

“Maybe, maybe, maybe.” Orlovsky slid back in his chair. “There are too many maybes. We’re not going to win this war with wishes and speculation.”

“It’s not speculation.”

“Where’s it coming from, then?” Orlovsky asked. “What are you basing the lives of billions on?”

“Joseph O’Neil.”

Orlovsky laughed. He actually laughed. Coleman wanted to slap him but continued before the admiral had a chance to dismiss the idea entirely.

“You saw what happened out there. You saw what happened on the orbital platform. We detected the same Baranyk signal moments before the platform opened fire on our ships. The same thing happened twenty years ago with O’Neil. You’re just allowing twenty years of anger to cloud your judgment.”

Admiral Orlovsky gave him a steady look. Coleman’s friend or not, Orlovsky was still the admiral, and he wasn’t used to being challenged. He stood without a word, drained his glass in a single pull, and retreated to the decanter. He didn’t offer to top off Coleman’s own drink.

“So what?” Admiral Orlovsky said. “He knows the enemy’s deepest secrets?”

“No,” Coleman said, refusing to meet a flippant question with a flippant response. “But he is the foremost expert in how they communicate. How they think.”

Admiral Orlovsky filled his glass but didn’t move. Didn’t even drink.

Coleman kept pushing. “Think about it. The Baranyk throw their lives away with reckless abandon. We’ve never been able to make sense of it. Fleet Intelligence says they are capable of individual thought. The truth has stared us in the face ever since the beginning. We’re not fighting an entire species. We’re fighting a single, power-thirsty dictator just like we’ve fought so many times throughout history. Kill him, and we win the war.”

Admiral Orlovsky remained silent for several moments—long enough for Coleman to take a sip of his own to break the uncomfortable moment.

“Say that you’re correct,” Admiral Orlovsky finally said. “Say that if we eliminate him, we win the war, there’s still one glaring problem with your idea.”

“Which is?”

“The universe is a very large place. You’re not just looking for a single grain of sand on a beach. You’re looking for… I don’t even know what an apt metaphor is.”

“We have O’Neil.”

“So? You said it yourself that his intelligence is limited.”

“It’s not about that. There’s something personal between them. The Overlord wants him, and he’ll do anything to get him.”

“You want to use him as bait.”

“Not in the way you’re thinking. He doesn’t have to be present in the physical sense. He just has to be connected to the Baranyk network. From there, he can use the Overlord’s strange obsession with him against him. Find out where the Overlord is hiding and relay that information to us.”

“Which would require us letting him out of our custody,” Admiral Orlovsky said. “Something I’m never going to let happen.”

Coleman was prepared for this. “What if you didn’t have to?” He spoke the words slowly, maximizing their effect.

Orlovsky froze with his glass touching his lips. “Explain,” he said over the rim of the glass.

“Joseph was able to use the Baranyk network to communicate with his son across the galaxy. That’s how we found him in the first place, and it’s the same way the Overlord controls his soldiers. Once connected, they’re able to reconnect. Whatever information Joseph gleans, he can relay to the Redemption through the same network.”

Coleman could see the spark in Orlovsky’s eyes. He felt that same spark in his own heart—the spark of hope. “Joseph can remain in your custody, observed and studied by whatever security and intelligence personnel you want, and we, on the other side of the galaxy, deep in Baranyk territory, won’t be flying blind.”

Admiral Orlovsky finished the sip he had been about to take then returned to his seat, letting out a long sigh. “I’m not going to lie to you, Captain. You have my attention. Command isn’t going to like it.”

Coleman opened his mouth to speak but was cut off.

“But it’s a relatively low-risk, incredibly high-reward tactic.” Admiral Orlovsky tapped the side of his glass with a fingernail, deep in thought. “Aside from the obvious security concerns, they’ll want your ship on the front lines. And there’s obviously no assurances that eliminating the Overlord will even do as you say.”

“And yet,” Coleman said, unable to stay silent, “you know one ship isn’t going to make a difference.”

Admiral Orlovsky held up a hand, stalling further objection. “I said the concerns would be theirs, not mine. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

Coleman relaxed enough to take his first sip. The admiral might not know it yet, but Coleman had just secured one of the first victories in their escalating war against the Baranyk.

23

Hangar, SAS Redemption

Europa Station, Sol System

There was no funeral for Noodle or any of the other fallen pilots. Coda hadn’t expected one. It wasn’t standard procedure, nor was there time. In the aftermath of the battle there were too many debriefings, repairs, trips to the infirmary, and a never-ending list of tasks that needed to be accomplished to return to fighting shape.

But Coda had thought there would at least be a small memorial among him and his friends, like there had been when Whiskey and Tex passed. The busy schedule was a valid excuse, but still an excuse, and in the absence of saying goodbye, Coda couldn’t help but wonder if they’d just grown more callous over the months.

Captain Coleman had often said that death was part of being a fighter pilot. That if they flew long enough, they’d eventually buy it themselves. But until that day came, death would fly their wing like an invisible wingman and take enough of their friends and comrades that it would scar their very souls.

Three days after the battle and two after they’d returned to the Jovian System, Coda found himself alone in the cockpit of his Nighthawk. Feeling the familiar gel seat, he gently ran his hands over the controls like a former lover, smelling the familiar scents of sweat and determination. His losses hit him all at once.

When he’d made the Forgotten, he’d thought he’d finally found the place he was supposed to be. He’d made new friends, become a part of something bigger than himself or any individual, fought in battles, and made a difference. And through it all, he’d returned a sliver of honor to his family’s name. But despite Captain Coleman’s repeated warnings, he’d held on too tightly.

Part of him had always thought the Forgotten were different. That they were special—or at least that their time as fighter pilots would be too short-lived to feel the worst horrors that came with it. Captain Coleman had been right, though. His prophetic words were becoming more and more real every day.

Coda had lost friends in battle. He’d lost comrades during training. He’d even had to say goodbye to Uno, who hadn’t made the squadron. But deep in his sorrow, Coda realized it went deeper than that. He’d lost others even earlier. To join the Forgotten, he’d left behind his future as a drone pilot, knowing he would probably never see his old friends or squadmates again. In some ways, his old friends like Buster from the Terran Fleet Academy were every bit as dead to him as Noodle or Tex.

Why do I do this?

It was a stupid question. He knew why. He’d always known why—the hardships he faced would be experienced by billions more if people like him weren’t on the front lines. His sacrifice gave others hope.

But where do I find hope?

Under normal circumstances, he would have turned to his friends. But Moscow was run ragged and didn’t have the time to deal with an emotionally wrecked former pilot. Squawks had shut down and was avoiding everyone. And Noodle, the person who’d always brought them together, was gone.

Coda closed his eyes and let himself sink into the gel seat. He couldn’t fly anymore, but the cockpit was still the closest thing to home he’d ever felt. It was almost like he was in the arms of an ex-lover. If he just let himself go and didn’t think about their past, maybe they could be together again. Maybe they should never have broken up to begin with.

He sat there quietly, eyes closed, mind wandering, for what could have been minutes or hours. For the first time in a very long time, he just let himself be.

“I used to do the same thing.”

The voice brought Coda out of his meditation. Captain Coleman stood on the hangar deck at the foot of the ladder.

“Sir!” Coda went to stand, but the harness yanked him back into the seat.

“At ease,” Captain Coleman said before Coda could unfasten the harness. “I interrupted you.”

Captain Coleman climbed the ladder then took a seat at its top. They were mostly eye level with each other, but Captain Coleman didn’t look at Coda. Instead, his gaze travelled over the hangar activity.

In Coda’s meditation, all the sounds had whispered away.

“When the Nighthawk program shut down, I must have spent days just sitting in my cockpit,” Captain Coleman said. “I never thought I’d fly again, and I didn’t know how to say goodbye.”

Coda didn’t say anything. The words struck too close to home, and he didn’t trust himself to control his emotions.

“For years, I missed the rumbling of the seat. The G’s. The speed. Being on the edge of death itself and laughing as it reached its dark fingers for me. Those were the only times I ever felt truly alive.”

Coda nodded. He knew the feeling well and had heard other pilots talk about flying the same way.

“I’ve heard it compared to a drug,” Captain Coleman continued, his eyes finally finding Coda’s. “And I was addicted.”

Coda looked down at his thumb rubbing against the joystick. “It’s different for me. My whole life, I’ve been an outcast, my father’s shadow hanging over me and anything I’ve ever wanted to do. This gave me an outlet. Gave me something that was mine. Which doesn’t really make sense because he was a pilot too. It’s almost as if I had to get closer to him to break away.”

“Your fates have always been intertwined. They probably always will be.”

Coda sucked on his teeth. He’d long since come to terms with that idea, and ever since he’d learned the truth about his father’s past, he’d lost some of that desire to forge his own path. He’d taken on a new purpose. It wasn’t about undoing his wrongs but proving they weren’t his to begin with.

“For what it’s worth,” Captain Coleman said, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For taking it away from you.”

Coda looked up, meeting Captain Coleman’s eye. There was true pain there.

“I knew what this fighter meant to you, because it meant the same to me.”

“You didn’t take it away from me,” Coda said. He’d truly never blamed the captain. “I did.”

It was the first time Coda had ever spoken the words aloud. He’d expected a sense of catharsis and was surprised to find they felt… empty.

“I hope you don’t believe that,” Captain Coleman said.

“I…” What do I believe? “I don’t know. It’s my weakness the Overlord exploited. The reason my friends are dead.”

“A weakness is something you have control over, Coda. Something you can improve. Shore up. What the Overlord did to you was not a sign of weakness. It was a sign of evil. We’ve made enough of our own mistakes in life, and we have enough to blame ourselves for. Don’t lay this at your feet too. Do you hear me?”

Coda nodded.

“Good.” Captain Coleman’s gaze went oddly distant for a moment. “You once asked me if by joining the Forgotten, you’d get to kill Baranyk. Do you still want that?”

“With every fiber of my being, sir.”

Something Coda hadn’t felt in days blossomed in his chest. Hope. Coleman’s words were like a hand lifting him from the darkness.

“I’m offering you that chance again.”

Coda unfastened the harness and stood. “Well, just like that day, sir. I’m ready. Just tell me what to do.”

“It’s really simple, Commander,” Captain Coleman said. “Just come with me.”

24

Corridor, Europa Station

Europa Station, Sol System

Europa Station was a hubbub of activity. Military personnel rushed from place to place, noses buried in tablets while more senior leadership remained among the edges of the crowd, talking in hushed voices and watching the rest with an anxious eye. Captains, officers, CAGs, and drone squadron leaders from every ship in the fleet were aboard, ready to hear the admiral’s address.

Captain Coleman led Coda and Moscow out of the crowd, stopping outside a set of double doors guarded by a pair of armed marines. They all were dressed in their full dress uniforms. Coda had changed after Captain Coleman summoned him from the cockpit of his Nighthawk. They wore light blue and white, colors meant to represent the free skies of Earth. Their rank, medals, and decorations were polished to a golden shine and proudly displayed on their chests and shoulders.

A nervous shiver ran down Coda’s spine. The uniform felt like something his mother would have picked out for him, something “respectable” to take a picture in. The Forgotten pin on his chest was the only thing that helped him stand tall—the only thing to give him a shred of confidence. He was a pilot, through and through. And not only that, he was part of the best squadron in the fleet.

The people around them seemed to notice, casting glances and talking in hushed voices as the three of them passed. Having been in the thick of the fight, Coda had been insulated from the attention and the true impact of their efforts. Seeing it now, he understood the Forgotten were respected. More than that—relied upon. Treasured. He stood straighter, holding his chin higher. Nothing the Overlord did could take that away from him.

The captain was also in full dress uniform. He had picked and fidgeted with it in the shuttle, clearly as uncomfortable in the attire as Coda. He was a fighter pilot at his core too. The cockpit was his home; the G-suit was his comfort clothes. Anything outside that was alien. The only person who looked comfortable in the formal dress was Moscow. He wore the uniform like a second skin, as comfortable in it as he was his flight suit.

Captain Coleman pulled them to the side of the corridor a small group of personnel had just vacated. “The admiral will begin his briefing in twenty minutes,” he said. “I have something I need to see to. When they begin seating everyone, go in with the rest. I’ll meet you in there.”

“Sir,” Coda and Moscow said in unison, snapping to attention.

Captain Coleman gave them a small nod and strode down the corridor. The station was an older design, using centrifugal force to create artificial gravity instead of the newly designed gravitational field systems R&D had created. That meant the deck rotated upward in front and behind them, the ceiling blocking his line of sight and restricting his view. Rooms and hallways branched off the main corridor. The automated doors were shut and guarded by armed marines.

It gave the illusion of security, though Coda knew they were one attack, one Baranyk-controlled human, from every leader of the fleet being killed and the fleet decimated.

“They’re taking a hell of risk, bringing us all together like this,” Coda said, voicing his concerns.

Moscow shrugged. “We’re nowhere near the front. If we’re not safe here, we’re not safe anywhere.”

It was true. There were a dozen systems between them and the last place the Baranyk fleet had been sighted, but Coda didn’t understand why they couldn’t have held the meeting virtually.

“How is Squawks doing?” Coda asked, changing the subject.

Moscow turned his eyes from the crowd, shooting Coda a surprised look. “I was about to ask you the same thing. He hasn’t talked to you?”

“No…” Coda said slowly. “Was he supposed to?”

“I just assumed… You were both friends with Noodle after all.”

Coda let out a frustrated groan, which he instantly regretted.

“Look,” Moscow said defensively. “We’ve been through enough. He knew the risks. He’ll be fine.”

Coda wasn’t so sure, but he kept the thought to himself. Moscow had only spent a few weeks as the CAG and had only overseen one battle. There was more to it than preparation and battle planning. There was a personal element too. It was up to the CAG to keep his pilots in fighting shape.

Judging by his tone, Moscow knew that too, but like most people, he was masking his personal frustration by projecting onto everyone else. Coda made a mental note to talk to Squawks. He should have days ago, though his friend hadn’t made it easy. Coda would just have to force the issue, even if he had no idea what to say.

They fell into a companionable silence, watching the various military leaders. More than one came to speak with them, gifting them praise and encouragement, and quite a few more nodded or pointed. Coda was surprised it made him uncomfortable.

Ever since signing up for the Sol Fleet, he had dreamed of moments like this, moments where people pointed at him not because of what his father had done but because of his own accomplishments. Now, he felt like a fraud. He still wore the wings of the Forgotten on his chest, but he wasn’t part of the squadron anymore. Not in the same way.

Why am I here? The thought kept pounding in his head. He hadn’t seen anyone of a lower rank than a flight leader. Coda wasn’t even on active flight duty, so he wasn’t sure why Captain Coleman had brought him along.

They waited there for nearly twenty minutes, talking periodically, Coda stewing on his thoughts, until the doors to the amphitheater opened.

“Everyone’s going inside,” Moscow said. “I don’t see the captain anywhere. Do you?”

Coda craned his neck to see past the gathering personnel, but between them and the ceiling of the corridor restricting his view, he couldn’t see much. “Not yet.”

“Should we head inside, then?”

“I guess,” Coda said.

Together, Coda and Moscow entered the amphitheater, ready to hear Admiral Orlovsky’s battle plan.

25

Brig, Abraham Lincoln

Europa Station, Sol System

The brig was much like every other brig Coleman had seen throughout his career—a single room divided into six separate cells. They were of a traditional style, little more than a narrow bed and a very public toilet, all wrapped by deck-to-ceiling steel bars.

Coleman had, fortunately, never been inside one of those cells, but he’d visited more than one rowdy friend who’d earned a night in the ship’s most accommodating resort. In fact, this wasn’t the first time he’d found Joseph in one.

His friend wore the orange jumpsuit of an inmate and was lying on the bed, his back to the door, so he didn’t see Coleman come in. Coleman’s boots thumped against the deck as he strode through the room. Oddly enough, Joseph didn’t so much as stir, showing no sign that he’d heard Coleman enter the room.

Strange behavior for someone who likely doesn’t get many visitors.

Coleman stopped outside the cell, resting his hands on the steel bars. “I like what you’ve done with the place.” He’d hoped to come up with something witty, maybe ease the tension in the room. Instead, the words sounded hollow, dying without so much as a chuckle.

Joseph didn’t give any sign that he’d heard him.

“Hey, you asleep? I need to talk to you.”

Joseph twitched then inhaled sharply like a diver emerging from the water and taking his first breath in minutes. Something was decidedly off about him, and Coleman was about to call the guards when Joseph rolled over, his eyes finding Coleman’s. They were distant and unfocused, as if he’d just woken from the dead of night.

“Chadwick,” he said, his voice thick and raspy. He sat up. Even his movements were sluggish.

“You okay?” Coleman asked. “You need me to send for the doc?”

“No.” Joseph held his head in his hands but waved away the suggestion. “Just give me a minute.” Then after he’d collected himself, he smiled and stood. He was still slow, but within the span of a few seconds, he had nearly transformed back into the man Coleman had expected. “It’s good to see you.”

“I’d say the same about you,” Coleman said, “but you look like hell. It’s illegal to mistreat a prisoner. If I need to—”

“No,” Joseph interrupted. “It’s nothing like that. I was just… out.”

“You sure?” Coleman asked, not quite following Joseph’s meaning.

“I’m sure.”

“Okay.” Coleman took a moment to collect his thoughts. The meeting had gotten off to a very different start than he’d been planning.

“What are you doing here?” Joseph asked. “Shouldn’t you be aboard the Redemption?”

No pretense. Straight to the point. God, I love being around fighter jocks. “Admiral Orlovsky is about to outline his battle strategy to the fleet.”

Joseph’s lower jaw shifted to the side, and he tapped his teeth together, making a face Coleman had seen a thousand times—a face that meant he’d arrived at a conclusion ages ago and the world was finally catching up. “The Baranyk have arrived.”

It wasn’t a question, but Coleman answered it anyway. “They have.”

“And it’s not going well.”

“It’s not.”

Joseph leaned forward, resting his elbows on the steel crossbeam. “And the admiral wants to consolidate forces, meet them in a predetermined location, and fight them head-on.”

“You know I can’t confirm—”

“Gah!” Joseph said, disgusted. “That man has no imagination. He never did.”

Coleman shot an uneasy look toward the corner of the room. There were no visible cameras, but he knew the brig was monitored, and all conversations were recorded. In fact, he was counting on it.

“That’s why I’m here,” Coleman said. That seemed to get Joseph’s attention. “I need to know a few things.”

“Okay…”

Joseph had gone straight to the point, so Coleman did the same, trusting that the other man would appreciate it. “Coda said you contacted him through the Baranyk network. I need to know if you can do that again.”

Joseph’s posture stiffened. “Why?”

“I just need to know if it’s possible.”

Joseph eyed him suspiciously, as if weighing his words. “It’s possible,” he said, but his body was still coiled like a cat about to spring.

Coleman nodded and let out a breath. The words brought him an element of comfort. “Good… Good.”

“Why?”

It was a simple question wrought with a dozen consequences. Joseph was a prisoner of the fleet—actually, Coleman wasn’t sure if he was technically part of the fleet at all anymore. Either way, he wasn’t privy to battle plans or anything else that might jeopardize the safety of the fleet or its personnel. At the same time, locked away on a foreign ship, facing God knew what, his friend might not be as forthright as Coleman needed him to be. After all, it wasn’t just information he needed.

“Let’s just say I have an idea,” Coleman said. “But it’s just that. An idea. I don’t even know if it’s possible. But if it is, the admiral has given me leave to pursue it.”

The tension melted from Joseph’s body in an instant. Even after everything, Joseph still trusted him. “What kind of idea?”

“One with imagination,” Coleman said.

That actually brought a smile to Joseph’s lips, and the entire atmosphere in the room changed. “What do you need to know?”

“More about the Baranyk network,” Coleman said. “For instance, are there any limits with your ability to communicate in it? Time limits? Distance? Anything that could get in the way of relaying information?”

“Not that I know of,” Joseph said. “Except that both of us would have to be actively connected to it at the same time.”

“At the same time? I thought once you were connected, you stayed connected.”

“In a way,” Joseph said. “Connecting to the Baranyk network isn’t much different than connecting to, say, Wi-Fi. We can connect and disconnect as we please, and once connected, it’s far easier to reconnect. But communicating through the network is closer to the old wired telephones. I can call, but he has to be on the other end to pick up.”

“I think I understand,” Coleman said. That threw a wrench into his plan, but it wasn’t unworkable. “But as long as you’re both connected at the same time, you could communicate… consistently.”

“Yes.”

Coleman rubbed his face, his mind racing. There was so much he didn’t know and even more that he had only a rudimentary knowledge about. The difficulty was determining what he truly needed to understand at a detailed level and what he could lean on others for. “Tell me how you found the Baranyk home world.”

Joseph’s eyes went distant, almost as if he were reconnecting to the Baranyk network in that moment. “Imagine space. The void, its infinite blackness. But instead of distant stars like pinpricks of light, each pinprick is a consciousness. And like space, there’s billions of them. Each a tiny flame among a sea of nothingness. When you get close to one, you get a sense of them. Who they are. What they are. Maybe even where they are or what they’re doing in the physical world. It depends how deep their connection to the network is.”

“Billions?”

“If not more,” Joseph said.

“Then how’d you find the Overlord? Or even Coda?”

“Every being has its own presence,” Joseph said. “A… signature. All of the races the Overlord has subjugated have their own, but there’s a uniformity about them. Only a few are different. If you’re looking properly, they’re relatively easy to spot.”

“So that’s how you found the Overlord.”

“That’s how I found my son. He stood out to me like a beacon on a foggy shore. It’s also how the Overlord can find us so easily. Time and distance mean nothing in the network. If he’s looking, he will find us, so we have to take care not to connect too often. The more he finds us…”

“The more often he’s going to look.”

“Exactly.”

Coleman remained silent for a moment, taking it all in. “You said that’s not how you found the home world?”

“It’s not,” Joseph said. “Not exactly, anyway. As I already said, there’s no such thing as distance in the network, but what I mean is that there’s no correlation between space in the network and space in the real world. Just because something is fifty light years away in the physical world doesn’t mean it’s the same distance in the network. In fact, it’s not nearly that far, and it’s much faster to traverse.”

Joseph spread his hands apart then brought them together. “But there is a correlation with proximity. Gather enough creatures together, and their presences will burn like a galaxy for all to see. That narrowed my search to a few thousand locations. From there, I looked for the Overlord’s signature. Once I found that, the visual impression I got from the creatures located with him were of an invading fleet, and they happened to be massing at their home world.”

“Could you find him again?”

“The Overlord?” Joseph asked. “Of course. But I don’t need to. He never left.”

“What?”

“He never left,” Joseph repeated. “He stayed behind. He coordinates his forces through the network. It’s not much different from you coordinating your squadrons from the bridge. His bridge just happens to be a few hundred light years away.”

“Because there’s no concept of distance in the network,” Coleman said.

“Exactly.”

Coleman ran his hand over his head and rubbed the back of his neck, the final piece of his plan clicking into place. “The Overlord is still on the home world.”

“Yes, and guarded by a token force that would still rival many of our fleets. But yes, he’s there.”

“Thank you, Joseph.” Coleman offered his hand through the bars, not even trying to keep the smile from his face.

Joseph looked at the hand then at Coleman’s grinning expression, clearly confused. “For what?”

“For giving us a chance.”

“I don’t understand,” Joseph said but finally took his hand.

“You will.” Coleman gave his friend a firm shake. “You will.”

26

Amphitheater, Europa Station

Europa Station, Sol System

The amphitheater was circular in design, with a central dais where Admiral Orlovsky and his command staff would be presenting. The folks from the corridor filed into the room, continuing their conversations and slowly taking seats.

Coda watched everyone, feeling out of place. Captain Coleman hadn’t told Coda why he’d been invited, and trusting his judgment, he hadn’t thought to ask. The unknown made him uncomfortable, but even deeper than that was something as equally unsettling that he couldn’t put his finger on.

Once everyone was seated, the lights dimmed, and a spotlight lit the central dais. Admiral Orlovsky emerged from a hidden stairwell and climbed the dais, taking a moment to survey the scene. As he did, the entire amphitheater rose and saluted their commanding officer.

“At ease,” Admiral Orlovsky said. He paused as the several hundred command staff retook their seats. “Seeing you all assembled here is an incredible sight, though I wish it was done under better circumstances. The fact is the war against the Baranyk has taken a terrible turn. After a slight reprieve, the enemy is back, stronger and more numerous than ever. Four systems have fallen already, and we’ve issued a full-scale retreat from nine more. Make no mistake about it, ladies and gentlemen, the enemy has us on our back foot.”

The admiral’s words echoed throughout the chamber as he stood, surveying the silent crowd. Coda followed his gaze, wondering if he was looking at anyone in particular or simply engaging his audience. He couldn’t make out any patterns, so he assumed the latter.

“But I look at the collection of men and women in this room, and I have hope. Never before has the human race assembled so many capable fighters under a single banner. Never before have they fought together on a mutual battlefield. That ends today.”

Coda shifted in his seat, unable to shake the feeling that they were one Baranyk-controlled enemy insider-turned-bomber from losing every member of their command staff. Why hadn’t the admiral just issued instructions as he normally would have?

“It is a pretty incredible sight, isn’t it?” Moscow said softly.

Coda just nodded. But Moscow’s remark helped him see through a clearer lens. This wasn’t for the admiral. It wasn’t even for the individual captains and commanders. It was for their collective. Alone, humans were weak, impressionable, and prone to failure. But together, fighting for a mutual cause against a mutual enemy, they were capable of incredible feats. Looking around the room again, Coda saw rapt attention, slight nods, and a firmer resolve. Even knowing the odds they faced, it gave him a renewed sense of hope.

Admiral Orlovsky pressed a button on his indicator. At his gesture, a star chart appeared above the dais, very similar to the 3D battle maps equipped on all of the capital ships. “The enemy has followed a direct route through the heart of our outer systems. Based on fleet intel, we predicted they would attack the Indirian system next.” He took a breath for effect. “And unfortunately, our predictions were correct. Just an hour ago, we received word of a full-scale assault. Early indications suggest it’s a total loss.”

As if to punctuate his words, a series of images replaced the star chart, showing the breadth of the destruction. Initially, they showed a distant view of a planet and its three moons entirely encompassed by enemy forces. Then closer. A broken orbital platform. Shattered remains of a defensive force. All coalescing to form a ring of debris around the planet, the graveyard of a fallen civilization.

As if to drive the point home, Orlovsky zoomed in, and the images became more personal. Buildings, fifty stories high, had collapsed, crashing into each other. Glass and shrapnel littered the streets. Bridges had collapsed into rivers. Cars and other equipment were little more than burnt exoskeletons, clogging transportation arteries. The entire planet was a visual representation of death. Of a fallen people. Of what would happen if they failed to stop the enemy fleet.

“Due to an early full-scale evacuation order,” Admiral Orlovsky continued, “the loss of human life was minimal. But this is the threat we face. And if we are unsuccessful, this will be every world, in every system, including Earth. The continued existence of our very race depends on us. On our actions.”

The image on the display zoomed way out, showing a view of human-occupied space. Each system was labeled. Overlayed on this was a red line showing the Baranyk advance, ending with Tau Titus.

“Based on our projections, the Baranyk fleet will continue on its current path until it reaches Tau Titus. From there, it’s difficult to predict, so it’s there that we’ll make our stand.”

A series of dotted red lines cut through the image, ending at a particular system. The image then zoomed in to show an inhabited orange planet orbited by three moons.

“The lone populated planet makes it simpler to defend, and the proximity of the moons provides us certain strategic advantages. Our main force will assemble here, roughly four hundred thousand kilometers from the planet and thirty thousand kilometers from its nearest moon. Our goal is to funnel the attack this way, where the enemy will trigger a newly devised space minefield that’ll decimate the lead fighters. When the bulk of their forces make it through the minefield, we’ll order an organized retreat. The objective is simple: get them to chase, at which time our secondary force, hidden on the dark side of the moon, will flank the incoming ships. These tactics alone will not win the battle. The goal is simply to even the odds. Because then the real battle will begin, and we’ll unleash our biggest surprise. Our drone fleets are operable again.”

This elicited a cheer from the crowd.

Admiral Orlovsky held up a hand to ask for a moment. “Which is what makes Tau Titus another strategic choke point. The drone manufacturing facility on its moon is as large as six of our largest capital ships, and hundreds of fully operational Hornets are waiting, unused, in its warehouses. And work is underway to increase that. By the time of the battle, we aim to have a full ten squadrons that can launch from the moon installation itself.”

Coda and Moscow exchanged a look. Ten squadrons was two hundred and forty individual fighters. Quite a force. Added to the rest of the fleet’s firepower, Coda was beginning to believe they had a chance. Seeing the enthusiasm spreading through the room, he longed to get back into the cockpit. But that longing quickly turned into an ache as he was reminded that it would never happen again.

He wondered if the captain would allow him to fly a Hornet drone. The Redemption was outfitted with a full complement of drone squadrons, after all. Flying a Hornet wasn’t the same as flying a Nighthawk, but it was better than nothing. He promised himself that he would talk to the captain about it. He wouldn’t be left on the sidelines of the most important battle humanity had ever fought.

“Our drone fleets may even the odds,” Admiral Orlovsky said, “but they are not the silver bullet. We will still be vastly outnumbered, outpowered, and outgunned. But we have one thing the Baranyk will never have. The ingenuity, creativity, and strategic brilliance of the men and women in this room. It’s not our weapons or our technology that we put our faith in. It’s you.”

There was another round of applause, this one more energetic than the last. Coda found himself caught up in it. He cheered and clapped with the rest of them.

“A full battle plan has been provided to each of you. Over the next hour, familiarize yourself with it. My staff and I are here for any questions. If I don’t speak with you individually, then Godspeed and good luck.”

27

Corridor, Europa Station

Europa Station, Sol System

The buzz in the corridor seemed to vibrate the deck. Chatter was at an all-time high, significantly more energetic than before, voices loud and excited as groups of three to four captains spoke among themselves. Walking out of the amphitheater and through the corridor, Coda picked up fragments of conversation.

Most were centered on how the newly available drone squadrons could turn the tide of the Baranyk advance. Others were focused on the battle tactics themselves. The general consensus seemed to be that the strategy was sound, though there were concerns of the Baranyk dividing its forces between the planet and the nearest moon, where the human’s flanking force was hidden. By doing so, they could negate the fleet’s most decisive blow.

It was a risk—hopefully a calculated one based on previous Baranyk battle tactics—but battles were always rife with risks. Sometimes, the difference between winning and losing was choosing which risks to accept. Unfortunately, too much of war was decided by luck.

Coda scanned the corridor, looking for Captain Coleman, who still hadn’t returned. The amphitheater was large, and Coda’s attention had been on the presentation, so it was possible he had snuck in shortly after it had begun. If that had been the case, though, Coda suspected Captain Coleman would have rejoined them already.

“I don’t see the captain,” Moscow said. “Do you?”

“No. I haven’t seen him since he left. Should we go back to the ship?”

“Maybe.” Moscow drew out the word then stepped out of the main pathway, putting his back to the bulkhead. He clearly had no intentions of going back to the ship without the captain. “Where would he have gone?”

“I don’t kn—”

“Coda?” The voice cut through the corridor’s chatter like a sharp note in a symphony.

Coda tore his eyes off Moscow, scanning the corridor. There was something about that voice.

A man walked toward him, his powerful build making purposeful strides through the crowd.

“Buster?”

A smile a country mile wide split the other man’s face, and his step found an extra gear. He crossed the last few meters between them in an instant then crashed into Coda, giving him a tight hug and slapping him on the back, laughing all the while.

“Holy shit,” Buster said. “It is you!” He held Coda by his shoulders, appraising him as if he were a distant relative he hadn’t seen since he was a child. “What are you doing here?”

“Me?” Coda asked in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m…” Buster’s gaze went to Coda’s lieutenant commander insignia, and his eyes grew wide. “I’m sorry… sir. Please excuse my lack of decorum.”

Coda glanced at his uniform then Buster’s. It wasn’t until then that he noticed Buster’s insignia. He had the gold wings of a squadron leader and the lapels of a lieutenant, which meant Coda outranked him. A remnant of his days as CAG.

“Don’t,” Coda said, finally understanding why so many of his superior officers quickly did away with decorum the first chance they got. “None of that. We’re friends.”

“Of course, sir,” Buster said with a straight face, no sarcasm at all.

“Shut up.” Coda gave his old friend a playful shove, the kind he would have given him during their time at the Terran Fleet Academy. Buster had been his best friend, his fellow flight leader in Dragon Squadron, and the first person Coda had celebrated with when they’d become the Ace Squadron in their academy. “Seriously, what are you doing here?”

Buster seemed to stand straighter. “I’m CAG on the Olympia.”

“CAG?” Coda said. “I thought you were on the Abraham Lincoln.”

“Reassigned and promoted,” Buster said with a smile.

“Congratulations,” Coda said.

“You too.” Buster’s eyes drifted to Moscow, who had been quiet during the exchange. Like Coda, he and Moscow had been rivals during their time at the flight academy. But unlike Coda, Buster hadn’t gotten over it. “Both of you. The Forgotten have been the talk of the fleet for months. And my old friend, my CAG, is the leader. Unbelievable.”

Coda gave him a half smile, glancing at Moscow, and waited for him to say something, to correct their former academy mate and put Coda in his place. When he didn’t, an awkward pause filled the conversation.

“It’s been unbelievable,” Coda finally said.

“I bet!” Buster hadn’t lost any of his enthusiasm. “We used to study Commander Coleman’s battles, remember? Hell, we used the Coleman Diamond in our final battle… Sorry, Moscow. And now you’re flying with him. What’s he like?”

“He’s… exactly what you’d expect him to be. A living legend. But also one of us. A fighter jock to his core.”

“Incredible,” Moscow said. “So much has changed since Dragon Squadron, hasn’t it?”

Coda couldn’t help but think of all the people he’d flown with. The battles tended to jumble together, but he never forgot the people.

“It really has.” Coda couldn’t help but hear the melancholy in his own voice. He hoped Buster didn’t notice.

“And now our drone squadrons are operational again. We’re back in the fight. Maybe I’ll see you out there. Just like old times.”

“Yeah,” Coda said. “That would be something.”

“Yes, it would.” Buster’s smile finally waned. The conversation had taken a turn, and he’d noticed it but obviously didn’t know why. Coda couldn’t help but feel like he was being unfair. Knowing Buster, his old friend would think it was something he had done. He wouldn’t know that Coda was the problem, that he was keeping secrets from him.

But what made Buster an amazing person was his ability to shine even when he was surrounded by darkness. As quickly as his smile faded, it returned, bigger and brighter than ever. “Damn, Coda, it’s good to see you.”

“You too, Buster.” Coda pulled his old friend into a hug. “You too. More than you know.”

“I’ll see you around.” Buster slapped him on the back. “Good luck out there. Both of you.”

Just as quickly as Buster had returned to Coda’s life, he was gone, disappearing into the crowd. Coda watched him go, his melancholy becoming full-blown sadness. Seeing his old friend had been great, but in too many ways, it reminded him of what he had lost.

“Thank you for not telling him,” Coda said.

“It wasn’t my place,” Moscow said.

Coda didn’t disagree. Still, he couldn’t help but think that the old Moscow wouldn’t have let the opportunity pass him by. Buster had been right when he’d said so much had changed. “Still.”

Moscow turned to face him. “I know things are awkward between us, but I’m still your friend. I hope you know that.”

“I do.”

“Good. Now, where the hell is our captain?”

It didn’t take them long to find out. He appeared out of the crowd, spotted them, and immediately made for them. “There you are. You ready?”

“For what, sir?” Moscow asked.

“To return to the ship.”

“Yes, sir,” they both said.

Then Coda added, “Sir, you said you needed my help with something.”

“Turns out I didn’t,” Captain Coleman said.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing, sir?”

Captain Coleman shrugged. “That’s still to be determined. But for now, let’s say it’s a good thing. Come on, let’s get back to the ship. We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

* * *

Coda stepped off the shuttle ramp onto the deck of the Redemption. The hangar was always a hive of activity, and today was no exception. As Coda had learned recently, there was no shortage of work to do aboard a ship. Even when the technicians weren’t repairing battle damage, the Nighthawks required constant maintenance to perform at their best. In that way, they weren’t unlike the pilots themselves.

Coda followed Captain Coleman, with Moscow trailing him. The flight back from the admiral’s address had been a quiet one. Captain Coleman hadn’t said much since returning to the shuttle, and he hadn’t provided any information about what he was doing while Coda and Moscow were attending the briefing. Coda hadn’t pressed for answers, deep in his own thoughts.

“Can I have a moment, sir?” Coda asked.

Moscow glanced at him and, apparently realizing the question wasn’t directed at him, continued through the hangar.

Captain Coleman stopped and turned to Coda. “Of course.”

“Thank you, sir.” Coda took a deep breath. “During his briefing, the admiral said that the Hornet drones were operational again. I know I’m grounded, sir, but I thought… maybe… I could join the drone squadrons we have on board the Redemption.”

His idea had come shortly after this reunion with Buster, his old friend’s words echoing over and over again in his brain. Maybe we’ll see each other out there.

Captain Coleman leveled a thoughtful gaze on him. “I know you miss it, Coda.” His words were slow, as if he didn’t know what he was going to say next. “But it’s my job to ensure the success of the mission while minimizing the loss of human life. I’m sorry, but my position hasn’t changed. As long as you’re susceptible to the Baranyk signal, you’ll remain grounded.”

If Coda had had any hope, it would have been sucked away like oxygen in a breached hull. The most he’d allowed himself was the idea of hope. Still, to know his lot wouldn’t change, that he’d sit on the sidelines while his friends fought and died, was enough to crush him.

“I understand, sir.” The words were robotic, emotionless. Despite their relationship, Coda couldn’t argue with the captain. Not that he’d had much of an argument to begin with. The idea had never been much more than a fool’s hope.

“Your father learned to resist it,” Coleman said. “He said he has been teaching you the same techniques. Have you made any progress?”

“No,” Coda admitted.

He’d tried to follow his father’s instruction during their journey back. Although it had been easier when he was still onboard, the exercises had been mentally taxing even then, and he could only take so much of it. Since he’d returned to active duty, the exercises had become even more difficult. Then when his father was taken into custody, Coda had largely abandoned them. It was an odd form of self-sabotage, and he knew it.

“Keep working at it,” Captain Coleman said. “If he can do it, you can as well. And that’s your path to flight status.”

“Thank you, sir.” Coda nodded to him then looked elsewhere, breaking eye contact. Feeling the captain’s eyes on him was hard enough, but when he looked into them, he couldn’t help but see an indictment of all his failures. Coda waited to be dismissed, but Captain Coleman didn’t make any motion toward the hangar’s exit.

“That said, Coda, the admiral’s plan is not my own. We have our own mission, and for that, I don’t plan on keeping you on the sidelines.”

“Sir?” Coda said.

“I can’t say too much,” Captain Coleman said. “I’m still working out the details, but in order for our plan to succeed, you’ll need to play a key role.”

“I… don’t know what to say, sir.”

“No, I don’t imagine you do. It’s hard to have something to say when you don’t know what you’ll be doing, isn’t it?”

The smallest of smiles split Coda’s face. “Whatever it is, sir, I’ll be ready.”

“Of that, I have no doubt. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of preparation ahead of me. But remember what I said. Keep working, and be ready.”

“I will, sir.” Coda saluted the captain.

Captain Coleman nodded and strode away. Coda had done everything he could to stifle his hope, dousing it any time he’d felt its spark. But with the captain’s words, and despite all of his efforts, he could feel it catching in his chest.

28

SAS Redemption

Europa Station, Sol System

Captain Coleman’s summons didn’t come that day or even the next, and for all intents and purposes, life aboard the Redemption returned to normal. The rest of the ship personnel hadn’t been at the admiral’s briefing, but word spread. There was a buzz for the first time in as long as Coda could remember. The Sol Fleet was going on the offensive, and in some form, the years of constant vigilance would come to an end.

The ship’s personnel went about their daily tasks with more vigor. No longer were they the mundane daily tasks that needed to be completed, another box checked. Instead, they were of vital importance, a critical cog in the war effort.

The one command Coda received from Captain Coleman was a new set of training scenarios he wanted programmed into the simulators. At first, Coda expected a grand display of military might, a great battle with tens of thousands of bogeys, fought in the location the battle would be waged.

To his surprise, he received instructions for an alien world he’d seen only once, via a drone recording. The barren planet of yellow rock with three moons was a hellscape if he’d ever seen one. The Baranyk home world.

Coda didn’t understand, and he didn’t ask questions. Captain Coleman had said his mission wasn’t that of the rest of the fleet, but Coda hadn’t expected anything like this. Every scenario involved an assault on one of the four celestial bodies—the planet and each of its moons.

Based on the intel they’d received, each of the landscapes were markedly different, with the planet itself most similar to Mars. It had a thin atmosphere with drastic temperature variance and was plagued with high-speed winds on the surface that could kick up debris and cause issues with their computers. It was here the captain wanted them to spend the most time preparing.

We’re going to assault the Baranyk home world, Coda thought. But with what?

The fleet was staying behind, preparing for the Baranyk invasion force. Every ship was needed, so anything sent into Baranyk territory would be incredibly small in number.

Not an invasion force, then. A ship of assassins. The idea seemed a special kind of crazy, which, if Coda was being honest with himself, also brought a special blend of excitement.

What is my role in all of this?

Try as he might, even though Captain Coleman had told him he would have a role to play, he couldn’t place it. He couldn’t even come up with a plausible idea. Then, finally, the order arrived. Coda was simultaneously excited and dismayed.

The briefing was to be held in the command quarters just off the bridge at 1800 hours. Coda arrived a few minutes early and found the room already nearly full. The usual suspects were in attendance, including Captain Coleman, Commander Garcia, Commander Payton, and Dr. Naidoo. New to the proceedings was Lieutenant Cahill, call sign Phantom, the Redemption’s Hornet CAG. Moscow, the last to arrive, was clearly surprised by Coda’s presence.

The room itself was moderately sized, mostly occupied by the single old-fashioned table bolted to the deck. A wall of digital displays along the bulkhead parallel to the entrance showed a live view of the ship’s exterior. The red glow of Jupiter lit the space station, and lights from various ships flashed in the dark. Preparations were underway for every ship in the fleet.

“All right,” Captain Coleman said. “Everyone’s here. Let’s get started.”

Coda went to take his usual seat with the rest of them, then he realized it was the CAG’s chair. He shot a glance at Moscow while in an awkward squatting position and found that the other man had already taken a spot down the table.

Not knowing what else to do, Coda fell farther into the chair. Moscow didn’t seem to care, and it was too late to swap seats without making a show of it, which he hardly thought Moscow would appreciate.

The only person who didn’t sit was Captain Coleman himself. He remained standing at the head of the table. “By now, you’ve all read the admiral’s orders.”

There were a series of nods and nonverbal confirmations around the table. No longer a part of the command staff, Coda hadn’t received the orders. He’d seen the address in person; that would have to be enough.

“Good,” Coleman continued. “Then I don’t need to review the mission. Since the orders came through, the Baranyk trajectory has remained unchanged. They continue to cut through the very heart of our systems.”

Captain Coleman tapped a button on his tablet, dimming the lights in the room and calling up a display. It resembled the same one the admiral had shown, with indicators for the Baranyk force and an arrow through the various human-occupied systems.

“Judging by our estimates, the Baranyk force will arrive at Tau Titus within thirty-six hours.”

Coda shifted as a cold chill went down his spine. If the battle went poorly, the future of the human race could be measured in hours. Not centuries. Not millennia. Hours.

“We…” Captain Coleman let the word hang in the air. “Will not be there to welcome them.”

This time, confusion spread through the room. Commander Garcia’s face twisted into a scowl. It appeared he was just as surprised as the rest of them and hadn’t appreciated being kept in the dark.

“We have a mission of our own.” Captain Coleman toggled another button, replacing the macro view of the universe with a single image: the barren yellow rock, pitted and windswept. “The Baranyk home world.”

Someone on the other end of the table was tapping their nails against its surface, but Coda didn’t bother to look to see who it was. His eyes were fixed on the planet, remembering a dream from several weeks before. Being pursued by Baranyk warriors. Chased. Running through what he’d thought was a ruined landscape. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized he’d dreamed of the surface of the Baranyk’s planet.

An angry hand seemed to squeeze his heart, freezing it, as he remembered the fear from the dream. Of all the places in the universe, that was the one place he wished like anything to avoid.

“Early intelligence suggests the planet is made up of a series of tunnels and chambers, providing shelter from the extreme temperatures and high-speed winds. Light measurements suggest water and a relatively limited biosphere.”

That the Baranyk lived underground wasn’t much of a surprise. The planet clearly made living on its surface difficult, and even when the Baranyk had occupied or colonized other planets, they had done so by creating their own tunnel systems.

“May I ask a question, sir?” Moscow asked from the other end of the table. His index finger was pressed onto the tabletop, his eyes on it instead of the captain.

“Please,” Captain Coleman said.

“How many other ships will be joining us on this mission?”

“None.”

Moscow’s eyes came up from the table, meeting Captain Coleman’s. “That’s what I expected. But it begs the question: we’re one ship, not an invasion force. How could we possibly assault a planet, let alone an entire system?”

Captain Coleman seemed to have anticipated the question. Moscow wasn’t halfway through it by the time he replaced the image of the planet with another of a black Baranyk warrior with gold stripes. For the sake of scale, the Baranyk was next to a normal Baranyk warrior. The warrior was nearly twice its size.

“Following our assault in Kryos, we learned of a special kind of Baranyk,” Captain Coleman said. “Bigger and faster than the normal warriors, this one also communicates telepathically with the rest. Like a queen ant, this Baranyk, this Overlord, controls the hive. This creature is who’s been directing the enemy forces. This is who we have been at war with. This is the true face of our enemy.”

Coda had lived with the knowledge of the Overlord for so long, he had to remind himself that it was still classified information known only to a small number of people. Looking around the room, he could see who had been privy to that secret and who had not.

“We’re not assaulting the planet,” Captain Coleman continued. “We’re there for one reason and one reason only. To blow the Baranyk Overlord back to whatever special hell he crawled out of. If we do, the enemy forces will be leaderless, confused, defeated. If we do this, we will win the war.”

Coda felt Moscow’s eyes on him. He could only imagine what the other man was thinking.

“But still, your question is valid,” Captain Coleman said. “From what we know, a defensive force remains on the planet, but early numbers estimate it’s a fraction of what we originally uncovered. Like us, they seem focused on the battle at Tau Titus. We also have the element of surprise—not only with a surprise attack but with a fully operational drone squadron, including a full outfit of drone bombers.”

Coda steepled his fingers, staring at the image of the Overlord. “Sir, from what I remember, the home world is smaller than Earth, maybe half its size. But that’s still a lot of planet to cover when we’re looking for a single Baranyk. How are we supposed to find him? And to Moscow’s point before, even if we’re able to find him, those tunnels will make for a hell of an assault.”

Captain Coleman smiled. “That, Coda, is where you come in.”

“Me, sir?”

“Well, more specifically, your father. Using the Baranyk network, he’s confident the Overlord remains on the planet. Because time and space mean little inside the network, the Overlord is able to command his forces from half a universe away. Which means he might not see us until it’s too late. Even if he does, your father has agreed to use the network to learn everything he can about the planet and the Overlord’s whereabouts. R&D also equipped us with an allotment of new autonomous surveillance drones that will scout the tunnels and map it for us.”

And just like that, the final piece clicked into place. Coda finally understood his role in all of it and why he had been invited to the briefing. “I’m supposed to be your translator.”

“I thought of you more as our communications specialist, relaying information from your father,” Captain Coleman said. “But I suppose that’s an apt description as well.”

Coda sat back in his chair, strangely disappointed. The captain had said he wouldn’t be on the sidelines for this, and so far, he had held to that promise, but Coda had hoped for something more than being a glorified telephone.

“I have a hard time believing Joseph O’Neil will be our savior,” Commander Garcia said.

Captain Coleman started to say something, but Commander Garcia held up a hand. “But”—he emphasized the word as if to say that this wasn’t his main point—“say we are successful mapping out the tunnel system. And say he’s successful locating the Overlord inside them. Sir, we only have one platoon of marines stationed aboard the ship. And to Coda’s point before, that’s a lot of ground to cover.”

“We’re not going in with marines, Commander.” With a final click of the button, the Overlord disappeared, and an image of the mouth of a tunnel appeared. “The Baranyk do nearly everything underground. And that includes the manufacturing, or whatever it is they do, of their ships. All of their ships. The tunnels aren’t like you and I think of them. They’re big. Massive. Some larger than the Redemption itself.”

Another click superimposed a squadron of Nighthawks over the image of the cave mouth. “We’re going in, all right. For a good, old-fashioned tunnel run.”

29

Briefing Room, SAS Redemption

Europa Station, Sol System

Commander Garcia laughed. It was a great booming laugh that came deep from his gut. “A tunnel run,” he said between breaths. “And here I thought you were crazy.”

The rest of the room’s occupants looked at each other uncomfortably, but contrary to their expectations, the outburst didn’t make Coleman angry. In reality, that was one of the things he appreciated most about his XO—his no-bullshit attitude. When the captain wasn’t safe, no one was.

“I’m a fighter pilot,” Captain Coleman said. “Always will be. We’re a special kind of crazy.” He tapped his tablet, zooming out on the image, showing another image of a battle being waged above the skies of the home world. “When we have the tunnels mapped out, we’ll begin the assault. The bulk of our squadrons will occupy the defensive force above the surface while a reserve force of Hornets will slip in and make for the Overlord.”

“Why the Hornets?” Moscow asked. “Seems like a job for a real pilot.”

“Real pilot?” Phantom asked. The Hornet squadron leader’s dark face was hard.

There had always been a large amount of tension between the two groups of pilots. The old guard had been replaced by the Hornet squadrons and felt a deep animosity toward them, almost as if they were the new husbands who had stolen away their wives and were taking care of their kids. And despite their success earlier in the war, Coleman suspected the drone pilots felt a sense of inferiority since they didn’t assume the same level of risk as the Nighthawk pilots. Those feelings had become even more exacerbated since he’d built the Forgotten.

“Poor choice of words,” Moscow said. “You know what I meant.”

“I’m not sure I do,” Phantom said, clearly not ready to back down.

“Many of the tunnels are incredibly large,” Coleman said, stepping in before the situation could get worse. “But the farther inside we go, the narrower they get. The Hornets are half the size of the Nighthawks, providing more room to maneuver.”

“And we have more of them than we do of you,” Commander Garcia added.

“That too,” Captain Coleman agreed. “Plus we have the raw material to make more.”

That seemed to quell Moscow’s initial objections, though it did little to ease Phantom’s frustrations. The man continued to glare daggers at Moscow.

“You’re not worried about latency issues?” Coda asked.

It was a good question, and it made sense coming from someone who had trained to fly the Hornet drones long before he’d ever joined the Forgotten. The biggest problem was basic physics. Light, and thereby communication, could only travel so fast. That meant that any commands issued by the drone operators aboard their respective capital ships were delayed by the time it took to make it to the drone itself.

The reverse was true as well. Any images the Hornet pilots saw in their VR helmets could be anywhere from a sixteenth to a half a second late. The fleet did everything it could to keep the latency as low as possible, but operations were never as clean as they could be. What they lacked in precision, they had made up for in sheer numbers. That had always been the tradeoff.

“The Redemption should be close enough to avoid any major lag,” Coleman said. “But it is something we’ll monitor. Any other questions?”

Coleman scanned the room’s occupants.

“Jump in,” Moscow said. “Scout the area, create a diversion, then slip in and kill the Overlord. Sounds simple enough. I’m assuming we’ll update the training scenarios for the Forgotten to include the tunnel run as a precaution?”

Moscow was like a dog who wouldn’t drop his bone. Coleman had already made it abundantly clear the Hornets would be going in, not the Nighthawks. Still, he appreciated the added strategic redundancy.

“Yes,” Coleman said. “The moment we get our first scans back, we’ll turn them into a training scenario that both of you can run your pilots through.”

“Thank you, sir,” Phantom said.

“Sounds good, sir.”

“When do we ship out?” Commander Garcia asked.

“That is entirely dependent on the Overlord,” Coleman said. “Our goal is to remain undetected for as long as possible. Our best chance of doing that is when the Overlord is distracted, so we won’t jump in until the larger battle has started.”

“So, thirty-six hours or so,” Commander Garcia said.

“That’s my best guess,” Coleman agreed. “If any of you have anything pressing, get it done soon, because there’s no telling when you’ll get another chance. Anything else?”

His command staff looked at each other, but nobody spoke up.

“All right,” Coleman said. “Prepare your people. We’re about to embark on the most important mission any of us have ever fought. We need to be at our best. Dismissed.”

Everyone stood and began filtering out of the room.

Commander Garcia lingered. “When you get a moment, I’d like a word, sir.”

He wouldn’t be happy about being left in the dark again. Coleman couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t normal operating procedure, but the plan had come together too quickly. He hoped his old friend would understand that.

“Of course,” Coleman said. “Give me twenty minutes.”

“Thank you, sir.” He turned to go.

Making up the last of the fleeing occupants were Dr. Naidoo and Commander Payton. “Hold up a moment,” Coleman said, stopping them. “There’s one last thing that involves you.”

“What is it, sir?” Dr. Naidoo asked.

Coleman glanced at the door, where Coda and Moscow were stepping out. Once they’d left the room, Coleman returned his gaze to the room’s final two occupants. “Based on what you know of the Baranyk signal, how difficult would it be to block?”

“Block?” Commander Payton asked. Always the engineer, he needed specificity.

“Yes,” Coleman said. “Block. Prevent it from reaching its destination. Or at least prevent it from allowing the Overlord to take control of his host.”

“It’s a basic extreme low-frequency signal,” Commander Payton said. “In theory, it should be simple enough to create a countersignal that would negate the source. The issue is range. The signal we’ve encountered is incredibly powerful. In order to keep it from washing over the entire ship, we’d need to amplify to massive levels, and I’m not sure we have the correct tools.”

“What if it didn’t have to protect the entire ship?” Coleman asked. “What if it only needed to negate the signal enough to protect one individual?”

Commander Payton rubbed his chin, his index finger tapping his lip. “That… might actually be possible.”

“What would it look like?” Coleman asked. “A helmet the subject would wear? An implant? Or do we stick him in a room where the countersignal is broadcast?”

“Some sort of helmet device would be quickest and simplest,” Commander Payton said, “but clearly impractical. A simple transmitter attached to the temple region should do the trick.”

“What do you think, Dr. Naidoo?” Coleman asked. “If we were able to negate the signal before it ever reached its host, would that prevent the Overlord from being able to take control?”

“In theory, yes,” she said. “But I’d want to run some experiments first.”

“Of course,” Coleman said. “How soon could you have something mocked up?”

“We’re still optimizing the new EmDrive,” Commander Payton said. “But I can get a team started on it—”

“No team,” Coleman said. “Just you if possible.”

“Sir, I’ve got a thousand responsibilities and projects demanding my attention. If you need this ship to be battle ready in thirty-six hours, I don’t have the bandwidth to—”

“A team, then,” Coleman said. “Could it be ready before we jump?”

“The preliminary design? Probably.”

“Okay,” Coleman said. “Make it happen. But keep it quiet, and don’t tell the team what they’re working on. We have to keep this one between us. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Let me know when you begin your tests.”

“Will do, sir.”

Coleman let out a long sigh as Dr. Naidoo and Commander Payton left the room. All things considered, the briefing had gone well. The plan was falling into place better than it had any right to.

It wasn’t until then that he realized he’d just added another item to the list of things he was keeping from his XO. He would let Commander Garcia in on this one. It involved his ship’s personnel after all. And if it worked, it would give them another weapon they hadn’t had in a long time.

For Coda’s sake, he hoped it did.

30

Storage Locker, SAS Redemption

Europa Station, Sol System

Captain Coleman had said to take care of things that needed taken care of before it was too late, so Coda resigned himself to doing something he had been putting off for far too long.

The unfortunate reality was that he should have done it long ago. Squawks was hurting. He needed help. Support. A friend. But Coda had abandoned him, and the longer he hadn’t gone to talk to him, the harder it was to rebuild that bridge.

His father used to tell him that the harder something was, the more important it was. When it was the hardest, that was when you were needed most. With that in mind, Coda searched the barracks, gym, and Simulation Room, coming up empty each time. He resisted the urge to turn back, to say he’d tried, give up, and wait for Squawks to come to him. The truth was, though, Coda knew where Squawks was—where he had always been.

Dating back to their time aboard the Jamestown, Squawks had always been the one tending to the still. Alcohol was an incredible drug, made more special by its lack of availability when traversing the impossible distances between civilizations. For as long as there had been space travel, no, since humanity had traversed the skies and the seas, unsanctioned stills had been a place of community. A place where soldiers, sailors, and all forms of military personnel congregated to drink whatever piss-flavored alcohol flowed.

Tex had taught Squawks, and Squawks had kept the tradition alive. The still was “found” from time to time, usually by an upstart officer or after someone had gotten on their superior’s bad side. Then it would have to be built again somewhere new. These days, it was in a storage locker off the hangar, which, coincidentally, was where the heaviest drinkers seemed to be.

It was located in the corner of a locker, roughly the size of a small bedroom, between racks of seldom-used spare parts. The special kind of place that was a room off a room, that everyone knew existed but rarely ventured into.

Coda stepped through the door immediately off the hangar and thought he heard hushed voices. At the whoosh of the automated door sliding shut, the voices cut off. It was one thing to drink in a place everyone knew existed. It was something else to flaunt the infraction in front of leadership.

He waited a second to see if they picked back up, and when they didn’t, he turned to go. He’d hoped Squawks would be alone. The door opened.

Coda didn’t go through. He waited, chastising himself. He couldn’t run away. Squawks needed him.

The door closed again, and thinking that whoever had entered had ventured back out, the voices returned. Coda slipped through the room toward the second door that led to the equipment locker then stopped as the voices became clearer.

“You have to stop beating yourself up,” a firm female voice said. Coda didn’t have to see her to know it was Nails—Captain Coleman’s daughter and Squawks’s wingman.

Squawks said something Coda couldn’t make out. Coda pushed on the door, ready to go in, when Nails erupted.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she said sharply. “I’m not going to play the blame game with you. We’re fighter pilots, Squawks. We fly at speeds that alone are enough to kill us. We’re one rock, one grain of sand, one piece of debris away from tearing a hole through our canopies. One technical malfunction away from becoming human soup in our cockpits. Oh, and there’s the little detail of aliens trying to fucking kill us.” Nails was breathing heavily. “There is no blame in Noodle’s death, the same way there’s no blame in any of the other pilots we’ve lost. It’s part of the game, Squawks. You know this. You’ve always known this.”

Coda could almost feel the intensity from the other room, the fire in her caramel-colored eyes, see the sharp, you-better-fucking-listen expression she had inherited from her father on her face.

Squawks said something inaudible, something that Nails immediately shut down.

“Fine,” Nails said. “You want to play the blame game? Let’s do it. The admiral is responsible for Noodle’s death. After all, he sent us there. He didn’t take the captain’s warnings strong enough, which left that planet basically defenseless. He’s at fault.”

Squawks must have made a skeptical face, because Nails pivoted.

“No?” Nails said. “You don’t like that one? Fine, it’s my father’s fault. Despite having a broken-down ship and holes in our ranks, he probably asked the admiral to go. And even if he didn’t, he trained you. Trained Noodle.”

Nails was finding a rhythm now and didn’t let up. “How about our engineers, in all their collective genius, who couldn’t figure out how to counter the signal that made our drones useless? If they’d been smarter, faster about coming up with a solution, we never would have reinstated the Nighthawk program. No, it’s Moscow’s fault for not coordinating the battle better. Coda’s fault for forcing an unproven CAG to step into the role. Coda’s fault for not being there. For having a fucked-up brain that the Baranyk could exploit. His father’s fault for passing his fucked-up brain to his son.”

“Stop,” Squawks said, the word barely audible through the door.

Coda was thankful for it. Nails’s comments hit too close to home. The same irrational way Squawks was blaming himself, Coda was too. He was just compartmentalizing it better.

“No, Squawks,” Nails said. “We’re going to see this through. I’m going to show you how pointless this blame game is, because we’re not done. It’s his wingman’s fault for not being there. I’ve watched the flight vids. If they’d been in proper formation, Noodle wouldn’t have drifted. It’s the sorry-ass technician who manned that orbital platform’s fault for having a fucked-up brain. His parents’ fault for passing it to him. His fault for having such a sorry-ass life to be stationed in some backwoods, forgotten-about post to begin with.”

“Stop,” Squawks said again, more forcefully this time.

“It’s Noodle’s fault for signing up for the Forgotten to begin with,” Nail said, voice suddenly softer. “And for not bailing the moment he realized what the fuck it was he signed up for.”

The words hung in the air between them. They were harsh and unsympathetic but honest in a way that only a brutal truth can be.

“There are no faults in war. There’s only life and death and the terrible aftermath.”

“I know,” Squawks said. “It doesn’t make it any easier, though.”

“No,” Nails agreed then grew softer. “No, it doesn’t.” It was quiet for a moment. “Do you want to know something my father used to tell me? He said that death was every pilot’s wingman. It’s always there, on your six, and as much as we try and shake it, death always catches up. Our only chance is to keep moving. The moment we slow down, the moment we stop, that’s when death catches us.”

There was another pause, and Coda could almost see Nails leaning forward, making sure she was looking directly into Squawks’s eyes. Maybe even grabbing his hand.

“You have to keep moving, Squawks. We need you. I need you.” Nails must have stood, because the next moment, she was walking toward the door. “I need my wingman back.”

Coda scrambled backward, triggering the motion detector to automatically open the outer door. With any luck, Nails would believe Coda was walking in and hadn’t been eavesdropping on their conversation.

The inner door opened, and Nails stopped, wiping away tears with the palm of her hand.

Coda didn’t know what to do. They just stood there, frozen in place, one emotionally raw, the other guilty for violating what had been a deeply personal moment.

“Are you okay?” The words stumbled out of his mouth, lacking any form of sincerity.

“I’m fine.” Nails strode past Coda with a huff and slipped back out into the hangar.

Coda remained rooted in place. Truth be told, he didn’t know how to follow up Nails, and he wasn’t even sure he had to.

“How long where you listening?” Squawks asked from the other room.

Busted.

Shaking his head, Coda walked into the storage locker. The still sat in the corner, and Squawks held a spare part that had been retrofitted into a drinking cup. If he’d been drinking, he didn’t show any of the physical signs.

Coda took a seat on a latched cargo box that had been strapped to the deck. “Long enough.”

“And you just let her rail into me?”

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” Coda said. “And… she’s not wrong.”

Squawks barked a bitter laugh and downed his drink. “You too, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Squawks refilled his drink. Coda had made the flight roster that morning. Thankfully, Squawks was off for the next few rotations.

“I just miss the goofy sonuvabitch,” Squawks said.

“I do too,” Coda said.

Squawks swirled his drink, watching as the fluid circled the cup, coming closer and closer to the rim. “Do you remember that time on the Jamestown, during training, that everyone talked about why they joined the Forgotten?”

“Yeah,” Coda said. “Tex had always wanted to fly, but they shut the Nighthawk program down before he got a chance. Noodle was supposed to go into advanced manufacturing but thought the drones were just too damn cool. And you… Actually, I don’t remember what you said.”

“Because I didn’t. Truth is, I was embarrassed. Tex talked about how his family was against him joining up. You guys too.” He took a steadying breath as if preparing himself for a great undertaking. “I don’t have a family, Coda. I’ve never had anyone care about me enough to try and stop me from doing something.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that,” Squawks said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “I don’t have a family. I don’t know who my parents are, what they were like, if they were heroes or pieces of shit. My entire life has been a mystery.”

“I…” Coda stammered, not knowing what to say.

“I know,” Squawks said. “That’s why I never said anything. Didn’t want things to get awkward.”

“It’s not awkward,” Coda said. “I just… I’m sorry, Squawks.”

Squawks waved the words away with his hand. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t want your pity, just want to help you understand where I’m coming from.” He looked up from his cup, tears in his eyes. “I never had a family. Until now.”

It seemed as if all the air was suddenly sucked out of the room. Coda’s throat grew tight as understanding washed over him.

“Noodle wasn’t just my friend,” Squawks said. “He was my brother.” He took a shuddering breath. “I’ve never had a brother before, so I didn’t know what it was like to lose one. Hurts like hell.”

“Yeah,” Coda said. “It does.”

“You’re my brother too, you know.”

“I know,” Coda said. “You’re mine too. The only one I have.”

“I can’t lose you too.”

“You won’t,” Coda said. “But we need you. We need the Squawks who talks faster than he flies. The loud, egotistical, walking HR violation.”

Squawks laughed, a tear dripping from his nose into his cup. “I can do that.”

“Good,” Coda said.

Squawks met his gaze, and for the first time in a long time, Coda saw the mischievous spark of life return to Squawks’s eye.

“Now, are you going to offer me a drink or what?”

“Ha!” Squawks grabbed one of the spare cups, filled it, and handed it to Coda.

He studied the clear contents. “What is this?”

“It’s best not to ask,” Squawks said. “Or smell.”

It was too late. Coda was already taking a whiff. He flinched back as if punched. “God! It smells like… like…”

“Like Baranyk piss. I know. Isn’t it great?”

“That wasn’t the word I was going to use.”

Squawks laughed again.

Damn, it’s good to hear that sound.

“It gets the job done,” he said.

“I guess.” Coda held up his cup. “Let’s get this over with. To Noodle.”

“No,” Squawks said. “To our brothers.”

“I like that better,” Coda said, thinking of Noodle, Tex, Uno, and everyone else they’d lost. “To our brothers.”

They tapped cups, and Coda downed the foul drink in a single gulp. It burned his mouth, his stomach, and everything in between. But it was a good burn. One that felt earned and brought him closer to his friend.

To his brother.

31

Drone Operation Center, SAS Olympia

Tau Titus

Buster had been trained for a war he’d never been able to fight, but he’d always heard the worst part of battle was the waiting. The long minutes, hours, and days leading up to the first shot, before all hell broke loose and there wasn’t time to think, let alone worry.

On the eve of his first real battle, those old words felt all too accurate. He paced anxiously on the observation deck in the drone operation center. Around him, the Olympia’s four squadrons under his command were already plugged in, donning their VR helmets that would give them a first-person view of the inside of their Hornet’s cockpit. The operation center wasn’t too dissimilar from the Coliseum back at the Terran Fleet Academy, though smaller in scale since it was designed solely for the drone pilots and not a crowd of spectators.

Those pilots rose up around him in rings of stadium seating, each of his four squadrons occupying a different quadrant in the room. Above him loomed the battle map. Larger than the similar one on the bridge but considerably smaller than the one at the Terran Fleet Academy, the battle map displayed photo-real images of the battle. And since Buster was the conductor of the battle, controlling its pulse, tempo, and rhythm, he could zoom in or out as much as needed to ensure his pilots were best positioned.

Right now, he had it zoomed out to provide a macro view of the battlespace. The might of the Sol Fleet floated through space in a rectangular shape, taller and wider than it was deep, made up of nearly every ship humanity had to throw at the invaders. Nighthawks flew through their ranks, twisting and turning between the ships, flying the perimeter, and circling the moon.

It was a jaw-dropping, pump-your-fist-in-the-air, blast-the-fight-song-of-the-Sol-Fleet kind of sight. Buster had never felt so proud to be a part of it, never more confident in their ability to prevail. If the enemy would just hurry up and arrive.

The battle map beeped as if granting his wish and zoomed way out to display a universal view of the battlespace. A single bogey, so tiny in the void that it was little more than a miniscule dot, appeared. The indicator was enclosed by a red circle and flashed red, denoting the enemy signature. The enemy vessel didn’t appear to be moving, but Buster knew that was more of a byproduct of the distance between it and the waiting fleet.

A second signature appeared. And a third. Fourth. Fifth.

Soon, the edge of the battle map was teeming with them. A soft murmur rose in the operation center, nervous chatter between his pilots. Still, the enemy continued to roll in.

Seventy-five ships.

One hundred.

Then it outnumbered the Sol Fleet.

Doubled it.

Tripled it.

Then Buster couldn’t keep track.

He needed to say something, instill confidence, not stand there like a slack-jawed jackass. He tapped the new implant in his ear, opening a line to his air group.

“It’s a hell of a sight, isn’t it? It’s nothing we didn’t expect. Stay steady. Trust in your training and the pilot next to you, and we will be victorious.”

They were hollow words, but they seemed to do the trick. The chatter died down, turning into a quiet anticipation. Their time would come, but they had to wait. The drones were the ace up the admiral’s sleeve, the lynchpin of their battle strategy. What had once been the might of the Sol Fleet had been relegated to the sidelines over the last year. But those were days of the past. The Hornets were operational again, more numerous and deadly than ever. And the enemy was about to feel their sting.

The enemy fleet drifted slowly across the empty space on the battle map. The human forces made no effort to engage, forcing the enemy to come to them. Half of the human vessels had a full complement of Nighthawks that they had so far kept within the bowels of the ship.

Buster absently thought of Coda and their short reunion at the admiral’s briefing and wondered where he was in all of this mess. He hadn’t seen the Redemption in the formation, and his eyes were now too focused on the hundreds of red indicators methodically drawing closer.

Growing up, Buster had been a fan of boxing. At the start of every bout, the two fighters would start in their corners, getting last-minute instruction and pep talks from their teams. Then the bell would ring, and one of two things would happen: either the fighters would show their respect and sportsmanship by quickly touching gloves, or they came out swinging.

The Sol Fleet was in its corner. There would be no touching of gloves, and there was no referee. It would be straight to violence.

The Baranyk threw the first jab, launching fighters as the two fleets were still a great distance apart, likely expecting the human vessels to do the same. This wasn’t a normal battle, though. Humanity was against the ropes, fighting to survive. With no referee, there were no rules, and they could fight dirty.

Thousands of enemy fighters zipped across the battlespace, racing ahead of the capital ships, completely unaware of what awaited them in that dead space.

Ancient armies had dug holes and trenches, traps designed to trip, snag, or kill horses of a mounted charge. More modern warfare used razor wire to slow an enemy’s advance and mines to thin superior numbers or heavy artillery.

In space combat, speed kept you alive. It was also your greatest weakness. It doesn’t take much to punch a hole through a ship when it’s flying thousands of kilometers per hour, which was why capital ships had heavy plating. But starfighters needed to be quick and agile. They didn’t have the same kind of protection.

One moment, the enemy was a horde beyond counting, then it was decimated into a mess of organic matter. At thousands of kilometers an hour, even a grain of sand could be a weapon, especially if it was deployed in a cloud.

The incoming fighters were cut down by a third then a half. Then more. Shouts of excitement replaced the nervous chatter from before. The plan was working. They’d struck first, drawn enemy blood, and hadn’t even fired a shot.

There was a distant rumble, and the deck vibrated as the captain ordered the Olympia to its secondary position. To the unknowing eye, it would look like a retreat, but the ships were just moving to a safer distance from the debris cloud, allowing their Nighthawks and Hornets, when they were eventually deployed, more room to operate. Because the problem with a debris cloud was just like a twentieth-century mine: it would kill indiscriminately.

Even with the debris cloud decimating the horde of enemy fighters, many still got through. Dozens. Maybe hundreds.

The deck thunked as the Olympia opened its cannons. Green indicators appeared on the battle map. The Sol Fleet had launched its Nighthawks. They immediately moved to engage the incoming fighters. Even though their ranks had been decimated, the enemy still outnumbered the Nighthawks.

The battle was going according to plan. Now, it was time to see how much difference that plan would actually make.

32

Commander’s Quarters, SAS Redemption

JumpGate, Sol System

“Tell me what I’m looking at,” Captain Coleman said.

He stood with Commander Payton and Dr. Naidoo in the commander’s private office, looking at a series of images on the display board. Similar to the display board in the CAG and captain’s office, this one was a dual touchscreen inset into the bulkhead, taking up the majority of the wall nearest the commander’s desk.

“We’ve isolated the Baranyk signal, sir,” Commander Payton said. “Both its amplitude and wavelength, which is what you’re seeing here. As I said before, it’s an extreme low-frequency wave, electromagnetic, clearly capable of traveling through vacuum, not very much unlike the one that attacks our drones. Except this one doesn’t change. Every time we’ve encountered the signal, it’s been identical. No variance. We checked.”

“Then double- and triple-checked,” Dr. Naidoo said.

“Which should make it easier to counter,” Commander Payton said. He brought up a new image on the display board. It was another wave, blue in color compared to the Baranyk wave’s red, and looked nearly identical. It hovered above the Baranyk signal. “This countersignal represents the Baranyk signal’s opposite. Where theirs peaks, ours troughs. Where theirs troughs, ours peaks. And at equal amplitude, which should render the net zero.”

As if for effect, Commander Payton dragged the new signal overtop of the Baranyk representation. As Commander Payton had said, they lined up perfectly, except that they were equal and opposite.

Coleman rubbed his chin, not taking his eyes off the display, working through the commander’s explanation. “So, if I understand correctly, the Baranyk signal never changes—”

“Not never,” Dr. Naidoo said. “Just hasn’t.”

“Hasn’t changed,” Coleman corrected. “And as long as that remains true, you can broadcast this signal to attack the Baranyk signal?”

“Actually, nothing that complicated,” Dr. Naidoo said. “We don’t have the broadcast capabilities to counter the signal’s strength at a macro level, but at an individual level, we built a device that steadily emits this signal. If the subject encounters the Baranyk signal, this one, which is already emitting, will thereby negate the new one, never letting it take hold.”

“One minus one equals zero,” Commander Payton said.

“In theory,” Dr. Naidoo said.

“In theory,” Commander Payton agreed.

Coleman tapped his lips with his finger. The benefits of the signal were clear. If this new version could keep the other at bay, then they could avoid all of its effects, and he would get his pilot back. It almost seemed like too much to hope.

“You said ‘individual,’” Coleman said. “Could this device be fitted into an earpiece?”

“Eventually, yes,” Commander Payton said. “We’d obviously want to ensure it worked before it came to that, but yes.”

“In the meantime,” Dr. Naidoo said, turning and plucking a small device off a nearby tray, “we’ve created these.” They looked like two quarter-sized metallic devices, dark in color, with a single green light already illuminated, showing that the device was functioning properly. “We’ll secure these to the subject’s temple region, which should create a protective web around his head.”

“It’s ready for testing?” Coleman asked.

“Yes, sir,” Commander Payton said.

Dr. Naidoo handed the devices to Coleman. He held them almost reverently. He longed to return to the cockpit himself—the captain’s chair would never be an equal replacement for him—but settled for knowing he might be able to give Coda his wings back.

“The moment we jump to Baranyk space,” Coleman said, “I want Coda in sick bay, monitored and controlled in case this doesn’t work as expected. Brief Dr. Rydell and let her know what we plan to do. She’s seen firsthand what can happen when someone is hit with that signal.”

Before Coda had ever been hit with it, they’d found a few survivors on a ravaged human colony, and after they’d been brought aboard the Redemption, one had been hit with the signal. Under Baranyk control, they had fought against their binds, eventually ripping free and killing themselves. Dr. Rydell had seen the horrors of war, but the event had shaken her in a way Coleman had never seen.

“Yes, sir,” Dr. Naidoo said.

“Great wor—” Coleman’s earpiece chimed. He placed a hand to his ear, tapping the top of the ear against the side of his head, activating the device. “Coleman.”

“Sir, we’ve received reports,” Ensign Richey’s voice said through the earpiece. “The battle has begun.”

“Very well,” Coleman said. “Let the JumpGate crew know we’re ready to go, and get the process initiated. I’m on my way.”

“Yes, sir,” Ensign Richey said.

Coleman tapped the device again, ending the communication. “The battle is underway,” he said to Commander Payton and Dr. Naidoo. “Get Coda to sick bay. It’s time.”

33

Drone Operation Center, SAS Olympia

Tau Titus

Buster watched the Sol Fleet fall back on the battle map. The maneuver served two purposes: to give the Nighthawks, and eventually the Hornets, more room to operate without the debris field inflicting collateral damage and to draw the Baranyk fleet into pursuit. Once they’d advanced far enough, the ships Admiral Orlovsky had placed on the far side of the moon could swoop in behind the Baranyk and box them in.

At first, the plan seemed to work. The Baranyk fleet continued its pursuit, but as the debris field wreaked havoc on the Baranyk fighters near the back of the formation, the capital ships slowed.

“Come on,” Buster said. “Don’t stop now. Keep coming. You’ve got us on the run.”

If somehow the Baranyk heard him, they didn’t listen to him. They continued a full-reverse burn, coming to a stop just outside the debris field. They might have been taking sensor readings, determining what had destroyed so many of their fighters, and assessing the potential damage it would inflict on their larger ships.

“Not much,” Buster answered. “It doesn’t pose any threat to you as long as you go slow.”

The debris field was specifically designed for that purpose. The fighters, coming in much faster, wouldn’t see it and wouldn’t be able to avoid it. But the larger vessels with their stronger hulls would be fine.

“Come on,” Buster coaxed.

With the Baranyk fleet at a standstill, Buster’s attention shifted to the battle between the Nighthawks and what remained of the Baranyk fighters. Zooming in on the battle map, he watched the images of the Nighthawks and wondered if Coda was out there. Part of him wished he was, trusting in the reputation of the Forgotten to lead them to victory, but he also feared his friend being alone, relying on his own abilities and tactical ingenuity.

He keyed in on a particular fighter pair that seemed to be having a better time than others. They knifed through Baranyk formations, using missiles when they were clumped together and picking them off with their cannons when the formations broke apart.

Their fighting style couldn’t have been more different from the Hornets. The Hornets, restricted by lightspeed communication, lacked the ability to react immediately and relied on formations and attack waves. But the Nighthawks twisted, turned, and dove on a dime. The Baranyk fighters moved with them, flying in larger formations and fighter squads, but were individually overmatched.

Where the Nighthawks struck, devastation reigned. In one impressive maneuver, they attacked the flank of a Baranyk formation, opening cannon fire to cut a hole in the center of their swarm before darting away. The Baranyk, thinking they had an opportunity for pursuit, split their formation, with the rear half moving to engage the Nighthawks’ six. But the pilots had anticipated this. Maybe wished for it.

The moment the Baranyk moved into a pursuit vector, the fighter pair flipped noses to tails and launched a pair of missiles. The lead Baranyk fighters didn’t have enough time to disengage before the missiles turned them into a small-scale debris field of organic material that took out the ships nearest them.

The Nighthawks accelerated, diving into what remained of the pursuit. By then, the last of the Baranyk fighters in the formation scrambled to disengage. Once the hunted, the Nighthawks had become the hunters. They had the momentum and were quickly able to get into an attack vector, swinging around behind the enemy fighters. With a quick cannon burst, what remained of the Baranyk formation had been eliminated.

Buster zoomed out on the battle map. The smaller battle was indicative of the larger one. The Nighthawk squadrons now outmatched the remaining Baranyk fighters. Finally, with superior numbers they pushed the advantage, and within a few minutes, they had eliminated what remained of the Baranyk vanguard.

A cheer went up in the control room; the pilots were no doubt watching the battle on their HUDs too.

Buster grabbed the back of the seat in front of him, squeezing the gel material until his knuckles went white, never taking his eyes off the battle map. “Come on, we’re right here.”

It was an old-fashioned standoff, neither force making a move. Perhaps sensing the battle walking the razor’s edge, the admiral ordered the Nighthawks in. They didn’t venture all the way through the debris field but far enough to launch their heavy CapKillers. The specially designed missiles had one mission and one mission only—to pack a big fucking punch.

Unlike normal missiles that were explosive, nimble, and packed with a full supply of fuel to continue pursuit even if a target tried to shake it, the CapKillers relied on mass and kinetic energy. Made primarily of tungsten and depleted uranium, two of the heaviest metals known to man, and equipped only with enough fuel to maximize kinetic destruction, they were the perfect weapon to fly through the debris field.

Twelve CapKillers zipped through the debris field, blowing through the small bits of rock and metal like bulldozers. Even the antifighter artillery did little to slow them down or knock them off course. They hit with a silent thud, no explosion, just disappearing into the enemy, tearing through hulls, decks, and anything that got in their way.

More than one shot clean through its target, striking another ship behind the initial target. Gasses, fluids, and organic material poured into space. One enemy vessel exploded, the CapKiller having hit something critical inside. The explosion took out two other vessels near it.

Another cheer erupted in the control room, but Buster wasn’t ready to get in on it yet. There were hundreds of capital ships, maybe more, and he suspected each had at least one squadron of fighters. By destroying three ships and a wave of fighters, they’d effectively stepped on a handful of ants from an anthill. If the enemy continued its pursuit, that gave humanity the best odds.

But still, the Baranyk didn’t engage.

Another wave of Nighthawks swooped in, launching another volley of CapKillers. Again, the Baranyk used standard antiaircraft strategies to destroy or deflect them with minimal results. Several more Baranyk vessels were torn apart, three more going critical and creating a cascade of destruction, eliminating other ships closest to them.

The admiral didn’t wait to see the enemy’s response. Another wave of fighters swooped in, launching a third volley of the devastating weapons, baiting the enemy into action.

It worked. The Baranyk drives flared to life, spurring their gargantuan vessels into motion. Slow at first but gaining speed, the enemy ships parted the debris field like a ship through water, pushing aside the tiny bits of rock and metal.

The human fleet continued to withdraw, moving farther into the system, closer to the planet itself. When the enemy vessels were finally clear of the debris field, they launched a fresh wave of fighters. Buster didn’t know the full count, but it appeared to be at least twice as large as the initial one.

Buster finally let himself grin. That grin turned into a full-fledged smile as the deck thumped and more Nighthawks appeared on the battle map. The admiral matched the Baranyk force, unloading several more squadrons. It was a mighty force that left plenty in reserve. And if the Baranyk were wary about the debris field and CapKillers, then they were not going to like what these fighters were equipped with.

34

Drone Operation Center, SAS Olympia

Tau Titus

The Baranyk fighters raced in. Their numbers dwarfed anything humanity had ever thrown at them. That had always been the way of this war—humanity woefully outnumbered, their only chance of survival tied to human ingenuity and technical advancement.

Even though he knew what was coming next, Buster still felt sweat drip down his spine. His flight suit was wet with it. The waiting and anticipation killed him. Once he finally got the order to plug in, then all of the fear and worry would disappear, replaced by a singular focus. Distraction had long since been trained out of him. Distractions meant death.

But Buster wasn’t flying yet, which meant he was left to sweat.

The Nighthawks moved into a rare, two-dimensional, rectangular formation. If they maintained it, every fighter would be vulnerable, but Buster knew they wouldn’t hold it for long. They were currently out of range anyway. The formation was designed for a very simple reason—to give every pilot a clear shot at the incoming enemy.

The time to engage ticked down in the form of kilometers. Buster could almost feel his hand tighten around the joystick, his palms slick, index finger massaging the firing stud. He wondered if the Nighthawk pilots were experiencing the same.

Twenty thousand kilometers.

Almost there.

Fifteen.

Here we go.

Ten.

“Fire,” Buster whispered.

And as if upon his command, the Nighthawks launched a volley of missiles.

At five thousand meters, the Baranyk fighters barely had time to take evasive action. They tried, but the missiles weren’t like any they had encountered before.

Just as the first Baranyk fighters passed the incoming wave of missiles, the missiles exploded, unleashing a hidden package inside. Thousands of marble-sized tungsten ball bearings shot out with enough force to crack a hole in a six-foot-thick reinforced hull. The hulls of the Baranyk fighters were no match.

The same way the CapKillers had decimated the capital ships, the new missiles annihilated the swarm of enemy fighters, leaving trails of slime in their wake. Dozens of enemy fighters exploded. Others disintegrated. But many were simply damaged, thrusters and navigation equipment destroyed, sending them careening into nearby fighters.

A single wave of missiles destroyed nearly a quarter of the incoming force. Even more devastating, the enemy formation was in shambles. The Nighthawks wasted no time engaging and swooped in aggressively. By the time they were in the fray, the ball bearings had long since hit their targets or been shot harmlessly into the endless void of space, giving the human pilots free rein to engage.

They easily picked off stray fighters first and used traditional missiles to inflict maximum damage when the swarm or formations drew too close to each other. Again, Buster picked out a single fighter pair, watching as they cut through the confused enemy.

Every enemy fighter that drew their attention met its end. The Nighthawks were a scalpel—sharp, precise, and steady. And the Nighthawks around them were equally devastating. When the battle was solidly turning into the Sol Fleet’s favor, the Nighthawks pressed their advantage.

Not all of them were equipped with CapKillers, since the heavy missiles greatly reduced their maneuverability, but those that were zipped away from the main battle toward the incoming capital ships to unleash humanity’s devastating creations. They took out six more capital ships and still hadn’t lost a single ship of their own.

Buster could almost sense the enemy commander’s rage. It mirrored his own excitement. The battle was going better than he’d even dared to hope. They had a chance. A real chance.

But the enemy had numbers humanity could barely fathom, and the enemy commander finally unleashed them. Swarms upon swarms of enemy fighters streamed out of their capital ships, zipping toward the Sol Fleet with malicious intent. Thousands of them. Maybe more.

“Are you watching this, Lieutenant?” Captain Lozada’s voice came through Buster’s earpiece.

“I am, sir.”

“Then you know what comes next. Are your squadrons ready?”

“We are, sir.”

“Good. Plug in and prepare for flight.”

“Yes, sir.”

Buster took one last look at the battle map, watching as a fresh wave of Nighthawks launched from their own ships. They were the jab, jab; his pilots were the right hook.

“It’s our time,” Buster said, his deep voice booming in the control room. “Crush the enemy like the vermin they are.”

His pilots cheered as he sat in the gel seat in his drone command console and put on his flight helmet. His view of the control room was replaced by the inside of his Hornet. It was just a virtual representation of what he would see if he were actually sitting there, but it still had a disorienting effect.

“Radio check,” Buster said. “All Hornets report in.”

Buster listened as his pilots checked in, confirming their radios functioned properly, and called up the battle map on his HUD. The newly launched Nighthawks avoided the main conflict, moving to the edge of the battle plane, out of enemy range and ready for the new horde of incoming fighters.

Once they were assembled into two separate tight formations, they rocketed directly toward the enemy. They might as well have been a young boy standing with his father’s rusted sword, trying to stare down a dragon. They had to be outnumbered fifty to one. Sitting in the safety of his VR cockpit, Buster saluted their bravery. The courage it took to face those kinds of odds, to face one’s death itself, was indescribable.

The Nighthawk pilots were truly a rare breed. When he’d first heard that Coda was part of the legendary squadron, Buster had been envious, feeling somehow inadequate despite the fact that he’d been placed in a prime position, where Coda had nearly been kicked out of the Terran Fleet Academy, not even allowed to attend his graduating ceremony. But now that he was here, now that he saw what the Forgotten had faced in all those battles while the Hornets were inoperable, he knew he didn’t have what it took.

Commander Coleman recruited the right man.

“Hornets,” came a voice on the squadron’s radio. “Prepare for launch.”

Buster settled into his cockpit seat, grasping the controls. Without any further warning, his Hornet catapulted through the launch tube. It bucked as it left the artificial gravity bubble behind, entering the zero-g of space. Around him, dozens of other drones shot from the Olympia, hundreds more from their own ships.

They split into three formations. Buster led his formation and ordered another to assemble behind the two new Nighthawk formations, while the third waited near the capital ships in reserve.

The new swarm of enemy fighters rushed in, and the two Nighthawk formations raced in to meet them, launching successive waves of missiles. Just like the previous wave, they inflicted overwhelming casualties, wiping out the head of the enemy charge. For every Baranyk fighter they destroyed, though, it seemed as if three more took its position.

The Nighthawks launched a second volley of missiles, inflicting similar damage, then, before they were consumed by the enemy swarm, veered off, clearing the road for the Hornets that were right behind them and coming in hot.

Jab, jab.

“Our turn,” Buster said into the comms.

Right hook.

The two Hornet groups split into its four squadrons, ninety-six Hornets in total, and knifed into the incoming swarm. Hundreds more from other human vessels did the same.

Finally. Buster squeezed the firing stud, loosing a barrage of cannon fire from the nose of his Hornet.

He’d trained for years at the Terran Flight Academy, honing his skills, fighting among some of the best pilots humanity had to offer, but he’d never fought in a real battle, inflicted real damage, truly protected his own, and done his part. That changed in a single burst that cracked the hull of an enemy fighter like a hammer to a melon.

Splash one.

His pilots on his wing did the same, firing in controlled bursts, carving a path through the swarm. He barely let off the firing stud. Doing so would have resulted in a high-speed collision. They might as well have been driving through a swarm of locusts, bugs zipping past their windshields like flakes in a snowstorm. The enemy numbered so many, Buster could barely see the blackness of space. And they didn’t appear to be altering course, choosing to ignore the waves of Hornets cutting through the belly of their formation.

They’re going after our capital ships.

It was a tried-and-true strategy. Not only were the capital ships the largest and most powerful ships either side had to offer, but destroying those left the drones and Nighthawks with nowhere to return. It was a death sentence for any pilot in the void. Destroying the capital ship would render the drones inoperable by killing their pilots.

Squeeze and fire. Squeeze and fire.

Buster’s trigger finger never fully relaxed. He was an exterminator taking care of an infestation, killing dozens of enemies before they could do the same to him. He glanced at the battle map, judging where they were in the enemy formation, but all it showed was a solid sphere of red, unable to distinguish between individual fighters.

He tightened his hand around the joystick, continuing his barrage. The ammunition counter on the top-right corner of his HUD ticked down. The Hornet was armed with a thousand rounds, and he’d already exhausted more than half of that. He thought about launching a couple missiles, but at their speed and proximity to the enemy, doing so would likely result in too much collateral damage.

There was a sudden flash of light to his right as one of the Hornets collided with a Baranyk fighter.

“Damn it,” someone said over the comm. “I’m out.”

“Me to,” someone else said. There must have been an explosion behind Buster, because he hadn’t seen another go down.

His Hornet bucked as the fighter in the dash-2 position exploded. Two more went down, and he ordered the remaining pilots to tighten the formation. The maneuver narrowed their focus but reduced their casualties. If the Nighthawks had been a scalpel, the Hornets were a needle, plunging into the heart of the formation.

Buster didn’t know how long it took them to carve through the entire formation, but one moment, fighters were racing past him, blotting out the blackness of space, and the next, he was free. The sound of the cannon receded as he relaxed his firing finger, leaving nothing but the sound of his own heavy breathing. Beads of sweat trickled down his back. He’d thought he was sweaty before, but it was nothing compared to the swamp of his lower back now.

He banked hard to port, turning back toward the Olympia and the rest of the human vessels, careful to remain on the outskirts of the swarm. “Missiles free!” he ordered. “Missiles free!”

The Hornets weren’t equipped with the new missiles the Nighthawks were, but they still carved deep rents into the enemy formation. There was no point in conserving ammunition. As long as the enemy was going to let them kill them indiscriminately, Buster was going to take full advantage. Every Baranyk fighter they destroyed now was one they wouldn’t have to face later.

The drones remained on the outskirts of the enemy swarm, launching missile after missile into their flank. And because the other squadrons had knifed through the enemy formation from the opposite angle, they were doing the same from the other flank. They eliminated dozens of enemy fighters. Hundreds. But the enemy outnumbered them so greatly that it didn’t seem to matter.

Buster fired his final missile as the head of the swarm entered firing range. If he’d thought the Nighthawks’ missile barrage was impressive, then the enemy’s response was downright terrifying.

An ocean of plasma fire erupted from the Baranyk swarm. It crashed into the reinforced hulls of the human capital ships as if they were being sprayed with a firehose. Explosions lit the black like fireworks as the plasma tore deep holes in the human ships. Oxygen and other critical gasses and fluids emptied into space. Two human vessels went critical, exploding in a terrifying flash of white light. Unlike the Baranyk formation, the human vessels had kept their distance from each other, minimizing collateral damage.

Buster exhausted his remaining cannon fire, ordered his pilots to do the same, then triggered the computer’s autolanding procedure. His fighter would return to the Olympia, where it would be rearmed and refit, and he would be given a fresh Hornet and reenter the fray. When the last of his pilots exhausted their ammunition, he ordered the reinitialization sequence.

One moment, he was in the thick of the battle. The next, he was back on the Olympia, sitting in a fresh Hornet inside the launch tube. The sudden change was jarring, but it gave him a brief respite. His heart hammered, body trembling as adrenaline coursed through his veins. He closed his eyes, willing himself to go through a calming routine. But it was too much. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the yellow carcasses of the enemy fighters. The blue of their plasma fire. He abandoned the exercise, succumbing to the emotion of the battle.

“Come on,” he said to no one in particular. “Get us back out there!”

It was the launch technician who answered. “Loading the final drone now. Launch in T-minus twenty seconds.”

Twenty seconds.

How long was I out there? It had felt like hours, but if the Olympia’s launch crew hadn’t even had enough time to prepare for the second wave of Hornets, it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes.

With a few seconds to spare, Buster eyed the battle map. The red wave had engulfed the fleet’s position. He could only imagine what that looked like in reality. If the steady rumbling of the deck from the antiaircraft batteries and distant booms of plasma fire striking the Olympia’s hull were any indication, it was a mess.

And the enemy capital ships were still inbound. Moving slowly and methodically, they were just emerging from the debris field, finally clear of the moon. Newfound hope bloomed in Buster’s chest as a handful of new readings appeared on the HUD. From behind the moon, ten more human capital ships appeared, burning hard. And around them, a full bloom of green as hundreds of Hornets flew with them. They flew in hard against the unprotected rear of the enemy formation.

“Launch sequence initiated,” the launch technician said. “Prepare for launch in five, four, three…”

Buster shifted in his control seat, hands tightening on his controls, ignoring the rest of the countdown. The battle was just beginning. And since the Baranyk had almost willingly stepped into their plan, they still had a chance.

His Hornet lurched, zipping through the launch tube. It was time to reenter the fray.

35

Sick Bay, SAS Redemption

JumpGate, Sol System

“You wanted to see me, Doc?” Coda said. The door to sick bay closed with a hiss behind him.

Dr. Rydell looked up from her patient, someone from engineering suffering from burns on their hands and arms. She held a gun-like device that he knew administered shots, usually to ease pain—something the patient seemed to be suffering from quite a bit.

“Ah, Coda, you made it. Go ahead and head on back. Doctor Naidoo is waiting for you.” She nodded toward the rear of the medical bay, where a curtain had been drawn.

“All right,” Coda said uncertainly and made his way to the cordoned-off area.

He hadn’t been given any explanation why he was wanted in sick bay, though now that he knew Dr. Naidoo was present, he had a pretty good idea. She was the foremost expert on Baranyk physiology and had been leading the study of the Baranyk signal that plagued him.

He pulled the curtain back to find Dr. Naidoo studying something on her tablet and the wall display. “Coda,” she said, looking up. “Good. You’re here.” She motioned to the end of the hospital bed in the center of the makeshift room. “Please sit.”

Coda took a seat on the edge, resting his foot on the steel supports. “What’s this all about, Doctor?”

Dr. Naidoo had gone back to her tablet, tapping and dragging her finger across its surface. “We’ve received word that the battle has begun. We’re loading into the JumpGate now, preparing to jump to the Baranyk home world.”

“And you can’t risk me acting on the Overlord’s behalf,” Coda said. “I’m surprised you didn’t just lock me up in the brig.”

“The danger of ignorance, Commander, is when you don’t know what is going on and react anyway.” Dr. Naidoo slid her tablet into her lab coat. “You’re not here because you’re a danger to the ship or even a danger to yourself. You’re here to receive treatment for your condition.”

“Treatment?”

“Of a sort,” Dr. Naidoo said. “The captain has taken it upon himself to protect you. Sit back.”

Coda slid farther onto the bed, resting his back against its elevated portion. His polished boots were a stark contrast to the white of the bedding. “How?”

Dr. Naidoo grabbed something from a nearby chair. “Using these.”

She held a pair of circular devices made of dark metal. “I don’t understand.”

“Commander Payton and I have constructed a countersignal to the Baranyk’s that we believe will prevent it from interacting with your brain. These will continuously broadcast the countersignal, providing uninterrupted protection.”

He gestured to the device in her hands. “May I?”

“Of course.” Dr. Naidoo handed them over.

They were light, but he couldn’t help but feel the weight of their importance. His thumb brushed against its smooth exterior, stroking it as if it held the promise of a lover. “You really think it’ll work?” He almost feared the answer.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Dr. Naidoo said.

“What do I have to do?”

“We’ll adhere them to your temples.” She tapped her own for effect. “You just need to wear them.”

“That’s it?”

“And don’t take them off.”

Coda was being given the promise of life. He had no intention of taking the devices off if he could help it.

* * *

Captain Coleman took a deep breath and tapped his earpiece, opening a shipwide channel. He heard the soft static of the ship’s speakers and made eye contact with each of the bridge personnel. He wasn’t one for speeches, but they were about to venture into the hostile unknown, a place no other human had ever set foot, and he needed his crew to know that he believed in them.

“This is the captain. By now, our forces at Tau Titus have engaged the enemy. We have not received any reports about how the battle is progressing, but I do know that we have a few surprises waiting and that the men and women of the Sol Fleet will put up a hell of a fight. You should also know that is not our fight. As your commanding officers have already briefed you, we have a different objective.”

He let the words linger as he scanned the room. The eyes of every member of the bridge crew were firmly on him, and he caught more than one nodding. Commander Garcia pumped his fist at his side in what Coleman thought was a sign of encouragement.

“In a few minutes’ time, we will venture into deep Baranyk space. Farther than anyone has ever gone before. To their very home world. I do not know what will be waiting for us or what we’ll find. But I know what we seek. The enemy is led by a terrible leader. Someone driven by hatred. Someone that seeks to dominate all living species. We will not let that happen. Our mission is to take him out, whatever the costs. And like our fleet, we have a few surprises of our own.”

Coleman drew in a deep breath and held it for several seconds before letting it out. “But none of them mean as much as you. We were selected for this mission because we have the strongest crew in the fleet. Because the men and women of this ship have seen and done more than any other out there. You are uniquely equipped for whatever the enemy throws at us. Together, we are stronger. Together, we will prevail.”

He held up a fist. Only his bridge crew could see it, but he hoped the rest of the ship could hear the conviction in his voice. “We all know what’s at stake. Our very survival as a species hangs in the balance. I don’t just need your best. Humanity needs it and more. As long as there is a chance, we fight. For as long as there is hope, we fight. For as long as our hearts beat and we have breath in our lungs, we fight. Failure is not an option.”

He locked eyes with Ensign Richey, her dark eyes radiating conviction. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail. He nodded to her, giving her a silent command. She immediately said something into her headset.

“Prepare to jump,” Coleman said.

He closed the broadcast. Commander Garcia gave him another encouraging fist pump. He nodded his approval and gripped the railing that surrounded the top level of the bridge. No sooner had his hands cupped the padded railing than the world stretched.

The world snapped back into focus. His hands tightened around the railing as the usual disorientation hit him. He forced his eyes to stay open and swallowed the excess spit in his mouth, hoping he wasn’t visibly sweating.

“Report,” he said.

“Sensor data coming in now, sir.” Lieutenant Poiu’s hands were like lightning across his terminal.

Coleman watched as the battle map began to update. Within moments, it showed a single barren planet surrounded by even-more-barren moons.

We made it.

They were on the edge of the system, several hundred thousand kilometers from the nearest moon. They waited for several minutes, watching for any sign that the enemy knew they had arrived. If the Baranyk knew they were there, they weren’t showing it. There was no enemy activity of any kind.

“Good work,” Coleman said. “Deploy the Dragonflies. Let’s see what the enemy has waiting for us down there.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “Deploying reconnaissance drones now.”

A dozen new signatures appeared on the battle map. In reality, they were barely larger than Coleman’s hand, equipped with full sensor systems and video that would be automatically sent back and logged by the Redemption’s computer. They flew toward the planet. It would take hours, maybe longer, for them to arrive and complete their initial scans. As he waited, Coleman found himself thinking back to Tau Titus, wondering how the battle was progressing.

36

Drone Operation Center, SAS Olympia

Tau Titus

Another explosion lit the black as another human capital ship went critical. It started as a brilliant flash of white light, followed by plumes of fire and debris. Gas and fluids spilled into the void as more explosions wreaked havoc on the hull. Then, in a single explosion that made the rest look tiny by comparison, the ship was cut in two, both pieces drifting aimlessly in opposite directions.

Buster cursed. It was the fifth capital ship they’d lost. Each one left a hole in their defenses that was difficult to fill. Not only did they lose the firepower of each ship, but they lost the cover fire provided by their antiaircraft batteries. Most importantly, they lost the ability for those ships to launch new fighter drones. Eliminating a single capital ship was the equivalent of wiping out an entire fighter group.

“We need to get them off our capital ships!” Buster bellowed.

“Agreed,” a voice on the radio said. It was his second-in-command and Bravo Flight Leader, Slides. “How?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? One the entire fleet was trying to answer. The Baranyk fighters outnumbered them by immeasurable odds and barely seemed to be paying their drones or Nighthawks any attention, focusing instead on the larger human vessels.

The enemy fighters fought as a swarm, engulfing ships in a cloud of constant and unrelenting fire. Fire and flee, fire and flee, back and forth, blasting the hulls with blue plasma fire that melted the steel like lava on rubber. The antiaircraft batteries destroyed dozens of ships with every attack run, but the Baranyk overwhelmed them so considerably that they were able to absorb the losses.

Buster let out a frustrated breath. They’d abandoned larger formations to fight in a style more reminiscent of the Nighthawks. It was their best way of maximizing damage while also absorbing losses. Each time a drone fighter was shot down, it required them to fill the formation’s hole. And when that pilot was provided a new drone, they had to rendezvous with the formation and resume their position. It simultaneously left them weaker and slower. Buster himself was already on his third drone.

Ten friendlies glowed with brilliant green on his HUD, ten squadrons of Nighthawks at their tip, burning hard for the open flank of the enemy’s capital ships. As soon as they were in firing range, they launched a deadly wave of CapKillers. The specially designed munition laid waste to the unprotected rear of the enemy formation, destroying several of the Baranyk vessels in a flash.

Just behind the Nighthawks, hundreds of fresh Hornets launched from the moon’s underground base and rushed in. In a few short moments, the Nighthawks and Hornets completely engulfed the enemy vessels, destroying several.

Buster let out a loud hoot, expecting the fighters that engulfed the human vessels to break away and provide aid to their own. His hope was quickly dashed as more fighters emerged from the bellies of the distant enemy vessels.

How many fighters do they have?

Buster’s heart was in his stomach. No matter what the fleet threw at the enemy, they threw more fighters back at them.

We’re not going to make it.

Buster hated that the thought had even entered his consciousness. If it had entered his, it had certainly entered others’. As if the words were made manifest, the Olympia gave a shuddering shake. A piercing metal-on-metal noise cut through Buster’s helmet and radio chatter. They were going to die like baby birds in a nest, unable to fend off a hungry predator.

No, he told himself. I will not give in. I will not give up. And he couldn’t let anyone else in his fighter group give up, either.

“As long as we have a ship, we have a chance,” Buster said. “Don’t give in. Don’t give up. We are the sword that’ll pierce the enemy’s heart. Stay strong. Don’t hold back. Give them everything you have.”

The words strengthened Buster’s resolve. He settled into his seat, hands tightening around the controls, eyes reassessing the battle map as a deep focus enveloped him.

The Baranyk surrounded them with a spherical formation of fighters that was in constant movement. Ships darted in to attack while others filled the hole in the formation.

“We can’t win this by going on the offensive,” Buster said. “This is now a defensive battle.”

“What are you getting at, sir?” Slides asked.

“Our ships are vulnerable. We have to protect them at all costs. Every available Hornet, close in on the Olympia. Encase her with our drones. Give her an extra layer of protection. When a swarm makes its attack run, fight back and chase them away. We are crows in this, fighting off a hawk.”

He made for the Olympia, taking out a few enemy fighters along the way. He took up position only meters from the Olympia’s hull, positioned between a pair of antifighter batteries. Around him, his drones did the same, and within moments they had the entire ship encased.

“Buster,” Captain Lozada said over the comm. “What are you doing?”

“The enemy fighters are getting through our defenses, sir,” Buster said. “We’re tightening the line.”

“You’re nearly attached to the ship’s hull.”

“That’s the idea, sir. Every meter we occupy is a meter they can’t harm. When they attack, we’ll drive them off. It’ll work, sir.”

The hiss of the radio extended for several moments.

“Carry on,” Captain Lozada eventually said.

“Thank you, sir.” Despite his bluster, Buster wasn’t convinced the strategy would pay off. They weren’t fighting to win the battle anymore—they were fighting for time.

The effectiveness of the formation was quickly put to the test. Baranyk fighters dove in, seeking to strafe down the Olympia’s length. Buster’s Hornets maintained position but were angled so they faced the incoming enemy and opened fire. Their cannons and missiles mixed with the antiaircraft batteries, cutting through the incoming wave. The enemy’s formation was in shambles by the time it finished its run, and as they zipped past the bow of the ship, a few Hornets darted after them, taking them out from behind.

As soon as that wave was complete, another was inbound. These were directly in Buster’s sights. He launched a missile, taking out the lead fighter and letting the debris take out the two nearest it, then used his cannons to eliminate two more. The moment they were out of his range, they entered someone else’s, who inflicted similar damage.

Another run ended with similar results.

“It’s like they don’t know we’re here,” Slides said.

That was when Buster realized it. “They don’t. We’re so close to the ship’s hull, they can’t see us.”

It was just like their own computers. The Baranyk overwhelmed them by so many fighters, it didn’t even try and distinguish between them anymore. Maybe the Baranyk systems only saw what they thought was a single unprotected ship.

“It’s working, sir,” Buster said. “The enemy can’t distinguish between us and the Olympia’s hull. Their attacks are picking up in frequency, but we’re inflicting heavy casualties.”

“Interesting,” Captain Lozada said. “You’re sure they can’t see your fighters?”

“It appears that way, sir,” Buster said. “Might be worth trying with a few other ships and following their results.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Captain Lozada said.

“Yes, sir,” Buster said.

Even with the strategy working, it felt wrong sitting still during a battle. It went completely against everything he had ever been taught, but Buster couldn’t argue with the results. They were inflicting more damage and losing fewer ships in the process. Most importantly, the Olympia was taking less fire.

Another wave of fighters flew in, and again Buster’s Hornets held them at bay, except this time, he lost one to the ship’s antiaircraft batteries. Losing a ship to friendly fire pained him, but if they could coordinate their attacks so that the batteries stopped firing when the Hornets went into pursuit, then—

Something caught Buster’s eye. On the HUD, it appeared as a small change, but it represented a significant shift in the battle. The last of the green indicators at the rear of the enemy’s formation disappeared. What happened? How had the enemy eliminated them so fast?

Worse yet, the Baranyk capital ships that had broken away from the main formation were not returning to their previous positions. They were moving toward the moon.

Oh no.

Without the human ships, the moon would be almost completely undefended. Its orbital platforms and drone squadrons were all that was left to fight the enemy, and they weren’t going to be enough.

Buster cursed. Those ships were supposed to be the decisive blow, the move that shifted the tides of the battle into humanity’s hands. Instead, it had shifted the odds even further in the enemy’s direction.

As if sensing blood, the Baranyk attacked with more frequency and greater fervor. It took everything Buster could do to keep the fighters off the Olympia. They swooped in, spraying plasma fire down the Olympia’s length, taking out both Hornets and antiaircraft batteries alike. Hornets flew in pursuit, laying waste to formations and eliminating Baranyk fighters by the dozen, but the attacks came in so fast that the Hornets were unable to return to their position before the next wave was inbound.

It left the drones in a helpless position, and within moments, Buster’s air group was down half a flight’s worth of drones.

“Buster,” Slides said, an urgency in his voice that Buster hadn’t heard before. “The moon.”

Buster didn’t bother to look at his HUD. He angled his fighter so that it faced the moon itself. The Baranyk carriers were already in orbit, assaulting the moon directly. He was too far away to make out the Baranyk’s attacks, but the moon, normally a slate gray, was dotted with orange plumes.

“Fuck,” Buster said.

“Yeah,” Slides said.

They’d spent so much time protecting the Olympia, knowing that losing the ship meant they were gone too, but the moon base housed the equivalent of five ships of drones. Losing it was enough to knock them out of the fight altogether.

The orange plumes grew in size, expanding outward, engulfing the surface of the moon. Rock and debris shot up from its surface, escaping its low gravity and catapulting into space. The Baranyk carriers continued the onslaught, the moon’s orbital platforms long since dealt with and Hornets consumed by the horde of Baranyk fighters.

The moon and everything on it was lost.

New flashes of light pulled Buster’s attention from the moon. It was more plasma fire, but this was larger, thicker, more deadly. Buster’s heart sank even deeper. The Baranyk capital ships had entered firing range.

“What do we do?” Slides asked. He hadn’t even bothered to keep the channel private, asking the question so that the entire flight group could hear.

I don’t know. Buster didn’t know what to say.

Fortunately, the captain saved him.

“All fighters, return to base.” Lieutenant Mitchell was the Olympia’s communications officer. His word was the captain’s. “I repeat, all fighters return to base. This is a full-scale retreat.”

Buster remained still, dumbfounded. The early parts of the battle had been promising. They’d inflicted more damage than ever before. Destroyed more Baranyk ships and fighters than in any single battle in the war’s history. And it hadn’t been enough. Not nearly enough.

An explosion unlike Buster had ever seen lit the night sky. It was equal parts orange and white and followed by a concussive blast that he couldn’t tell if he heard through his radio or with his own ears. Massive chunks of rock exploded from the moon’s surface, and to Buster’s horror, the moon cracked like a broken egg.

They destroyed the moon. He couldn’t believe it. It was destruction on a scale he hadn’t known was possible. How many souls were down there? A hundred thousand? A million? More?

He felt hollow. Empty. Lifeless. What could they do in the face of that kind of firepower? He’d heard the word helpless before. Known in theory what it meant. But had never truly understood the full gravity of the term.

Helplessness wasn’t a feeling. It was a power that infested a person’s very soul, removing all semblance of control, shaking the very foundation on which they stood. To be helpless wasn’t to lose hope. It was to experience a life where hope had never existed in the first place.

“Buster.”

The word barely registered. All of his attention was focused on the expanding ring of debris that shot out from the moon.

“Buster.”

He blinked. The images of the moon were replaced by the incoming Baranyk vessels. They were close enough now that he could see them with his naked eye. He watched as the blue plasma fire pummeled toward them like a tsunami. There wasn’t a human force anywhere in the world strong enough to withstand that.

“Buster,” the voice came again. “Goddamn it, do you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

“We need to RTB.”

We.

Something about that word shook him, knocking him out of his daze.

We.

He glanced at his HUD, realizing that Slides hadn’t returned to base either.

“Buster.”

“I know.”

“Then let’s get our fighters onboard. Ships are retreating.”

So focused on the moon and incoming vessels, Buster hadn’t realized that their own forces were abandoning their positions. More than a third of their fleet had already disappeared, jumping to the predetermined fallback position.

“Do you think they’ll break the planet the same way they broke the moon?”

Slides let out a long sigh. “I don’t know. I hope not.”

“I hope not too.” It felt like a foolish thing to say. The words were almost meaningless when compared to the horror they’d just witnessed.

Buster keyed in the automated RTB sequence and pulled off his VR helmet. Somehow, even seeing the drone operation center with his naked eyes again, all he could see were the images of the moon breaking apart. He wiped the sweat off his forehead.

It had been a hard-fought battle. They’d inflicted heavy losses and made the Baranyk bleed. The enemy, in turn, had made the world burn.

37

Briefing Room, SAS Redemption

Distant Orbit, Baranyk Homeworld

“I called you all here,” Captain Coleman said from the head of the table, “because our reconnaissance drones have completed their initial sweep.”

Coda sat on the far end of the table, where Moscow had sat previously. He’d made it a point to give the acting CAG the chair nearest the captain. The rest of the executive staff—Commander Garcia, Commander Payton, and Dr. Naidoo—occupied their normal positions, and Phantom, the drone air group’s CAG, also joined them.

Coda absently ran a hand over the side of his face, touching the transmitters adhered to his temples. They felt weird, and he looked ridiculous, but they’d let him out of sick bay, so he couldn’t help but feel like they were worth it.

“We’ve encountered other Baranyk structures on other planets,” Captain Coleman continued. “And while this has many similarities, there are a few stark differences as well.” His eyes fell to Dr. Naidoo. “Doctor?”

“Thank you, sir.” She remained in her seat as a holographic projection appeared in the center of the table. White in color, the structure looked almost like a piece of sea coral and was nearly as wide as it was tall. “The Baranyk are ground-dwelling creatures, living in a complex hive made up of a series of tunnels and chambers. Like many insects found on Earth, they seem to be caste based, with workers, soldiers, harvesters, and many other types of roles. Their habitats are a direct reflection of these roles.”

She reached toward the hologram, her hands going directly into the middle of the projection, and stretched them apart. The image expanded, zooming in on a specific area of the structure near the top.

“The entrance to the structure is on the surface,” Dr. Naidoo continued. “Easily disguised as a small hill, this mound is actually the excess rock and soil dug from the chamber itself. Unlike other habitats we’ve encountered that seemed to be dug directly into a mountainside, similar to a human mine, these go almost immediately downward and branch out in multiple directions.”

She collapsed her hands, zooming out to the image’s original perspective, then found a different location to home in on. “So far, we’ve discovered what we think are chambers used for food and supply storage, new tunnels for the expansion of the habitat, egg storage, chambers for larvae and pupae, even nurseries for newly hatched Baranyk. Other chambers appear to be for nothing but waste. What we haven’t found is the Overlord himself or, quite honestly, any sign of him.”

Coda looked around the table. Most of the occupants were looking at the image, but a few others, like him, were interested in what the others made of the information first. Coda had his own set of questions but felt more like an outsider than he cared to admit. He wasn’t here to ask questions or come up with solutions. It was to understand the information and relay it as necessary.

“You said the structure was different from others we’ve encountered,” Moscow said. “How?”

“A couple different things immediately stand out,” Dr. Naidoo said. “First and foremost, the size of the structure is unlike anything we’ve ever seen. It dwarfs anything we’ve uncovered. This image doesn’t do it justice. What you see here represents thousands of kilometers of tunnels and chambers. The chambers themselves are the size of small cities, and, as you can see, there are dozens of them.”

Commander Garcia’s chair creaked underneath him. “Thousands of kilometers,” he repeated. “Chambers the size of cities. That must mean there are millions of Baranyk in there.” He looked around the table as if expecting someone to take his meaning.

“The structure is capable of housing millions of Baranyk,” Dr. Naidoo said. “Likely hundreds of millions, and I wouldn’t be surprised if this is only one habitat out of hundreds. But initial population estimates based on our scans come in significantly below that.”

“There’re fewer than we expected?” Commander Payton said.

“Yes. At least fewer fully matured Baranyk.”

“Where’d they go?” Moscow asked.

“We have no way to be certain,” Dr. Naidoo started, “but—”

“They’re attacking our forces at Tau Titus.”

Silence filled the room. The Baranyk had withdrawn from several systems, leaving behind planets and moons. The belief among Fleet Intelligence was that the enemy was consolidating their forces to assemble an overwhelming invasion fleet. Nobody had expected the enemy to throw nearly every living being at the Sol Fleet. If that were truly the case, that force had to be even larger than their most pessimistic approximation.

After several seconds, Dr. Naidoo continued. “Which is the other difference from other populations we’ve encountered. Most of those were evenly split between the working caste and the warrior caste. Here, we’ve uncovered almost no warrior caste. And even the worker caste is focused less on resource accumulation or habitat expansion than we’ve seen elsewhere. These workers are focused almost exclusively on replenishing their population.”

“Which may explain why our presence has so far gone unnoticed,” Captain Coleman said. “Between the battle at Tau Titus and the workers focused on their purpose, it seems the enemy is either distracted or doesn’t have the same resources to discover our presence.”

“How much longer until our scans are complete, sir?” Moscow asked. “I’d love to use this time to start running our pilots through various simulations.”

“The initial scans have already been uploaded directly into the simulator,” Captain Coleman said. “You can start running training scenarios and get your pilots used to flying through the tunnels now. But to your question, it could be some time. Days at least.”

Commander Garcia tapped his finger on the tabletop. “You said their warriors are with the invasion force. So, what’s stopping us from launching an offensive now and ending this thing?”

“We don’t know where the Overlord is hiding,” Captain Coleman said, “or even if he’s in this habitat. It may also be smaller than expected, but they still have a fighting force. And their workers are deadlier than I think the doctor is suggesting. As hard as it is, we need to be patient. As long as we remain undetected, we’ll use the time to plan the best possible strategy.”

Commander Garcia winced, and his tapping finger grew more urgent. “I don’t mean to contradict you, sir. But you know what our forces are up against. Every minute we wait, another human colony will fall. We don’t know how long our fleet can hold out.”

Captain Coleman stepped forward and placed his palms on the table. Coda expected him to be angry, but if anything, he seemed more resigned. “I know, Jaime. We know better than most. Which makes our mission here even more important. We may only get one shot at this. We can’t afford to screw it up.”

If Commander Garcia disagreed, he didn’t show it. Sometimes, Coda wondered if the Commander just voiced questions to voice them, not necessarily because he believed in them. This scenario was different, though. They all knew it because they all felt it. They were straddling the line between caution and aggression. Moving fast enough to save lives but not so fast that it would cost even more. Like many decisions in war, it was an impossible one.

“I’ve got a stupid question, sir,” Coda said. “But how long does it take for a Baranyk to grow?”

It was Dr. Naidoo who answered. “The complete metamorphosis takes about three months from egg to pupal stage. Then another three to mature into what we could call an adult.”

“And you said they were primarily focused on repopulating their habitat,” Coda said. “I’m assuming, then, that they have Baranyk at every stage of their metamorphosis?”

“Yes.”

“How many would you estimate?”

“I haven’t seen any hard data around it,” Dr. Naidoo said. “But if I had to guess, I’d say thousands. Maybe more.”

Coda’s eyes found Captain Coleman’s. The man stood straighter, grimacing. It seemed he came to the same conclusion Coda had. “So what you’re saying, Doctor, is that thousands of Baranyk are maturing as we sit here talking about it, with thousands more right behind them. And since most of their warriors are in the invasion fleet, there’s a high likelihood that those maturing Baranyk are warriors themselves.”

Dr. Naidoo sat back in her chair, her eyebrows knitted together. “I suppose that’s correct.”

Coda glanced around the table. Judging by the expressions on the rest of their faces, they had all arrived at the same conclusion. “Then it’s not only the Sol Fleet we need to be worried about. In days, we may be outnumbered ourselves.”

Captain Coleman folded his arms. “Thank you, Coda. But ticking clock or no, the plan remains the same. We let the drones complete their scans, locate the Overlord, and plan from there. In the meantime, Moscow and Phantom will run their pilots through the initial scans already loaded into the simulators. And you, Coda, have an assignment of your own.”

Coda nodded. It was time for him to play telephone. Hopefully, his father could help them locate the Overlord’s whereabouts and give them an update on the battle’s progress. With any luck, the human fleet was holding the Baranyk at bay, giving the Redemption the necessary time to be successful.

38

Sick Bay, SAS Redemption

Distant Orbit, Baranyk Homeworld

Coda lay on the hospital bed in the cordoned-off area of the medical ward, trying to act as if the nylon straps being fastened around his arms and legs didn’t bother him. His freedom, it appeared, was a thing of the past.

“We’re lucky accessing the Baranyk network isn’t like falling asleep,” Coda said. “Otherwise, I don’t think I’d be successful.” He pulled on the straps for full effect.

“Stop complaining,” Dr. Rydell said. “You know we hate to do this as much as you do.”

“I’m not sure that’s the case.”

“You know what I mean.”

He did and let the matter drop. It wasn’t the doctor’s fault, and he knew it. If he were being honest with himself, he didn’t even disagree with the decision, either. His father said there was no such thing as distance in the Baranyk network, but accessing it this close to the Overlord was testing that theory. For all they knew, he would be able to locate Coda more easily, maybe get to him even faster. Coda had no idea what the consequences would be if something like that happened.

“What time is it?” he asked, changing the subject.

Dr. Rydell looked at the digital clock in the corner of the room. “You have four minutes.”

“Okay.” Coda had a notion to join the network early but knew that was a mistake. His instructions were clear: join the network at the designated time and not a moment before. They needed to take every possible measure to reduce the likelihood that the Overlord would discover them.

Bound to the bed, electric diodes stuck to his head and chest monitoring his every move, Coda felt his heart begin to race. It wasn’t the anxious energy he usually got before a flight. This was different. This was fear of the unknown. He closed his eyes and steadied his breathing, willing his body to relax. Someone had once told him that if he could control his breathing, then he could control his body. It wasn’t as simple as that, but it helped.

When he opened his eyes, Dr. Rydell was holding a needle and filling the syringe with a clear fluid. That was certainly not helping.

“What’s that?” Coda asked.

“Propofol,” Dr. Rydell said. “Just a general anesthesia in case something happens while you’re… gone.”

She placed the syringe on the metal table beside his bed and gave him a reassuring smile. “Ready?”

“No,” Coda said, half joking.

“You’ll do fine, and if anything goes wrong, I’m here.”

He didn’t know what she would do if something went awry, but knowing that he wasn’t alone was comforting.

“Thank you,” Coda said then closed his eyes.

Joining the Baranyk network didn’t require falling asleep, but the act of connecting was similar. Reducing visual and auditory distractions was helpful. Exhaling, he let his body relax, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. Then he just… let himself go.

One moment, he was strapped to the hospital bed. The next, he was elsewhere. His consciousness swam in what looked like a sea of stars, except Coda knew that every one of those lights was actually another consciousness. Even the larger stars reminiscent of distant galaxies were actually collections of consciousnesses.

There was a certain kind of uniformity in the Baranyk network since it was made up predominantly of Baranyk. As he had learned to do, Coda sought the ones that didn’t belong. In a way he didn’t understand, he was given a sense of direction. Trusting in that feeling, he followed it and found a distant light doing the same. Without knowing how, Coda knew that other light was both his destination and his contact.

As they came together, something more familiar replaced the image of the network. He was aboard the bridge of a ship reminiscent of the Redemption, though showing more signs of age. The bridge was a three-ringed structure, with its center occupied by a large battle map. The various stations were lit up with green, yellow, and red indicators. Even the battle map had images on it.

Coda decided this was the Abraham Lincoln. It made sense since that was where his father was… stationed wasn’t the right word. Held? Imprisoned?

“You made it.”

Coda spun, finding his father behind him. He looked better and more rested in the network than when Coda had last seen him. The dark circles were gone, and he was less gaunt. Despite everything they had been through, he wore a warm smile, which Coda returned. In that moment, all of his anxiety disappeared.

Coda gave him a big hug, slapping his father on the back for full effect. “It’s good to see you,” he said into his ear. “How are they treating you?”

“As well as can be expected. And you? You made it to the home world.” It wasn’t a question. Somehow, his father already knew—a byproduct of the network? “Were you detected? Tell me everything.”

“No,” Coda said, then he quickly recounted their jump and initial actions since entering Baranyk space, including the drone deployment and their initial scans.

“Then it worked.” Joseph sounded surprised.

“So far,” Coda said. “Tell me how you’ve been. You said they’re treating you okay—are you still in a cell, or did they give you your own quarters?”

His father waved away the questions. “I’m sorry, Callan. We don’t have time. I won’t risk an extra second here if we can avoid it. Tell me about the scans.”

“But—”

“The scans, Callan. Everything you can remember.”

Coda let out a frustrated sigh, but he recounted the general design, population numbers, and structure of the hive.

“Interesting,” Joseph said. “These… chambers. They’re vertical? As in the deeper the chamber, the more mature the Baranyk?”

Coda thought back to the image. They hadn’t talked about that explicitly, but as Dr. Naidoo had explained the drone findings, he thought that was what she had alluded to. “I believe so. Why?”

“That makes sense.” He said the words almost to himself. He sat in a nearby chair behind one of the terminals, his eyes distant. “The eggs are the easiest to replenish, then the larvae and pupae. The layers add protection.”

“What are you talking about?” Coda asked.

Joseph leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes met Coda’s. “I’ve tried to determine where the Overlord is but can’t find anything. I know he’s there, but it’s like he’s hiding from me. If what you’re saying is correct, though, he’s going to be well below the surface.”

“How do you know that?”

“Look around, Coda.” He gestured at the bridge around them. “Where is the ship’s bridge located?”

Coda followed his gesture, taking in the sight. He hadn’t spent a lot of time on the bridge, but unlike the ready room and barracks, the bridge wasn’t located near the exterior of the ship.

“It’s in the center of the ship,” Coda said.

“Why?”

“I…” The ready room and barracks were located next to the hangar bay, allowing the pilots to man their ships and take flight as fast as possible. The bridge was located in the center of the ship… “Because that’s where it’s the most protected.”

“Exactly.” His father began to pace the upper ring of the bridge. “We’re in the bowels of the ship, protected by dozens of floors, quite literally as far from enemy fire and vacuum as possible. If we apply the same logic to the Baranyk, that means the Overlord is going to be in one of the lowermost chambers.”

“If that’s true, then it’s going to be a hell of a lot more difficult to get to him,” Coda said, thinking about flying through the tunnels. They may have been large enough to allow for hundreds of Baranyk to move through them at once, like an underground highway of sorts, but even a “large” tunnel would be challenging to navigate when flying at hundreds of kilometers an hour.

“Which is precisely the point.” Joseph placed his hands on Coda’s shoulders and gave him a smile. “Thank you, Callan. I’ll use this and see if it helps me find him. Now, we need to go.”

“Go?” Coda said. “We just got here.”

“Like I said, I don’t want to be here for an extra second if it can be avoided. You gave me what I needed. Now, we need to leave before we’re detected.”

“But…” The whole situation felt incredibly unfair. He could attend briefings, but he didn’t have any authority. They could block the Baranyk signal, but he couldn’t fly. He could see his father, but he couldn’t spend any real time with him. “You have what you need, but I don’t.”

“Okay, Callan.” His father took a step back and crossed his arms. “What do you need to know?”

“Several things,” Coda said. “How’d the battle go, for one?”

“Not good,” his father said with a grimace. “We came out swinging and bloodied their nose, but their numbers were too much. The fleet has retreated. The Tau Titus system is lost.”

“Retreated?”

They had been able to scout the tunnels and chambers without detection in part because the Overlord had been distracted. If the battle was already lost, what did that mean for the Redemption?

“We haven’t lost yet,” his father clarified. “The fleet is regrouping, preparing to fight at another location. I don’t know if it’ll be enough, but we can slow them. Which is why it’s so critical the Overlord doesn’t find us. Every moment his eye is directed elsewhere is another moment we can take advantage of. Is that everything you need to know?”

Coda wanted to get his father’s take on the countersignal the captain had devised but decided against it. He wasn’t convinced his father would have anything more than a guess, and his father was paranoid about the Overlord secretly listening in on their conversation. If that were the case, this was an ace he wanted to keep up his sleeve.

“Yes,” Coda said reluctantly. He hated to leave so soon, but there was little he could do to keep his father around. Better to end on good terms than push and have it end poorly. “It was good to see you.”

“It was good to see you too, son. I’m sorry to be so short. This is the way it must be. Short and to the point now, to give us more time in the future.”

“I know.”

“Don’t ever forget that, Coda. We fight to give everyone the same thing that’s been taken from us.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.” Joseph gave him another smile then brought him in for a final hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Hopefully, I’ll have better news.”

“Sounds good,” Coda said. “Goodbye, Dad.”

“Goodbye, son.”

Coda disconnected from the Baranyk network and opened his eyes. The harsh white light of sick bay burned his eyes, and it took several moments for him to blink away his disorientation. When he came to, Captain Coleman was standing beside the doctor.

He tried to sit up, but the binds held him firmly in place.

“Coda?” Captain Coleman asked.

“It’s me, sir,” Coda said, his voice oddly strained. “Forgot I was bound.”

“Release him,” Captain Coleman said.

Dr. Rydell started on the binds, beginning with the ones around his arms and chest first. Once they were off, Coda sat up, rubbing the raw skin of his wrists.

“Were you successful?” Captain Coleman asked.

“Yes, sir,” Coda said. “He hasn’t found the Overlord yet, but our intel was helpful, and he hopes to have a better update tomorrow.”

The captain’s face remained hard, as if chiseled from granite. Coda knew he was disappointed, his stress factor going up by a factor of ten, but the captain internalized it better than anyone he had ever met. “And the battle?”

“Lost,” Coda said. “Our forces were overwhelmed. They retreated and are reassembling to prepare for another stand.”

He thought he saw an almost imperceptible shake of the head. “Thank you, Coda.”

“Is that all, sir?”

“For now,” Captain Coleman said. “Get some rest. There’s no telling how much opportunity you will get in the coming days.”

39

Mess Hall, SAS Olympia

Rendezvous Point, Human Controlled Space

Buster sat alone in the mess hall. It was alive with more conversation than usual, though he didn’t take part in any of it.

The fallout from the defeat at Tau Titus had hit the Olympia hard, and in the days since, Buster had realized there were two common responses to a defeat like that. Some wallowed in the loss, overwhelmed by negative thoughts and feelings, overcome by the sheer impossibility of the situation. Others became loud and boisterous in attempt to make up for the feelings of defeat from the others. They were two ends of the spectrum in a constant battle with each other.

Buster was closer to the former, though he thought of himself as introspective rather than defeated. Overcome with what-ifs. Brainstorming ways to learn from the past to better prepare for the future. The process had so far netted nothing of substance. So it was that he sat alone and quiet in a room full of people and conversation.

“Orders are coming soon,” Kane said. He was a fellow pilot. Not anyone of any particular renown, a solid if unspectacular pilot who would always have a spot in the fleet’s drone squadrons.

“Who’d you hear that from?” Casper asked. Like Kane, he was a pilot in Buster’s squadron. His complexion, or the complete lack thereof, had inspired his call sign. It was one step north of albino, and the squadron often gave him shit, saying if he wasn’t careful, he would get a sunburn from the ship’s interior lights.

“Everyone is talking about it,” Kane said as if that answered everything.

“I haven’t heard anything.”

“Everyone important.”

“Fuck off.”

The other pilots at the table laughed, though more than one looked in Buster’s direction as if silently waiting for him to confirm or deny the rumor. He remained silent, letting the two pilots who seemed to be in the middle of most things see the conversation through to its end.

Kane set down his fork on the plastic tray and looked at Casper, who sat across the table. “Think about it,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “The admiral’s brass may have positioned the last battle as exactly that… the last battle. But he knew what we were up against and would have had contingencies. He didn’t just prepare for a loss. He planned for it.”

“Then what the hell happened at Tau Titus?” Casper pressed. “You going to say that was part of the plan too?”

“Of course not,” Kane said. “But that was just the opening round to a five-round fight. We got bloodied a bit, but we landed a couple good blows too, and the fight is just beginning.”

“I don’t know,” Casper said.

Buster had heard a hundred such conversations echoed in the corridors, mess hall, ready room, gym, and other communal spaces, always refusing to take part in any of them. On one level, it was his job to keep his pilots in fighting shape, but on another, his pilots needed an opportunity to vent, to comprehend, and to process what they were up against. The same way he was.

“I heard the Baranyk tore through the Molaran and Elea systems.” The voice came from Leather this time, who sat at the other end of the table. Having grown up on a ranch, her skin was thick and shared the same color as her call sign’s namesake.

“Rumor is the Sutalia is gone too,” Tiny said. His voice was deep, the spoon he held in his hand small. His was the best kind of call sign: ironic, sarcastic, and completely at odds with his physically imposing frame.

“Where’d you hear that?” Leather asked.

Tiny shrugged. “Around.”

They all seemed to take that as gospel. Truth be told, there were enough rumors aboard the ship that if they were sperm, everyone would have been impregnated.

“Whatever,” Kane said. “We’re going to stop them this time. I’m telling you.”

He was met with halfhearted agreement before a second silence fell over the table. That had been the rhythm of conversation since the battle at Tau Titus. Truth and rumor, followed by bravado and contemplation. Everyone knew the odds they faced, and nobody truly believed they’d overcome them. Not without anything short of a miracle.

Buster dropped his fork onto his tray and stood. Though no one had voiced it, they should have received their orders already. Every minute they waited, another system fell. Even if they somehow slowed the Baranyk or even stopped them, they’d still lost half their systems. It would take decades to recover. And the longer the admiral let the rumors persist, the worse the morale would become.

The others seemed to think he knew more than he was letting on, and he could feel their eyes as he walked away. It was a difficult place to be. His pilots looked to him for answers that he didn’t have and encouragement he wasn’t sure he felt. He just felt… lost.

The Baranyk’s show of force was unlike anything he’d ever seen or witnessed. It caused terror on a scale he hadn’t known existed.

Buster emptied his tray into the compost and recycling receptacles and exited the mess hall. The immediate quiet of the corridor was refreshing and better matched his introspective mood. He chose a direction and went, no destination in mind, just content to be moving. Since the battle at Tau Titus, he couldn’t sit still for too long. The Forgotten talked about speed being life. Stillness was death. So as long as they kept moving, they had a chance. Such a simple thought yet impossible in reality.

Buster didn’t need to receive the new orders. He already knew how the rest of the war would be fought. Minor skirmishes would draw the enemy fleet farther into human space, cutting them off from resources and supply lines. Then they would flank the enemy with a series of hit-and-run maneuvers, whittling down their strength while incurring as few losses of their own as possible. Death by a thousand cuts. Until the forces were more equally matched and humanity could present a last stand. Did they have enough ground to give up for the tactic to work, though?

Unsurprisingly, Buster’s feet led him to the drone operation center. No simulations were scheduled for the moment, but the room was full, nearly every seat taken. Buster stepped into the room, letting the door close behind him, but didn’t venture farther.

On the battle map, dozens of Hornets took on a force fifty times its size. For several minutes, Buster watched as the Hornets cut, swerved, dove, and sliced through enemy formations, laying waste to enemy fighters with cannon fire, missiles, and sheer bravery. For every drone they lost, they eliminated ten enemy combatants. By the time the simulation was over, they’d cut the enemy force in half. The pilots who’d been plugged in removed their helmets, smiling as they wiped sweat-slicked hair back, and talked animatedly about what they’d learned and what the spectators had seen.

The simple scene knocked the breath from him. Humans may bitch and complain, talk, shout, and argue, sink into a morose state, and attempt to overcome it with overconfident bravado, but they never gave up. There was a spark that could never be extinguished. And as long as they had that spark, they stood a chance. They were still moving. They were still alive.

Buster straightened his back and took a purposeful stride forward. “That was impressive. One of the best displays I’ve seen. How did you do it?”

The pilots were excited and talked over each other. That made it hard to get a cohesive story, but Buster wasn’t about to negate their enthusiasm. Over the course of several minutes, he stitched together what they’d done.

They’d used a combination of formations to attack the heart of enemy swarms, plunging in like a knife digging into the chest of an enemy. Then they would twist, increasing the damage. And they had other ideas—ways they could feint, counter, and press advantages. Buster didn’t tell them to keep it up; he didn’t have to. They were already too eager to try.

Buster stayed with them well into the night, watching simulation after simulation, participating in more than a few. By the time he turned in for the night, he felt more optimistic than he had at any other point.

Shortly after he closed his eyes, he received an emergency communication. They’d received their orders. Their next battle would occur the following day at 1800 hours.

40

Drone Operation Center, SAS Redemption

Distant Orbit, Baranyk Homeworld

Coda stepped into the Redemption’s drone operation center with Moscow, Squawks, and Nails, ready to watch the drone pilots run through their first training scenario. Rings of individual operation bays rose from the deck to the ceiling, circling a large display at the center of the room.

Moscow stood under the display, with Phantom at his shoulder. He was a large man, over two meters with broad shoulders and a thick chest that made Moscow look small by comparison. It was the type of physique that never would have fit inside a real cockpit. The pilots, ninety-six of them in all, were already settled into their bays, ready to plug in after the CAG’s address.

“The geographic information has already been uploaded into the simulator,” Phantom said. “It’s still based on preliminary scans, so don’t expect this to be your flight path in the real mission. The goal is to get used to flying in atmo and confined spaces. For the purposes of this training scenario, our objective is to destroy Target Designation Alpha at the end of a series of tunnels and chambers, using traditional missiles. You will be flying your own mission, nobody on your wing and no formations. The pilot who destroys the target the fastest and escapes with their drone intact will be the winner of the training hop. Any questions?”

Phantom scanned the room as if looking for a hand or someone standing. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Sir,” a voice said from the third tier of fighter bays. “Will there be enemy contacts in this scenario?”

“No,” Phantom said. “As I said, the purpose is to get you familiar with the specific challenges of the mission. We’ll add enemy fighters to future simulations.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“We’re simulating a drone control distance of two hundred fifty thousand kilometers from the planet, which equates to just over eight-tenths of a second of lag time. This has already been calculated in the scenario.”

Coda looked for any signs of frustration, but the pilots took the words as a statement of fact, nothing to get worked up about. Dealing with lag time was just part of flying a drone fighter, the same way managing G’s was for a Nighthawk pilot. If he had to choose, he would choose G’s every time.

“And while this is a competition of sorts,” Phantom continued, “I want you to approach the scenario as preparation. Experiment. Push yourself. But do so gradually. I want to know what speeds you’re comfortable at and how far you can push it. We can’t measure our improvement if we don’t know our baseline. And we can’t improve if we don’t know our weaknesses. Let’s get started.”

They drilled for two hours before taking a break. By then, Coda had taken up station in one of the seats that surrounded the battle map but wasn’t a part of an operation bay. From his vantage, the pilots seemed to be flying tentatively. Their commander had given them an opportunity to play it safe, and they had done just that.

“They look like they’re flying with training wheels,” Squawks said quietly but not so quiet that those nearest him couldn’t hear.

“They’re stuck in first gear,” Nails added.

“They’ve barely been trained for this,” Coda said. “Give it time.”

Phantom pulled up the results from each pilot, displaying it on the battle map. He sorted the information by call sign, quickest time to target, and average attack time. All were significantly below the target time.

“That’s not good enough,” Moscow said to the other Nighthawk pilots. “If there’d been enemy fighters or defensive turrets, they’d all have been destroyed before they ever made it to the target.”

Phantom cast a wary eye toward the group of Nighthawk pilots, clearly worried about their opinions. He tried to remain positive. “Okay, we have a baseline. It’s time to push it. The target time for this hop is nine minutes, and nobody came in under twelve. We have to do better.”

If the pilots had been expecting a longer break, they were sorely disappointed. For the next hour, they repeated the training scenario. It was clear they were flying with more urgency now, and those who completed the scenario did so faster than before. The consequence was more fighters crashed into the tunnel walls as well. And none came close to the target time Phantom had set.

Moscow groaned when Phantom put up the performance numbers again. This time, the other CAG had had enough.

“Do you have something you want to say, Lieutenant?” Phantom asked.

“Nothing you haven’t already said,” Moscow said, taking the diplomatic route.

“Which is what, exactly?” Phantom asked, not ready to let him off the hook.

“They’re not fast enough,” Moscow said. “Even in atmo, the Hornets are capable of much faster speeds. What’s the issue?”

There were quiet grumblings throughout the operation center, but nobody braved an answer.

“I’m serious,” Moscow pressed. “I haven’t flown a Hornet in a while. What am I missing?”

“It’s the lag time, sir,” one of the pilots finally said. “It’s too much.”

Moscow turned toward the voice. “Two hundred fifty thousand kilometers is nothing. You’ve faced worse.”

The statement wasn’t exactly true. Most of the drone pilots aboard the Redemption were first-year pilots fresh out of the academy. But to Moscow’s point, they at least would have trained for more difficult situations.

“Yes, sir,” the pilot said. “But that was in the emptiness of space. This is different. There are too many turns and choke points. If this was our flight path, then yes, I’d feel confident we could learn and adapt. But if your goal is to understand the limitations, I’m telling you lag time is an issue.”

Moscow frowned and looked at Phantom for his assessment.

“Is it possible to get closer?” Phantom asked.

“Anything closer, and we’ll be inside the moon’s orbit,” Moscow said. “Strategically, it creates a blind spot and exposes our flank. But let’s see what it does.”

Phantom gave the pilots a twenty-minute break while he and Moscow updated the scenario so that the Redemption was one hundred fifty thousand kilometers from the planet. Then he ran the pilots through another hour’s worth of exercises. It was clear the shorter lag time made a difference, but they were still slower than expected.

Moscow raked his fingers through his hair, clearly frustrated. He looked to Coda, Squawks, and Nails for support, but if anyone had any new ideas, they kept them to themselves.

“That was obviously better,” Phantom said. “Times are down across the board, but we’re still not where we need to be. Tell me what you’re seeing. What you’re feeling.”

“The lag time is still too much,” the same pilot said. “At five hundred kilometers an hour, we’re covering one hundred forty meters in half a second. That’s longer than some of these tunnels. We quite literally can’t navigate our fighters in time if we move too fast.”

Phantom and his pilots began talking about reprogramming the scenario with a distance of fifty thousand kilometers. It didn’t matter that the majority of Baranyk fighters were with the invasion fleet; the captain would never agree to such a close orbit. Being that close to the planet would expose them to the entire might of the Baranyk’s defensive forces. They needed another way.

“This is a job for the Forgotten,” Coda said, finally voicing what he’d been thinking all along.

“No shit,” Squawks said.

“You just now realizing that?” Nails chided.

“No,” Coda said. “But at least now we know for sure.”

“And wasted a full afternoon,” Nails said.

“It’s not a waste if they’ve proven they can’t do it,” Coda said. “All the captain needs is a frame of reference.”

“What do you mean?” Squawks asked.

Coda smiled, the idea crystalizing in his mind. He had another meeting with his father in a few hours and a briefing with the captain after that. If they were correct, then he would have his frame of reference, and the captain would be reminded of what the Forgotten were truly capable of.

“Follow me,” Coda said.

41

Simulation Room, SAS Redemption

Distant Orbit, Baranyk Homeworld

“Clear the room,” Moscow said as they entered the Nighthawk simulation room.

Only a handful of pilots were in the room. None of them were in the simulators. Hearing the no-nonsense tone in Moscow’s voice, they vacated the room quickly and without a word.

Coda wasted little time making for the control terminal on the wall near the display. “Who wants to go first?”

“This was your idea,” Moscow said.

“I’m not on the flight roster,” Coda said.

“Irrelevant,” Moscow said. “If your point is that the Nighthawks can perform the mission faster and cleaner, then it doesn’t matter if you’re on the roster or not. And that is your point, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Then get in the simulator,” Moscow said.

He and Moscow often skirted the line between friend and subordinate, but there was no mistaking Moscow’s tone. It was a direct order, and Coda had no intention of disobeying.

“Yes, sir.” Coda failed to keep the excitement out of his voice. He knew that posting the best time wouldn’t get him into the cockpit any sooner, but it felt good to be doing something other than playing telephone.

There was no question who would occupy the other simulator. Moscow strode toward it, clearly ready to take on Coda for old times’ sake. Nails and Squawks rolled the two ladders into place and helped Coda and Moscow get set up.

Coda ducked between the rotating arms of the gyroscope, stepping into the cockpit at the center of the simulator, and settled into the gel seat. It was a far cry from the seat of his Nighthawk, but he had cut his teeth in these simulators and earned his position among the Forgotten. It was home in the way a childhood house was home. Something he would always look back on fondly, even if he had moved onto bigger and better things.

“Just like we said to the drone pilots,” Coda said, “don’t worry about time—not yet. More than anything, I want to know if this is even possible.”

“Forget that,” Squawks said. “Speed is life, and there’s no way the two of you are going to do this without a little competition.”

Coda waited for Moscow to correct him. When it didn’t come, Squawks’s smile consumed his entire face. Coda knew that smile too well—nothing good ever came after it.

“Moscow, what do you say to a little bet?” Squawks asked.

“What do you have in mind?” Moscow asked, sliding on his flight helmet.

“Well, my money is on Coda,” Squawks said. “And if I win, I don’t have to fly CAP for a month.”

“Their wingman either,” Nails said, making sure she was included in any of Squawks’s winnings.

Moscow barked a laugh. “Well, if I win, you’re doing my sensitivity trainings for me.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Nails asked.

“Deal,” Squawks said before Moscow could think twice, then winked at Coda.

Coda couldn’t help but laugh. The fact that Squawks was betting on his rusty abilities hadn’t gone unnoticed. Though he’d told his friend they needed the fast-talking, fast-flying version of Squawks back, he didn’t know how much of this was Squawks’s natural bravado and how much was him forcing the issue. Either way, it was nice to see his playful side coming back.

“All right,” Coda said. “Let’s see what we can do.”

“You better win,” Squawks said.

“No pressure,” Nails added.

Coda slid on his flight helmet and punched the button to begin the simulation. It started the same way the Hornet simulations had. Coda’s Nighthawk raced across a rocky landscape, flying low enough to kick up dust and debris. His seat vibrated, simulating the feel of the engine. The ground was the color of dead grass, with no sign of vegetation anywhere. The cloudy sky had a yellow hue. It was as if the planet itself was dead, a yellow version of Mars before humanity had terraformed it.

Ahead of him was what looked like a large round hill, though he knew otherwise. Like a mole- or anthill, it was the dirt and rock that had been dug out of the landscape to create the tunnels and chambers underground. Coda couldn’t help but reflect on how large the underground habitat must be for that much rock and soil to have been dug out.

Coming to the base of the hill, Coda pulled back on his joystick, raising the nose cone to the sky, and raced to the summit. Once clear of the top of the hill, he performed an inverted dive and spun into the entrance. He couldn’t see it, but the gyroscope rotated, simulating the move. It left him facing toward the deck, hanging, held in place by his flight harness.

Blood rushed into his face, and his breath became more restricted as darkness washed over his Nighthawk. The four headlamps, two mounted on either side of the Nighthawk’s nose cone and two more on the edges of Coda’s wings, did little to penetrate the darkness, barely lighting the area immediately in front of them.

Toggling the appropriate setting on his HUD, Coda activated his computer-aided sight. His fighter’s computer took constant readings from the ship’s radar and lidar systems and turned them into a visual in the same way infrared showed heat.

The tunnel’s rough walls were pockmarked, worn by time and water, and of varying widths and depths. Stalagmites and stalactites lined the tunnel’s ground and ceiling, sometimes reaching into the middle of the tunnel itself.

With his vision improved, Coda pushed the throttle and ripped through the tunnel. Weaving around obstacles, he grinned as his simulator swayed and spun, speeding ever downward. He barely had time to register the solid wall in front of him. Relying more on reflex than anything, he engaged the air brakes, increasing drag and reducing speed, then pulled back on his joystick.

The harness dug into his shoulders again, simulating the feel of dramatically reducing speed as his fighter rocketed through the tunnel and into one of the large chambers. Coda let out a strained breath as the harness relaxed, glancing at the map as he sped through the chamber. Although the tunnel had been going downward, the chamber extended horizontally.

Coda punched the throttle, accelerating through the chamber, which was the length of a small city. The simulation was programmed to include only the tunnels and chambers themselves. Coda thought back to the purpose of this particular chamber. Some sort of communal area? The other chambers for supply storage, egg storage, and nurseries were deeper in the habitat.

“Pick up the pace, Coda,” Squawks said. “You’re losing.”

Coda had no idea if Squawks was telling the truth or not, but he pushed the pace anyway. He may not have anything on the line, but he hated losing. And to Moscow most of all.

Coming up on the far wall of the chamber, Coda spun his Nighthawk so that his cockpit faced the ground, then he pulled back on the joystick as he came to the next tunnel’s opening. The maneuver brought him into the tunnel without shedding speed. This one was narrower and more rugged than the previous one, and Coda darted around obstacles, trusting his instincts.

He continued like that, zipping through tunnels, emptying into chambers, increasing thrust when he could, slowing down only when he had to. He cut through switchbacks, swerved around stalagmites, and dove ever downward, venturing deeper and deeper into the tunnel system, until finally, he reached his destination.

His objective was little more than a massive Baranyk skeleton that wasn’t even programmed to move. Coda fired. His cockpit bucked as the digital missile rocketed away, streaking smoke toward the Overlord. It connected with a massive explosion that rocked his cockpit, but he was already shedding speed, attempting to swerve around and exit the way he had entered before the explosion consumed his fighter.

The image dissolved, the simulation over.

“What happened?” Moscow said. “The mission wasn’t over.”

“Coda won,” Squawks said, triumph in his voice. “The target was destroyed. And I don’t have to fly CAP.”

Coda removed his flight helmet and wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his arm. “How’d we do?”

“A full one minute and seventeen seconds faster than the fastest Hornet,” Nails said.

“Not bad,” Squawks said. “I’m sure I could have done better, but at least you didn’t embarrass yourself like Moscow. He looked like he was flying with his eyes closed.”

“Careful. I am still your commanding officer,” Moscow said, though there was no mirth in his voice.

“You think that was enough to take to the captain?” Nails asked.

“Maybe,” Moscow said. “We’ve proven we can fly faster than the Hornets. Let’s see what a couple more runs can do.”

“Agreed,” Coda said. Every moment he spent in the simulator, flying with his squadron mates, was a blessing, and he wasn’t about to give it up.

“Double or nothing?” Squawks asked as Coda slipped his flight helmet on again.

“Keep talking, and you’ll be my latrine queen,” Moscow said.

Coda laughed as he hit the button to initialize the simulation.

42

Baranyk Network,

Unknown

“We don’t have much time,” Coda’s father said the moment their meeting began.

“Why?” Coda asked. “What’s wrong?”

His father looked over his shoulder as if expecting the Overlord to appear at any moment. The action sent a chill down Coda’s spine. He checked their surroundings too, scratching the back of his neck nervously.

They were back at the baseball stadium where they’d first reconnected. It was a smaller venue with only fifteen to twenty rows of seating rising from the field. The kind where the local team lived and played in the community, the proximity to the field making it feel like the spectators were out there with them. But without spectators, the empty seats and press boxes left an eerie feeling, casting long shadows that played games with Coda’s imagination.

“The fleet is moving,” Joseph said. “The next battle will begin within the hour.”

“Already?” Coda had spoken with his father twice since their initial meeting, but he hadn’t said anything about the next battle being imminent. “At least that’ll give us a chance to scout more.”

“No need for that,” his father said. “I found him.”

“You—”

“Yes.” His father’s eyes kept darting around the stadium. “No talking. No questions. Just listen.” Even his words were sharp. “In the northern hemisphere around the forty-fifth parallel is another hive. He’s there. But, Coda, it’s one of their oldest colonies, deeper than anything you have explored, and well defended.”

“How do you know?”

“We don’t have time for that.” Joseph shot a look over Coda’s shoulder then spun, looking behind himself. His breathing was quick, and Coda thought he saw the shine of sweat on his forehead. He hadn’t known it was possible to sweat in the Baranyk network. “I think he saw me. He knows I found him.”

Coda took an involuntary step back. “Then he knows we’re coming. He might move. Might hide.”

“Like I said, we don’t have much time.”

“I have to—”

Joseph held up a hand, cutting Coda off, then spun.

Coda followed his eyes, hearing before seeing anything.

Click. Click. Click. Slow and menacing, it was the sound of something hard on concrete. Click. Click. Scraaaaape.

His father took a step back, his hands finding Coda and pushing him behind his back, protecting him in the way a father does.

Then the sound was behind them. Click. Click.

Coda spun, placing his back to his father’s. Rising from the stairs was a hulking black mass, sharp mandibles jutting forward as if reaching for them, and a triangular head appraising its prey.

“Coda…”

“We’re surrounded.”

“Get out!” his father yelled. “Disconnect!”

Coda slammed his eyes shut, trying to let his consciousness wash away, but the fear was too strong. “I can’t!”

“You have to!”

“I can’t!”

Coda opened his eyes. A second Baranyk warrior was climbing the stairs now, directly behind the first. They fanned out, taking away any hope of escape. Coda risked a glance behind him, and his blood went cold. The Baranyk approaching from the other side was twice the size of the others, with silver streaks across its dark carapace.

The Overlord.

“It’s not real,” his father said. “The fear. The adrenaline. The blood pounding through your veins. It’s not real. Just let yourself go. I’m right behind you.”

Coda whipped his head back around just as the two Baranyk warriors lunged, mandibles pointed directly at his chest. He dove to the side without thought, landing hard on his shoulder, and rolled down the aisle toward the field. Coda scrambled to his feet, surprised that the two Baranyk warriors hadn’t pursued him down the aisle.

His father screamed.

No.

The Baranyk warriors that hadn’t followed Coda down the aisle had attacked the unprotected back of Coda’s father. Two mandibles had torn through his back and chest and held him a meter off the ground. His father flailed, legs kicking in agony, bloody spittle coating his lips.

The Overlord continued his meticulous approach, his triangular head tilting to the side as if appraising its prey. Joseph let out a defiant roar and spat in his direction.

Coda stood frozen in place. He couldn’t just leave his father to his fate, but there were four Baranyk warriors plus the Overlord, and Coda didn’t have any sort of weapon. He wasn’t just outmatched; he was hopelessly outnumbered… just like their fleet.

“Go!” The word was little more than a growl. Spoken in the Overlord’s direction, it took Coda a moment to realize it was directed at him. “Go.”

Coda stepped backward involuntarily. It took everything he had to take a second step and a third, slowly moving away from the scene. His father was being left behind again. Only this time, it wasn’t the fleet abandoning him. It was his own son.

Joseph didn’t so much as look at him. Deep down, Coda knew it was to keep the Baranyk’s attention off him for as long as possible and give him a chance to escape, but it still hurt. He took a shuddering breath, willing his body through a relaxation exercise as he slowly descended the stairs.

Another step.

His foot slipped on the edge of the stairs with an audible scrape.

The rearmost Baranyk warrior whipped its head around and charged.

Coda let out a resigned breath and closed his eyes, letting himself go. The last thing he heard was the clicking of the Baranyk’s legs as it raced down the concrete stairs.

43

Sick Bay, SAS Redemption

Distant Orbit, Baranyk Homeworld

Coda’s eyes snapped open. The light was blinding. He blinked, trying to force his eyes to adjust. Something held him down. He fought. Flailed. Screamed.

“Easy, Coda.” The voice came from a dark shadow that loomed over him.

“No!” Coda screamed. “No!”

“Easy.” The voice was soft and consoling but tinged with worry.

“They have him!” Coda said.

“It’s okay, Coda. You’re safe now.”

“You don’t understand!” Coda strained his arms and legs, trying to pry himself from the hospital bed they’d strapped him to. “They have him!”

Why isn’t anyone listening?

The shadow moved. “We need to sedate him,” the shadow said. Female. Dr. Rydell.

“You think he’s under their control?”

“I don’t know, but we have to be sure.”

“No!” Coda screamed. “You don’t understand. They have him. They have my father.”

Something about the room’s dynamic changed. The chatter silenced, and an eerie quiet settled over the room. The shadow returned. Coda’s eyes had adjusted enough to make out Dr. Rydell’s features.

“What did you say?” Dr. Rydell asked.

Coda forced himself to take a breath, to bring himself under control. “I said they have him. The Overlord appeared and attacked us. The captain has to know.”

Dr. Rydell looked up to the second occupant in the room. Coda tried to follow her gaze, but his angle on the hospital bed made it impossible.

“Get Captain Coleman on the line,” Dr. Rydell said.

* * *

Captain Coleman marched into sick bay. As usual, they had Coda segregated from the rest of the patients in a cordoned-off area at the back of the room. One of the curtains had been pulled half open, allowing him a glimpse of Dr. Rydell, who stood at Coda’s feet. Oddly, he still looked to be restrained.

“What happened?” Captain Coleman asked as he stepped through the opening.

Coda lay flat on his back, thick straps fastening his ankles, wrists, chest, and head to the hospital bed. His eyes were wide, red, and frantic, darting to Coleman the moment he stepped into his view.

“Why is my pilot still restrained?”

“Sir,” Dr. Rydell said, “he came out of the network… distressed. We kept him restrained to protect him.”

The undertext of Dr. Rydell’s words was clear. They didn’t know if he was under his own control or not.

“He appears himself now,” Coleman said. “Remove the binds.”

“Sir, we haven’t completed our scans yet,” Dr. Rydell said.

“For God’s sake,” Coleman said. “He’s not under Baranyk control. I can see it in his eyes. Now remove his binds.” To further spur them into motion, Coleman started on one of the ankle straps himself. “Report.”

“Yes, sir,” Coda said as Dr. Rydell worked on his binds. “The meeting occurred as planned, sir, but from the moment it began, my father was nervous. I don’t know what it was or how he knew, but something had him on edge. He kept saying we didn’t have much time and, sir…” He swallowed the emotion in his throat. “Sir, the Overlord ambushed us. I don’t know how he found us, but he did, and he had four Baranyk warriors with him. We were defenseless.”

Coleman’s blood went cold. Joseph O’Neil was a vital cog in their battle plan. Not only could he uncover the Overlord’s location, but he was their only connection to the rest of the fleet. Without him, they had no way of knowing when to attack or if their efforts were successful.

“What happened?” Coleman asked.

Dr. Rydell removed the bind from Coda’s forehead, and the pilot sat up.

“They took him, sir.”

“Took him?” Coleman repeated. “They didn’t kill him?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Coda said. “I got out of there as fast as I could, but it didn’t look like it, sir.”

“Why not?” The question wasn’t directed at anyone in particular. Coda didn’t have an answer, not even a guess.

Surprisingly, it was Dr. Rydell who spoke up. “The Baranyk are clearly capable of complex thought. The question is, are they capable of complex emotion? Joseph O’Neil is the only person to have successfully fought back against Baranyk control and achieved some level of autonomy. It could be that the situation with the Overlord has, as they say, grown personal.”

Coleman chewed on the words for a moment. Much of the Overlord’s tactics, including the surprise assault on New Plymouth when he and Coda had found him seemed to support the doctor’s argument.

“Or…” Coleman said simply, “he’s going to use Joseph the same way we did. To extract as much information about our forces, location, and plans as possible.”

“Can he do that?” Coda asked.

“I was going to ask you the same question,” Coleman said. “But we need to prepare as if he can.”

“Sir…” Coda said slowly. “That would mean the Overlord knows we’re here.”

“Yes,” Coleman said. “And whatever information your father knows about the battle plans with the rest of the fleet.”

“And we have no way to warn them.”

“No, we don’t,” Coleman said. “Which means our attack window just got a lot shorter. You said the meeting occurred as planned. I need to know what your father told you.”

“He said…” Coda’s eyes went distant with thought for a moment, then they snapped back to focus. “He said he found him.”

“He what?”

“Just before the Overlord arrived, he said that the fleet was about to engage the enemy forces but that we didn’t need to search for him anymore because he’d found him.”

Coleman took two powerful steps forward, his steps thumping against the deck with every ounce of authority he commanded. “Where?”

“He said there’s another hive in the northern hemisphere around the forty-fifth parallel. It’s one of their oldest colonies, deeper than anything we’ve explored, and well defended. He said he’s there.”

“You’re sure?”

Coda gave him a curt nod. “Positive, sir.”

Coleman wasted no time. He pressed the top of his ear to the side of his head, activating his earpiece. “Commander Garcia,” he said without preamble, “have our advanced scouts located any signs of a Baranyk colony in the northern hemisphere around the forty-fifth parallel?”

“Forty-fifth parallel,” Commander Garcia said. “Checking now, sir.”

Coleman tapped his boot against the deck, the seconds feeling like hours.

“Yes, sir. But it wasn’t more than a preliminary scan.”

“Redirect all reconnaissance drones,” Coleman said. “He’s there, Commander. I want to know every nook and cranny of that hive within the hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

Coleman ended the transmission and turned to Coda. “Good work, Commander.” With that, he strode from the partitioned section of the room.

“Sir!” Coda shouted, stopping him before he’d taken two steps.

“Is there something else, Coda?”

“Sir, I left him there. I left him with the Overlord, and I’m the only one who can get him back.”

Coleman’s head was shaking before Coda had even completed the thought. “I know what you’re asking, Coda, and the answer is no. I can’t risk it.”

“Sir, the only reason I returned was because you needed this information. But now that you have it—”

“You have vital intelligence about the whereabouts of this ship, our battle capabilities, and that we have critical intel of the Overlord’s location. We can’t risk you falling into enemy hands and delivering that information. I’m sorry, Coda, but your request is denied. We’ll find another way to get your father back.”

Coda’s body seemed to deflate. He let out a long breath, his posture faltering, and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Coleman prepared to leave and was stopped a second time.

“It should be said,” Dr. Rydell said, “that while Joseph’s mind is in the Baranyk network, his body still resides on the Abraham Lincoln. It’s possible that if we are successful and the Overlord is defeated that the Overlord’s grasp on him will falter and he’ll be able to return.”

Coda sat straighter with that. He must have known it was the best they could hope for. “Then let’s get him.”

Coleman gave him a crisp nod. “Agreed, Coda. Updated scans should be coming in within the hour. I need my pilots ready.”

“Yes, sir,” Coda said, adding a sharp salute.

Coleman returned the gesture and turned to leave. His earpiece chimed as he did. What now? He tapped the earpiece, opening the channel. “Coleman.”

“Sir, we have enemy contacts approaching,” Commander Garcia said. “Three hundred thousand kilometers and closing.”

Coleman cursed under his breath. The situation had gone from stable to shit show in minutes.

“Sir?” Commander Garcia said, likely having heard the curse.

“Deploy fighters,” Coleman said. “I’m on my way.”

He closed the transmission. Coda’s and Dr. Rydell’s eyes were on him, obviously having heard his side of the exchange.

“It seems we’re going to get that chance, Coda,” Coleman said. “The Overlord knows we’re here, and he’s sent a welcome party.”

44

Bridge, SAS Redemption

Distant Orbit, Baranyk Homeworld

“What’s the situation?” Captain Coleman bellowed, stepping onto the bridge.

Commander Garcia looked away from the battle map. “Sir, enemy forces en route, just under three hundred thousand kilometers and closing.”

“How many are we talking about?” Coleman asked.

“One carrier,” Commander Garcia said.

“One carrier?” Coleman checked the battle map for himself. Assuming the readings were correct, and he had no reason to doubt them, then a single ship was indeed plotting an intercept course. It was a far cry from what he’d expected. Did that mean the reserve force was truly that small, or was the Overlord playing at something else?

“Yes, sir,” Commander Garcia said. “We’ve launched fighters but are keeping them tight.” The green indicators of twenty-four Nighthawks shone brightly, flying in a simple formation around the image of the Redemption.

“What’s the status of our reconnaissance drones?” Coleman asked.

“They haven’t arrived yet,” Commander Garcia said. “They should be arriving in… eleven minutes.”

“And the ETA of that carrier?” Coleman asked.

Commander Garcia looked from Coleman to Lieutenant Poiu, who sat behind his terminal.

“At this rate of acceleration, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said without looking up from his readings, “they’ll be in weapons range in two hours.”

Two hours.

Coleman chewed on the words. Two hours would give them critical time to scout the Baranyk hive before that carrier arrived.

That’s if we sit here waiting to welcome them.

If that truly was the bulk of the Baranyk reserve force, then the odds were more in Coleman’s favor than he’d ever dared to hope.

“Prepare the Nighthawks to land,” Coleman said. “Prepare our Hornet squadrons, and plot an intrasystem jump that’ll put us in high orbit.”

“Sir?” Commander Garcia said.

“You heard me,” Coleman said. “The moment the Baranyk forces are within firing range, we are to jump. I want us in geosynchronous orbit directly over the Overlord’s colony. When he looks up, I want him to see us pissing down on him. It’s time we took this fight to him.”

* * *

Coda was in the Simulation Room with Moscow, Squawks, and Nails when the scans from the first reconnaissance drones came back. The other flight leaders were still flying CAP, waiting for the incoming enemy. Moscow, Squawks, and Nails were on standby and had already donned their flight gear, but they knew they weren’t going to be needed for this first round of the fray. Their efforts would be better leveraged in providing Captain Coleman with a battle plan and ensuring the drone pilots were prepared to execute it.

The image on the screen was pixelated, as if it were a broadcast with a weak signal, but was growing clearer by the second. Every reconnaissance drone, each barely the size of Coda’s fingertip and equipped with the most advanced camera Fleet R&D could build in such a small application, took a narrow reading that the ship’s computer would assemble into a cohesive image as if it were a puzzle.

The drones’ size made them nearly undetectable, especially since their propulsion systems were incredibly limited. Using a tiny version of the EmDrive that the capital ships like the Redemption used, they generated thrust by reflecting microwaves within the engine itself. Because of that and their small size, they were incredibly difficult to detect. That was the theory, anyway.

The drones floated through the hive opening, a mountain of rock and dirt shaped like a giant molehill. They moved with a natural course as if they were dust motes floating on the wind, pouring ever deeper into the colony. The hole quickly closed in size, forming a long shaft that burrowed deep into the ground.

Coda had seen vids of Baranyk pouring out of similar shafts and tunnels by the thousand, as if the very ground were infested with them. And those had been smaller hives. This one had to house hundreds of thousands of Baranyk. Maybe more.

“The tunnel walls are wider than the other hives,” Moscow said.

“That’ll make them easier to navigate,” Nails said.

“What are those stalactite-looking things?” Squawks asked.

“Probably stalactites?” Nails said sarcastically. Their training simulations had included them as well.

Squawks didn’t appear to be in a joking mood. He stepped closer to the image and squinted as if that would make the image clearer. “No, these are different. There’s an opening on the end, and look at how they connect to the tunnel. It almost looks like they can swivel.”

The rest of them stepped closer to get a better look at what Squawks was talking about.

“I don’t know,” Coda said. “It might just be a shadow or an artifact from the scan.”

“Switch to infrared,” Squawks said.

Moscow tapped a series of commands into his tablet, changing the view of the chamber. The grays of the tunnel walls were replaced by the blues, greens, yellows, and oranges of the infrared image. The majority of the image was mapped out with the cooler colors of blues and greens, but the stalactites themselves were yellow and a deep orange at their center.

“What the hell is that?” Moscow asked.

“Some sort of surveillance device?” Nails suggested.

But why would that give off a heat signature?

“Something’s happening,” Squawks said, pointing at one of the stalactites. It was directed toward the tunnel’s entrance. The orange color at its core flared red, and a moment later, the entire stalactite was burning. Fire flared from its tip as a wave of heat belched forth, washing the entire image with the same color.

“Whoa! What just happened?” Nails asked. “Where’s the image?”

Moscow punched in another series of commands, switching the view from infrared back to a standard image, but it was black. His eyes narrowed as he read something else on his tablet.

“What is it?” Coda asked.

“I don’t have everything from the bridge,” Moscow said. “But I think the drones were destroyed.”

“Destroyed?” Nails asked.

“Play it back,” Squawks said. “Not in infrared.”

Moscow started the vid from a few seconds before the wave of heat had hit the drones. Back were the various grays and yellows of the tunnel walls, but their attention was focused solely on the inconspicuous stalactite. As Squawks had said, it was angled outward, toward the entrance of the tunnel, and the wall around it had been worn smooth, as if it could turn and pivot. From within the dark interior, a bright-blue light appeared.

“Freeze it!” Squawks said.

Moscow punched a button on his tablet, freezing the image as a massive wave of blue light exploded from the stalactite.

“They’re not stalactites,” Squawks said. “They’re turrets. They just hit us with a wave of plasma fire.”

The four of them looked at each other in wide-eyed astonishment. None of the other hives had similar defensive measures. It seemed the Overlord valued his life above all else. Not surprising since the other creatures were little more than minor appendages that could be regrown at will.

“Okay,” Moscow said. “Step one, locate and destroy all defensive turrets.”

Nobody voiced step two.

Determine what other surprises the Overlord has in store for us.

45

Briefing Room, SAS Redemption

Distant Orbit, Baranyk Homeworld

“Here’s the situation,” Captain Coleman said. He stood at his usual spot at the head of the table in the briefing room. Commander Garcia, Dr. Poiu, Commander Payton, Moscow, and Coda were in attendance, as were Phantom and Sergeant Haniger from the Marine contingent aboard the Redemption.

“Enemy forces are inbound,” Coleman continued. “A single carrier, and they haven’t deployed fighters. It’ll be within firing range within the hour.”

There were a couple glances around the table, but the news hadn’t come as a surprise. By now, the command personnel had known about the incoming vessel.

“But”—Captain Coleman held up a finger, emphasizing his point—“we will not be here when it arrives. We have lost communication with the fleet, but they should have engaged the enemy by now, and we’ll use that confusion to mount our attack. Our sights are on the planet. Or more specifically, the hive where the Overlord is located.”

He turned down the lights and called up the holographic image above the center of the table. It showed a distant image of the barren landscape of the Baranyk home world. Then he zoomed in to a single location in the northern hemisphere until the image showed what looked like a small hill without a mountain range beyond.

“Our Dragonflies have been largely ineffective,” Coleman continued, “having only surveyed the entrance to the Baranyk hive before the enemy discovered their presence, so we’ll be going in blind. But with the enemy focused on the larger battle, this is our best opportunity to strike. The Overlord will be forced to manage two separate fronts at once, and as you’ll see, one of our aims is to sow as much confusion as possible.”

Tapping another button on his tablet, Coleman pulled up the next image. “Our forces will take a multiwave approach, the first made up entirely of Hornets.”

Phantom sat up straighter, his eyes finding Coleman’s.

“Our Dragonflies couldn’t complete their scans, but one thing they did discover was a series of plasma turrets lining the interior walls of the tunnel entrance.” Red brackets encased the defensive turrets the nanodrones had discovered.

“They look like natural stalactites, but they pack a hell of a punch. Based on previous attacks and heat signatures, we’re confident we’ve identified all of the initial turrets in this main entrance tunnel. Your first objective, Lieutenant Cahill, is to take them out. But beware, the plasma turrets, when fired together, act as a flushing system, washing the entire tunnel in plasma and eradicating anything that’s not supposed to be there.”

Phantom placed both elbows on the wooden table and intertwined his fingers. “We’ll need speed. Approach the summit of the hive at full speed then perform an inverted dive directly into the entrance, shedding as little speed as possible. The first few turrets should be simple. After that, it’ll depend on the Baranyk’s response time.”

“Agreed,” Coleman said. “Which is why we’re taking a multiwave approach. We expect heavy losses as we eliminate their initial defense systems. The Hornets will be staggered so that the moment the plasma fire vents onto the surface and the chamber is clear, the next wave will be entering the tunnel and moving to eliminate the next section of defensive turrets. That staggered approach will continue until our forces enter the first chamber, at which time they’ll be joined by the attack force Alpha.”

Several more images of Hornets appeared on the screen, each representing a full squadron instead of individual fighters.

“Based on initial intel, we believe there are other turrets in the hive’s chambers and tunnels but not nearly at the same frequency. The Hornets will continue deeper into the tunnels, surveying and eliminating any defensive measures the Baranyk employ.”

Phantom slid his elbows off the table and leaned back in his chair, his eyes focused on the image above the table. “What kind of enemy response do we expect?”

Coleman bit back a wince. “We don’t know. Our scans didn’t turn up any Baranyk fighters or warriors, but we’d be stupid not to expect them. We are, after all, kicking the proverbial hornet’s nest.”

“That hive houses several hundred thousand Baranyk,” Moscow said, joining the conversation for the first time. “Based on other scans taken from the home world, some of the chambers can be many kilometers in length. If we are engaged by enemy fighters, there will be plenty of room to operate.”

“Correct,” Coleman said. “But we must not forget the true mission. We’re here for the Overlord. Even if engaged, the Hornets are our eyes and ears. In addition to removing any more plasma turrets, we need to find the location of the Overlord’s command chamber. That’s the primary objective.”

Phantom gave him a sharp nod. “Understood, sir.”

“Good.” Coleman returned the nod. “The first objective is to kick in the door. The second is here.” The image dove deeper into the Baranyk tunnels to a massive chamber. The ground was littered with even more alien-looking Baranyk. Lacking size and fully formed extremities, they were something out of a horror story. “Dr. Poiu, this is your territory.”

“Thank you, sir.” Dr. Poiu remained seated and surveyed the table. “The Baranyk follow a four-stage metamorphosis life cycle, beginning as an egg before developing into a pupa, a larva, and finally, a mature adult. The chamber you see here is what we call the nursery, which is where the larvae are cared for by other Baranyk as they mature into adulthood.”

An uncomfortable silence hung over the table. Coleman could see the implications of the second objective were clear. Killing Baranyk that were trying to kill you was a simple undertaking. But taking the life of an unformed lifeform was another story altogether. Alien or not, enemy or not, it wasn’t something most people were comfortable with.

“Adulthood,” Commander Garcia said as if echoing the thought on everyone’s mind. “These pupae, then, are what? Children?”

“No,” Dr. Poiu said. “Insects, and the Baranyk, as we know them, do not have children. They have pupae that are unable to survive on their own.”

Commander Garcia made a disgusted look. “Not children, then. Babies. You’re talking about killing baby Baranyk.”

“No,” Dr. Poiu said, this time more forcefully. “They’re pupae. You wouldn’t think twice about sweeping off a spider’s nest from your porch or cracking a chicken egg for breakfast. This is no different.”

Commander Garcia started to respond, but Coleman cut him off. “I understand your hesitation, Jaime. We don’t have to like our task, but it has been handed to us. The Overlord is fighting a battle on multiple fronts, and I intend to create even more here. Wreak havoc. Confuse him. And in the event that we’re not successful in eliminating the Overlord, render his ability to reproduce nearly impossible so that the fleet can come and finish the job.”

Assuming they win their own battle with them first. But he kept that thought to himself.

Commander Garcia met his eye, and it was clear he would never agree with the order, but he fell in line like a good soldier.

“Once the path is clear, we’ll drop you and your marines, Sergeant Haniger,” Coleman said. “It’ll be your task to see the operation through.”

“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Haniger said. “I have a squad of Firestarters that’ll make hard-boiled eggs out of the little buggers. Leave it to us.”

“We expect heavy resistance once you begin your assault. Coordinate with Phantom and Moscow on air support.”

“Oorah, sir.”

Coleman turned back to Phantom. “When you’re not providing air cover or eliminating defensive turrets, your next objective is finding the Baranyk queen. Our secondary mission is eliminating the Baranyk’s ability to reproduce and reinforce. Once found, you are to eliminate her.”

“Of course, sir,” Phantom said.

Coleman took a long breath. “All right. I’ve said it before, and I’ll keep saying it until the mission is complete. Our primary objective is the Overlord.” He keyed the next sequence into his tablet. The image pulled back, providing a macro view of the Baranyk hive. “This is a speculative rendering based on previous hives and what this one could look like. As you can see, it’s made up of dozens of chambers and tunnel structures. Some, like the nursery, have dedicated functions. Others are used for storage. Some tunnels are for ventilation. We expect the Overlord to be in the safest spot in the hive, which we speculate is in the lower chambers. Find him, and we’ll call in the bombing squadron to drop a Reaper down his throat.”

A Reaper was a four-thousand-kilo, twenty-megaton nuclear weapon designed to eradicate all life and structures in a two-hundred-kilometer radius. Depending how deep the Overlord’s chamber was located, Coleman wouldn’t be surprised if the detonation cracked part of the planet away.

“What about the marines, sir?” Commander Garcia asked.

“Once the Overlord’s chamber is identified, they’ll send for immediate extraction.” Coleman turned to Sergeant Haniger. “I can’t promise more than a few minutes to disengage and hightail it to the surface.”

“It’ll be enough, sir.”

Like every marine he’d ever met, Sergeant Haniger was a crazy sonuvabitch, though Coleman wondered how much of his bravado was real. As long as he performed as expected, Coleman didn’t care. Every job in the fleet was risky. He knew that more than most.

“Any other questions?” Coleman asked.

“Just one, sir,” Phantom said. “Say all of this goes according to plan, how will we know if we’re successful?”

“A good question, Lieutenant.” Coleman looked to Dr. Poiu. “Doctor?”

She met Commander Garcia’s eyes. “The Baranyk are under the control of an advanced being that we refer to as the Overlord. That means their movements are an extension of his will, the same way our arms and legs are an extension of our own. It’s our belief that when the Overlord is eliminated, the rest of the Baranyk will no longer be under his control. So it stands to reason their behavior will change.”

“What she’s saying,” Coleman added, “is that even if the Baranyk do not withdraw, their efforts will become confused. Fractured. Leaderless. Our expectation is that free of the Overlord’s influence, the surviving Baranyk will withdraw and retreat. But there’s no way to know for sure.”

“Understood, sir,” Phantom said.

The skepticism in Phantom’s tone was clear. Coleman found his gaze sliding to Coda. His pilot had remained silent for the entire briefing, but he had even more riding on the mission.

“We have… other ways of identifying the effectiveness of the mission,” Coleman added. “But that information is known only to the senior-most officers on this ship. Rest assured, Lieutenant. If the Overlord is eliminated, we will know.”

“Of course, sir.”

“All right, ladies and gentlemen. It’s almost showtime. Get your teams prepped and ready. The battle begins within the hour.”

46

Bridge, SAS Redemption

Distant Orbit, Baranyk Homeworld

“The Baranyk carrier has launched fighters, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said, looking up from his terminal. “Two minutes from firing range.”

There might have been a time, months ago, when Coleman would have detected an anxious tenor to his tactical officer’s voice, but not now. He had been battle hardened like the rest of them. It would take something truly catastrophic to shake any of his bridge crew.

“Very good, Lieutenant,” Coleman said. “Is our EmDrive charged and ready for jump?”

“It is, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “Coordinates are set. We’re ready to jump on your mark.”

Intrasystem jumps were always risky and seldom used. At these distances, precision was paramount. Miscalculations of even the smallest degree could land them in the planet’s atmosphere or worse. He’d had the computer calculate the jump twice then a third time for good measure. Then he’d asked his navigation crew to confirm it by hand. It had taken the two hours, each minute the enemy drawing closer, but this wasn’t a time for mistakes.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Coleman sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. If there was ever a time when he felt the nerves, it was in this moment. The short time between planning and execution. The space where the prep was done and all that awaited was the execution, but the lingering doubts persisted. Had they done enough? What had they missed? Should they step back and reassess?

“They’ve entered firing range, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “They’re opening fire!”

“Jump.”

The world stretched out in front of Coleman. He’d once wondered if distance played a role in the duration of the jump sensation, but in his experience, it didn’t. Intrasystem jumps took just as long as the interstellar variety, which likely meant the sensation was created by the warping of space itself rather than the distance traveled.

Coleman swayed as the world snapped back into place. His eyes immediately went to the battle map. It had gone blank but was repopulating with images as new sensor data came in.

“Lieutenant Poiu,” he said, “I need to know if anything on the surface moves, launches, or even squirms.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said without looking up from his terminal.

“And don’t lose sight of the Baranyk carrier. The enemy is capable of intrasystem jumps as well. It’ll just take some time to plot.”

“On it, sir.”

I know you are, Lieutenant.

“Launch fighters,” Commander Garcia said.

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “Launching fighters.”

Coleman watched as forty-eight green contacts appeared on the battle map. Immediately, they split into two delta squadrons and made for the planet’s surface.

As Coleman had ordered, they were in geosynchronous orbit directly over the Overlord’s hive. The extracted dirt, forming what looked like a small hill with an opening at its peak, wouldn’t be visible from space, though Coleman liked the idea of looking down on it, as if the hive was something he could crush beneath his foot.

I’m coming for you.

“Sir!” Lieutenant Poiu said urgently. “I’ve got movement on the surface.”

“What is it?” Coleman strode to Lieutenant Poiu’s terminal and peered over his shoulder. On his terminal was a smaller version of the battle map, though zoomed in to provide a narrower focus.

“I’m not sure, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “It looks like a vent of some kind but…”

“Communications?” Coleman asked, turning to Ensign Richey.

“It’s just static, sir,” Ensign Richey said. “Whatever it is, it’s not organic.”

“Sir, I’ve got something!” Lieutenant Poiu said.

Coleman snapped his head around, looking back at Lieutenant Poiu’s terminal. It was an image of the planet’s rocky surface, now infrared, with a white-hot blotch dead center.

“There!” Lieutenant Poiu said, pointing at two new heat signatures. “I’m getting more.”

“Overlay them with the Hornets’ trajectory.”

“Already on it, sir.”

Within moments, Lieutenant Poiu had the Hornets’ flight trajectory overlaid on top of the infrared image. The vents that burned the hottest were either directly below or slightly in front of the drone squadrons’ flight path.

“Those aren’t vents,” Commander Garcia said. “They’re more plasma turrets.”

Coleman opened an immediate channel to his Hornet CAG. “Phantom, it appears the Baranyk have ground-based antiaircraft turrets disguised as vents. Tell your pilots to maintain elevation and take evasive maneuvers until they enter the hive. Sending you the data now.”

“Yes, sir,” Phantom said. “Thank you, sir.”

The problem, Coleman soon realized, was that the drones were still entering the planet’s atmosphere. They didn’t have the ability to alter course. If they did, their entrance vector would create too much friction, causing them to burn up.

They’re sitting ducks.

But hitting a target moving at the speed of reentry nearly ten thousand kilometers away proved easier said than done. The first wave of plasma fire missed by almost nine kilometers, blasting through the atmosphere before jetting harmlessly into space. The second was closer, and the third narrowed the gap even more. It wasn’t until the fourth that there was any real threat.

It cut through the rear of the formation, shooting through the middle of their V formation without hitting anything. But the enemy had the range and calculations now.

“How long until they’re out of atmo?” Coleman asked.

“Thirty seconds, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu.

“And the plasma’s rate of ascent?”

“If my readings are correct, about thirty-two thousand kilometers per hour, though it slows as it gets farther from the surface.”

“Which means?”

“It’s going to be close, sir.”

Coleman looked up from his tactical officer to the battle map. He was helpless, unable to do anything, which was the worst feeling he could ever experience.

This is why I belong in the cockpit, where I’m in control.

“Switch from infrared,” Coleman said. “Give me actuals.”

The Redemption was close enough that its exterior cameras could give him a live image. The battle map updated from the infrared image to the live visual. The hulls of the Hornet drones burned red and orange in reentry, but from the Redemption’s distance, they appeared as little more than dark objects against the yellow backdrop. Somewhere under them was a bloom of blue death ready to tear through their hulls.

“Ten seconds, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said.

“Come on,” Coleman whispered. “Come on.”

A small blue dot appeared below the Hornet formation. It grew by the second until it was nearly as big as the Hornets themselves. If it struck one of the lead fighters, the shrapnel from the blast alone would take out the majority of the formation.

“Two seconds,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “One.”

The Hornets veered hard, splitting into opposite directions. The blue blast erupted into visual, slicing between two Hornets, missing them by mere meters. A cheer went up on the bridge, and Coleman let out a nervous breath. They’d cleared the first hurdle, one they hadn’t even known existed, but they’d topped it with barely a stumble. The rest of the plan could move forward.

“Sir!” Lieutenant Poiu said suddenly. “I’m picking up more readings, sir. Almost a dozen of them.”

Coleman’s throat dropped into his stomach. “Where?”

“Headed toward us, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “The planet’s turrets have fired at us. At the Redemption.”

47

Drone Operation Center, SAS Redemption

High Orbit, Baranyk Homeworld

Moscow stepped into the drone operation center. He was dressed in his flight suit, holding his flight helmet under his arm. He’d just completed his own briefing, and the first wave of Nighthawks were ready to launch at the captain’s command. He still longed to be out there, itched to be in the fight, but for now, this was the closest he was going to get.

He stood off to the side, letting the door slide closed behind him, and scanned the room. The ninety-six drone pilots manned their operation bays, though only half were plugged in and wore their VR helmets. The rest watched the battle map, which showed a live view of the battle on the surface.

The two squadrons were separated by a thirty-second interval and flew higher above the ground than they’d simulated. It took Moscow a minute to see why, though when the first plasma blast erupted past the fighters, he quickly understood. The added elevation gave the pilots time to take evasive actions, and thus far, they hadn’t lost a single fighter. They all knew the real test would come soon, though.

“Azure Squadron, we have visual on the target.” Phantom’s voice echoed through the vaulted ceiling of the operation center. “Prepare to break into Azure and Bronze flights, fifteen-second intervals. Crimson Squadron, circle the target and wait for my mark. And stay clear of the entrance. We can’t afford to have you get caught in a plasma blast.”

Affirmatives echoed through the room.

“Break!”

Azure Squadron’s delta formation broke, with twelve fighters separating from the rest then breaking into two smaller flights of six. The lead six raced ahead, while the second lagged behind, creating a fifteen-second delta between them. What remained of the squadron did the same, creating a force of four separate flights of six fighters, each staggered by fifteen seconds, and a full squadron behind them in reserves.

The lead flight dove straight toward the rocky surface below, cutting through the cloud cover. The hill marking the hive loomed large, its entrance a black dot like an angry maw of a terrifying monster growing ever larger.

“Deploy flaps,” Phantom said.

Flaps along the wings and fuselages of the Hornets extended outward, creating drag, and slowed the fighters to a more manageable speed.

“Remember,” Phantom said, “our objective is the plasma turrets. We’re the battering ram that’ll allow our forces to storm the castle. Contact in five seconds. Good luck.”

The mouth of the hill raced toward them. Moscow shifted from foot to foot nervously.

Then… darkness.

The image on the battle map shifted to show Phantom’s first-person view. He’d shifted his view from standard to computer-aided for better visibility. The walls of the tunnel screamed past his cockpit. Red targeting brackets appeared around known plasma turrets, and without hesitation, Phantom fired two missiles. They exploded in a wave of rock and debris, peppering the hull of his Hornet.

On the other side of the tunnel, the Hornet in the dash-two position unleashed a missile, eliminating another plasma turret. A large chunk of debris struck its portside wing, sending it careening into the wall of the cavern in a ball of flames. The explosion took out the Hornet immediately behind it then caused two more behind to collide as they tried to avoid the carnage.

In the span of a second, the flight of six fighters had been cut in half. The remaining three Hornets raced onward, taking out four more turrets before disaster struck. Deeper into the tunnel, a blue image of burning plasma raced toward them.

“Evasive maneuvers!” Phantom bellowed.

The wave of plasma fire filled the tunnel like water in a pipe, extending from wall to wall, giving the Hornets nowhere to hide. It washed over them in a flood, destroying the remaining fighter drones in a flash.

“Bronze Flight, engage,” Phantom said. “Crimson, you’re on deck. Delta, standby. Keep pushing.”

“Yes, sir!”

The image was replaced with the image of the lead fighter of Bronze Flight. They were closing on the tunnel entrance but at an angle that kept them safe from the plasma fire that now vented from the tunnel mouth. It burst from the hole like lava erupting from a volcano, venting into the atmosphere before gravity pulled it back to the surface. Steam rose from the rocky ground, yellow rock turning a glassy black.

As soon as it was clear, Bronze Flight dove into the tunnel. With the first set of turrets already destroyed, they increased their speed and had missiles away in moments. The next set of turrets were reduced to rubble in a blink, and the exploding debris missed the Hornet formation.

A third layer of turrets were already priming, their bowels burning white hot with plasma, but one of the weaknesses of the plasma turrets was that unlike the Redemption’s munitions, these couldn’t be fired at will. Each round required a charging, and that took time. Before they could unleash their next wave of plasma fire, the Hornets attacked, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust in their wake.

As if learning from their mistakes, the Baranyk sacrificed the next layer of turrets, choosing instead to charge the ones near the back of the tunnel. The wave of plasma fire that followed enveloped Bronze Flight, but not before they reduced another layer of plasma turrets.

“Crimson Flight, wait for the plasma to vent and then give it a ten count before starting your next run. We can’t allow our attacks to become too predictable.”

“Yes, sir.”

Plasma erupted from the mouth of the hive in a brilliant blue explosion. Crimson Flight was well above the fire and protected from its heat. They continued to circle the entrance to the hive, waiting—and were rewarded for their patience as a second eruption of plasma fire vented a split second later.

“Redemption actual, this is Phantom. We’ve nearly punched through. Launch the additional squadrons.”

“Copy, Phantom. Launching squadrons.”

Somewhere in orbit, another two dozen Hornets were exploding from the hull of the ship, ready to rip through atmo and join the fray. By the time they arrived, Moscow hoped the initial wave of fighters would be well inside the hive.

When a third eruption of plasma fire didn’t immediately follow, Crimson Flight began their attack run and disappeared into the tunnel.

They were met with an immediate wave of plasma fire that destroyed the entire flight before they could launch a single missile.

Shit!

The enemy was onto them now. Moscow had expected it, though he’d hoped the Hornets would get at least one more attack run before being forced to change tactics. Fortunately, there was only one more layer of plasma turrets, and those were located near the rear of the tunnel.

Phantom, no longer piloting one of the drones, called up Bronze Flight’s attack run and had his computer locate the remaining turrets and calculate their distance in the tunnel. The relative verticality of the tunnel made calculating the depth easy.

“Boomer,” Phantom said, calling on the flight leader of Delta Flight, “we’re nearly through. Time to introduce our friends to a little Welcome Party. Depth, eighteen seconds.”

Boomer laughed over the radio. “On it, sir. Time to show them some hospitality.”

Two Hornets broke away from Delta Flight and circled the mouth of the hive at a lower altitude, just above the lip of the tunnel. Once above its entrance, they dropped two of their bombs dubbed the Welcome Party then rejoined the rest of their flight in formation.

Moscow could see that Phantom hoped the smaller, slower munitions would go unnoticed and possibly mistaken for falling rock or other debris. He watched the countdown he’d pulled up on the battle map.

Ten seconds.

Five.

No plasma fire or explosions. That was a good sign.

Then a pair of deep, resounding booms registered. Dust billowed from the mouth of the hive but no plasma fire.

“Delta Flight,” Phantom said, “go! Go! Go!”

Boomer sped into the hive. The tunnel was filled with smoke and dust, but there was no enemy fire. By the time they got to the back of the tunnel, they discovered the turrets had been reduced to nothing more than molten rock.

“All Hornets, engage!” Phantom bellowed as Boomer’s flight came to the end of the tunnel, spun, and angled into the adjoining chamber. The remaining Hornet fighters dove into the tunnel, hot on Delta Flight’s heels. “Redemption actual, we’re in. I repeat, the front door is open. Send in the cavalry. It’s time to storm the castle.”

48

Bridge, SAS Redemption

High Orbit, Baranyk Homeworld

The plasma blast ripped past the Redemption, missing by less than ten kilometers. If Coleman hadn’t taken immediate action, it would have hit them directly in the starboard side. Larger than the plasma blasts from the Baranyk fighters, its destructive power was undeniable. At the bare minimum, it would have punched through the Redemption’s reinforced hull, and that was if it didn’t skewer them altogether. And more were already on their way.

“Forward thrusters!” Coleman bellowed. “Full reverse!”

They hadn’t gained much speed yet, roughly twelve thousand kilometers an hour to maintain their geosynchronous orbit, but even in vacuum, it took a lot of power to navigate the Redemption. Even more to slow it down.

In a world where speed is life, we’re too slow.

His navigation officer repeated his full-reverse order, and within moments, the ship rumbled. Coleman staggered as the forward thrusters fired, countering the ship’s momentum to slow their course.

Coleman watched the battle map as it updated with the Redemption’s change in speed. A red dotted line showed the incoming plasma blast’s trajectory, which now appeared in front of the green dotted line that represented the Redemption’s current course. If everything went as projected, the blast would miss them by less than five kilometers.

They’re getting closer, Coleman thought. It’s only a matter of time until one of those hits us.

They weren’t able to maneuver the same way as his old Nighthawk, but they did have two advantages, and both played into his hands. The first was the sheer distance. They maintained a geosynchronous orbit almost forty thousand kilometers above the surface. That gave them time to get the giant hunk of steel moving. And because the plasma blasts mimicked basic ballistics, which had no way of changing course once fired, their maneuvers, up until this point, had been successful.

“The Baranyk are launching additional plasma blasts, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said.

New red indicators appeared on the battle map, each accounting for the Redemption’s new course.

“We can’t keep this up,” Commander Garcia said. “We’re sitting ducks up here. We have to take out those turrets.”

“I know,” Coleman said. “Lieutenant Poiu, what’s the status of our drone squadrons? Have they got through atmo yet?”

Coleman had ordered them out as soon as Phantom punched through the Baranyk’s tunnel defenses.

“Almost, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “They should be through the last of it in thirteen seconds.”

“Good,” Coleman said. “Have Phantom carve off a bombing flight and carpet those ground turrets.”

“On it, sir.”

Coleman let out a long breath. Eliminating the ground turrets would give them more time, but it wouldn’t help with the plasma fire the enemy had already launched.

“They’re getting smarter,” Commander Garcia said.

Coleman agreed. The first blast had been launched directly at them and made Coleman commit to a direction. The second would have hit them had they continued on that trajectory. But now their options were limited, and the Baranyk had them boxed in. They’d launched three more successive blasts, each anticipating different speeds and maneuvers.

If they continued slowing down, the first new blast would hit them. Speed back up, and the second would hit its mark. Maintain current speed, and the third would land.

The safest bet was to jump deeper into the system. The computer had already plotted a fallback position, but doing so would increase the lag time with the Hornets and make their mission more difficult. He could let one of the blasts hit, trusting the reinforced hull to minimize damage and give his bombers time to take out the ground turrets. But that had obvious risk.

Too much, he decided.

“Fire starboard thrusters,” Coleman ordered. “Rotate us ninety degrees.”

“Taking a page out of your old piloting days?” Commander Garcia asked.

“Something like that.” Coleman gave him a confident smile.

The rumbling in the deck changed as the forward thrusters stopped firing and were replaced with those on the starboard side. As he’d said, the maneuver would rotate the ship ninety degrees. More importantly, given the ship’s rectangular design, it would provide the smallest surface area to hit. If the previous blasts just had to hit the target, this one would have to be a bull’s-eye, and Coleman was trusting the Baranyk weren’t that good.

“Hornets are through atmo, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “Bombers en route. ETA four minutes.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Coleman kept his attention focused on the incoming plasma blast. It would arrive before the bombers, and if the plasma struck, it could render the entire mission a failure. And the computer’s estimated course had that blast right on target.

Coleman leaned forward against the padded railing, his sweaty hands squeezing its rung. There was nothing left to do but wait. Wait and hope.

The seconds felt like hours as the blast rocketed toward them. Ten seconds before impact, the starboard thrusters cut out and the portside fired, keeping the Redemption from overrotating. Coleman had done everything he could do—everything except the one maneuver that guaranteed their safety.

Please, God, let this work.

Warning claxons sounded as Coleman braced for impact.

The Redemption shuddered violently as a terrible screech ripped across its bow. The lights flickered, sparks flaring. Coleman forced himself to keep his eyes open, to stand proud and confident. If this was the end, the last thing his bridge crew would ever see was a confident man standing defiantly against the odds, doing everything in his power to give humanity a chance.

In the wake of the terrible screech came a quiet calm. No rumbling through the deck. No additional warning claxons. Red warning lights flashed, bathing the bridge in a bloody hue.

“Damage report!” Coleman said.

“The blast struck the portside, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “It looks like it carved through the entire length of the ship, but…” The tactical officer trailed off as he read the incoming data.

“But what, Lieutenant?”

“It looks like it was a glancing blow. We lost sensors and turrets on decks thirty-six through fifty, sir, but no reported hull breaches.”

Coleman released his grip from the railing. They hadn’t escaped the blast unscathed. The loss of their sensors and half their antiaircraft batteries would be a massive blow, but they were still alive. They were still in the fight.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Coleman said. “That’s great news.”

Coleman returned his attention to the battle map, where the Hornet bombers were preparing for their attack run. They flew in standard formation, six fighters shaped like a V, ready to turn turret to rubble.

The first bombs hit the surface in a fiery explosion, but the ones that landed inside the turret openings did the most damage. The surface ballooned upward then exploded into a fireball of rock, debris, and plasma that set off a chain reaction of destruction. Within seconds, the entire valley was aflame.

The Hornets circled the destruction, checking for signs of activity, that any of the turrets were still active and operational. All they found was destruction.

A triumphant cheer rang through the bridge. Commander Garcia slapped Coleman on the back, hard enough to knock him to the side.

“Congratulations, sir,” Commander Garcia said. “It worked.”

Try as he might, Coleman couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “We’re still in the fight, Jaime. Still in the fight.” He turned back to his tactical officer. “Have those bombers return to their squadron. They have a job to fin—”

“Contact!” Lieutenant Poiu bellowed.

Contact? Where? Did another Baranyk ship arrive?

A quick look at the battle map answered all of Coleman’s questions. Not another Baranyk ship. The same one. Except it had followed the Redemption. He cursed silently—he himself had said the enemy was capable of intrasystem jumps, and he’d just proven himself correct.

“It’s launching fighters, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said.

A wave of red washed over the battle map, crashing toward the lone green wireframe image of the Redemption on the display.

“Rotate starboard ninety degrees and open fire!” Coleman ordered.

The deck roared beneath him as the ship rotated its good side toward the new enemy. It wouldn’t be enough. There were hundreds of enemy fighters. And with only one fully operational side, there was no way they could fight them all off.

“Launch fighters,” Coleman said.

It was time for the Nighthawks to enter the fray.

49

Cockpit, Nighthawk

High Orbit, Baranyk Homeworld

Moscow rocketed down the launch tube. For the first time in hours, his nervousness was finally abating, and he felt like himself. Something about the weight of three G’s and an impending life-or-death struggle had a way of centering a man.

Like bullets from a revolver, the squadron of Nighthawks shot from the Redemption and formed into their various flights, each in a six-fighter delta formation. The incoming enemy had no semblance of order. They were a swarm of fighters, hundreds strong, all bearing down on the Redemption.

“All fighters, listen up,” Moscow said. “We have one objective. Keep those fighters away from the Redemption. Every minute we keep them off her is another minute our squadrons on the surface have to find the leader of the Baranyk. So stay tight. Nothing fancy. And let’s remind the enemy who we are.”

The Redemption’s antiaircraft batteries fired in full force, cannon and tracer fire ripping past the Nighthawk formations with terrible intentions. The enemy was too far away to make out individual kills, but Moscow knew at least some of the defensive fire met its target. As soon as the Nighthawks engaged, the Redemption’s computers would have to be more selective with its defensive fire lest it inflict friendly fire. Moscow would have to give them a window to continue the onslaught.

“On my mark, accelerate at twenty-five percent thrust,” Moscow said. “Maintain delta formations and lay down a carpet of cannon fire. Missiles where the fights clump together. Then veer off forty-five degrees positive and negative-Z, standard cadence. Let’s see if we can get a few of these bastards to chase us.”

Moscow waited another few seconds as the affirmatives from his flight leaders rolled in. Then, after a series of short, aggressive breaths, he tightened his hands around the controls. “Engage!”

The Nighthawks zipped forward, maintaining their four delta formations with a crispness the captain had to appreciate. Moscow steadied the throttle at twenty-five percent thrust and did a quick check that nobody was falling out of line. They weren’t. They were too well-oiled. Too well practiced. Not just the best of the best but the uncommon among the uncommon. The very pinnacle humanity had to offer.

The enemy was close enough now that Moscow could make out individual fighters. He let the computer autoselect targets based on the same parameters he’d given his fighters—identify groups and clusters—and a series of red brackets appeared. He squeezed the trigger twice, paused, then squeezed a third and fourth time.

His Nighthawk bucked as multiple missiles disengaged from his wings and rocketed toward their targets. Dozens more from the Nighthawk formations appeared half a second later. They were all quickly lost in the black, but Moscow watched on his HUD as they tracked their targets, disappearing at the same time as a distant series of flashes.

“Splash one!” Moscow bellowed.

“More like splash fifty,” Squawks said over the radio.

Moscow grinned. Squawks was right. Their computers had done a great job of targeting groups of fighters where their missiles could inflict maximum damage. Not only had they taken out those select groups, but the debris had crashed into other nearby fighters, taking them out of the fight as well.

Moscow settled into his seat. It felt good to be back out where he could be making a difference. A real difference.

“Cannons!” Moscow ordered. He thumbed the switch on his joystick from missiles to cannons then squeezed the trigger in a series of short bursts. His fighter rumbled with each one of them, the only sign that its nose-mounted cannon was indeed firing. That was, until the lead Baranyk fighters exploded into a mess of organic matter.

Sparks flew from noses of the lead Nighthawks to either side of him as they continued the onslaught. If the enemy had been flying in any sort of formation, it would have long been broken, but massed as they were, and outnumbering the human fighters at least six to one, they glided forward unfazed.

Blue streaks of plasma fire slid past his fighter.

“Offset forty-five degrees on my mark,” Moscow said. “We’re going to create a lane for the Redemption’s battlements and see if we can draw a few of these guys off her. Break!”

The six flights broke in six different directions. Those on either end of the formation shot north of the orientation line, the next ones south, and the two middle flights north and south as well. The maneuver left a clear lane for the Redemption to fire, and that was exactly what she did.

Opening up her full array of antiaircraft batteries, the Redemption fired with everything she had. Dozens of ships in the middle of the incoming Baranyk mass exploded in a sea of yellow slime, pieces of carcass destroying even more of their formation.

Moscow grunted under the stress of the maneuver. His G-suit tightened around his limbs, keeping his blood from pooling in his extremities and causing blackout. It kept him conscious, but it wasn’t enough to keep the black spots from appearing in the corners of his vision.

Leveling out, he saw that several dozen Baranyk fighters had broken from the main horde, following the six flights that had veered away from their original trajectory. Those that remained now swarmed the Redemption, which fought like hell to swat them away.

“Fighter pairs!” Moscow ordered. “Do what you can to eliminate the stragglers. But don’t lose sight of the objective. The Redemption comes first!”

Moscow’s flight broke into three fighter pairs, each veering off in different directions. The pursuing enemy fighters did the same, following what they thought were easy targets.

“All right, Dumper,” Moscow said to his wingman. “Let’s do this.”

“Hell yeah, sir.”

Dumper, named after his generous backside, was Moscow’s third wingman since joining the Forgotten, and he’d only just started flying with him. They weren’t as fluid as they should be, but Moscow was confident he could pick up the slack.

Still veering off from the other fighters, Moscow and Dumper spun one hundred and eighty degrees so that they were facing the incoming enemy fighters even though their movement had them going backward. The maneuver wreaked havoc on his spine, and the only thing that kept him from being ripped out of the cockpit was the harness digging into his chest. It also brought the enemy directly into their sights. A couple short bursts of cannon fire later, the pursuing enemy was reduced to space sludge.

Several more Baranyk fighters engaged, and each met a similar fate.

“Back to the Redemption,” Moscow said.

Dumper voiced his affirmative and took position on Moscow’s wing. Because they had deviated from the main formation, they had a clear path to their ship. They looped around and came in at the front of the Redemption. Flying its length from bow to stern, they kept their fighters level so that any overshot didn’t hit the ship.

Moscow squeezed his trigger, firing burst after burst. He took out half a dozen fighters, Dumper doing the same, then, with the attack run complete, looped around preparing for another. Their tactic had caught the attention of a few fighters who broke away from the main horde in pursuit. Plasma fire shot past their cockpits.

“Shit!” Moscow zigged and zagged, spun and dove, but couldn’t shake the enemy fighters. Dumper had similar issues. They might have been toast if it hadn’t been for Squawks.

“Looks like you have a couple clingers,” he said. “Need me to wipe them for you?” Squawks didn’t wait for a response. “Break twelve degrees starboard in three, two, one, break!”

Moscow threw his joystick to the right, angling his fighter starboard. Squawks and Nails dove in at a perfect attack angle, ripping through the enemy fighters like a knife through bread.

“Thanks, Squawks,” Moscow said.

“Nothing to it,” Squawks said.

“Don’t listen to him,” Nails said, chiming in. “He’ll make you buy him a drink next chance he gets.”

Moscow couldn’t help but laugh. The cockpit was like a second home to him, and the banter was a big part of that. Dumper reappeared at his wing, and the two of them swooped back around. Just seconds behind, Squawks and Nails were cutting across the Redemption in a similar maneuver that Moscow and Dumper had just completed.

Still, blue plasma fire coated the Redemption’s hull, burning through steel and leaving massive pockmarks in its wake. Moscow couldn’t tell if any had breached the hull yet, but it was only a matter of time. Worse yet, the enemy seemed to realize that an entire side of the Redemption’s batteries were inoperable and focused their attacks there.

Moscow and Dumper followed in Squawks and Nails’s wake, destroying the ships that had filled the void left by Squawks and Nails. It was a game of cat and mouse. The only problem was Moscow didn’t know which they were.

50

Bridge, SAS Redemption

High Orbit, Baranyk Homeworld

“Hull breach!” Lieutenant Poiu shouted after a particularly vicious shudder. “Decks seventeen and eighteen!”

“Get containment and maintenance teams down there now,” Commander Garcia said.

“On it, sir!”

Coleman let his XO handle the ship’s issues. His attention was focused solely on the battle at hand. It was progressing, maybe not exactly as planned, but within the bounds of expectation.

“They’re focused on us,” Coleman said loudly enough for Commander Garcia to hear, though it was more of an audible thought than anything.

“Remove us, and they all but win the battle,” his XO said.

“I’d hoped they’d engage the Nighthawks,” Coleman said. “It would give us more time. Instead, we’re taking a beating. I don’t know how much longer we can hold out.”

As if some malevolent God were listening, the Redemption took another direct hit, causing the ship to shake hard enough that Coleman had to grip the bridge’s railing.

“Lieutenant Poiu, remind the Forgotten their primary objective is to protect the Redemption,” Coleman said. “If they can’t keep the Baranyk fighters off us, we’ll be forced to pull back.”

“Yes, sir.”

Coleman returned to his captain’s chair at the top ring of the bridge. He rarely sat in the thing, feeling more comfortable on his feet, but set within the chair’s armrests was the battle map’s control panel. His fingers raced across its glassy surface, replacing the image above with that of the battle below.

Escorted by a fresh squadron of Hornets, the Redemption’s drop ships, commonly referred to as Storks, were just about to enter the hive’s entrance. In their bellies was a full platoon of marines, including a squad of what Sergeant Haniger had called Firestarters. Coleman had only seen them once. Seven feet tall, encased in full battle armor, and armed with a flamethrower that could launch napalm one hundred meters, they were the living embodiment of hell.

If the Storks could land in the nursery and the Firestarters could unleash their inferno, then maybe the Baranyk would be forced to split their forces and come to the hive’s aid.

Maybe.

Coleman hated maybes. They were foolish hopes that ended in pain.

“Lieutenant Poiu,” Coleman said. “How many Hornets do we still have onboard?”

“That haven’t been flown, sir?” Lieutenant Poiu asked.

“Yes, Lieutenant. How many in reserve?”

“Forty-eight, sir.”

Two squadrons’ worth. Coleman had intended to keep them in reserve, to use them in the Baranyk hive to scout and destroy plasma turrets. But good intentions were never enough.

“Launch another squadron,” Coleman ordered. “Give our Nighthawks some added firepower."

Lieutenant Poiu voiced his affirmative, and moments later, the ship’s deck rumbled with the telltale sign of the fighters being launched. Coleman let himself lean back in the captain’s chair. This had been the hardest part of assuming responsibility of the Redemption. He was used to being in the shit. Not directing it. Like a master chess player, he’d put his people in position. Now it was their time to execute.

“Sir!” Ensign Richey shouted. “I’m picking up a new Baranyk signal.”

Coleman rushed to her terminal. “What is it?”

She’d isolated it on her terminal. Coleman couldn’t be sure, but he thought the wavelength looked familiar.

“It’s the same signal as Kryos, sir,” Ensign Richey said.

The mind-control signal.

The Baranyk were searching for anyone on the Redemption with a brain abnormality that would allow the Overlord to control them as he controlled the rest of the Baranyk. Dr. Rydell had scanned the entire crew twice, confirming and reconfirming that nobody was susceptible to the Baranyk signal. Nobody save one.

Coda.

* * *

“Isolate the signal!” Dr. Naidoo said as she and Dr. Rydell rushed to Coda’s gurney.

Strapped down tightly, Coda couldn’t see the commotion around him, but by the way the shadows darted around him, he could tell the medical staff was working urgently.

“Okay, good,” Dr. Naidoo said. “Now, overlay the baseline.” The technician must have done it because the next thing Dr. Naidoo said was, “Good. It hasn’t changed.”

There was more than a hint of relief in her voice. “Now, overlay the countersignal and give me the projected outcome.”

A tense silence, broken only by the beeps and chimes from the medical equipment, filled the space. A quiet that tense might as well have been a scream. Unable to see what was happening, Coda felt his heartrate spike. Adrenaline pumping, his restricted limbs clawed to break free.

“It’s working,” Dr. Naidoo said.

“What is it?” Coda asked. “What’s working?”

Coda couldn’t explain it, but he could almost feel their eyes on him. Something was happening, something they weren’t telling him. Something about him.

The signal, he thought. The Overlord is hitting us with their signal.

There was movement on the edge of his vision, and a shadow creeped over him. It took Coda a moment to recognize the friendly face of Dr. Rydell, the white lights of the medical ward above her.

“Coda, can you hear me?” Dr. Rydell pulled a small penlight from her smock and shone it in Coda’s eyes. She seemed pleased with the result. “Coda, I need you to answer me. You’re being hit with the Baranyk signal, but it appears the countersignal is nullifying its effects. Can you hear me?”

Coda tried to blink away the black splotches caused by the penlight. “Yes. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

Speaking the words aloud brought tears to his eyes. He was free. They had given him his life back. “I’m okay, Doc,” Coda said. “Thank you.”

Dr. Naidoo appeared beside Dr. Rydell, and together, they ran him through a series of physical tests. Coda did as instructed, never so happy to move his fingers and toes in his life.

“Good,” Dr. Naidoo said. “His physical response looks promising.”

Over the next several minutes, Dr. Naidoo and her staff ran even more tests on him. From moving his limbs to repeating complicated phrases, they did everything they could to prove that Coda wasn’t under the influence of the Baranyk. Even in the end, Coda could see it in their eyes that they weren’t entirely convinced.

After all, how can one prove that they’re themselves?

But Coda already knew the truth. They’d done it. He’d escaped the Overlord.

* * *

The Redemption shook again. Distantly, Captain Coleman heard Lieutenant Poiu’s report and Commander Garcia’s reply, but his attention was squarely on the battle reports coming in. His Nighthawks were doing everything they could to keep the enemy off them, and the newly arrived Hornets were helping with that. The plasma fire hitting the Redemption was coming fewer and farther between now, and there were early signs that the battle was swinging in their favor.

The marines had landed in the first cavern and were laying waste to the pupae with terrible efficiency. It hadn’t taken long before they’d been met with a fierce resistance, but the Firestarters with their massive flamethrowers and the traditional squads made for a devastating combination. Baranyk from all parts of the hive continued to pour into the cavern to protect their young, but the marines held their ground. Any time Coleman feared they would be overrun, the Hornets provided air cover, beating the enemy back enough to allow the marines to advance.

The Hornets themselves continued their push into the hive. Already, they’d discovered several other chambers, including other nurseries with pupae and another with larvae, as well as several supply chambers. The plasma turrets were less common deeper in the hive. But any they found, the Hornets destroyed.

All in all, the battle was going well. Too well, in fact. Coleman couldn’t help but feel like he was missing something.

“Captain,” Ensign Richey said. “I’ve got Dr. Naidoo on the line. Sounds urgent.”

The doctor had the ability to reach out to him directly via his earpiece but clearly knew better than to disrupt his attention during a battle.

“Put her through,” Coleman said.

“Captain,” came Dr. Naidoo’s voice in his ear.

“What is it, Doctor?”

“The patient appears to be doing well, sir,” she said. “We are reading zero negative effects from the Baranyk signal.”

Coleman’s body tensed. “It’s working?”

“It appears that way, sir,” Dr. Naidoo said. “We have completed our physical examination and brain scans, and all appears normal. Beyond that… there’s no way to know for sure.”

“Is he alert?” Coleman asked.

“Yes.”

“Put him on.”

“Yes, sir.”

After a brief pause, another voice came on the line.

“Sir?” Coda said.

“How are you feeling, Commander?” Coleman asked.

“Like myself, sir.”

Coleman tapped his finger on the side of his chair. Did he dare to hope? When everything was going so well, did he dare to push? Why perform a risky maneuver when he didn’t need to? Because it was in a fighter pilot’s DNA to push the envelope. To take risks. To take every potential advantage.

“Back at the Terran Fleet Academy, when I invited you to train with the Forgotten, you asked me a very important question. Do you remember what that was?”

“I do, sir,” Coda said.

“What was it?”

“‘Will I get a chance to kill Baranyk?’ sir.”

“And what did I tell you?”

“You said yes, sir.”

Coleman inhaled slowly. The doctors could run all the tests they wanted to, but Coleman knew that voice. Knew that tone. His pilot was back.

“Get your ass down to the drone operation center,” Coleman said. “It’s time to make good on that promise.”

51

Corridor, SAS Redemption

High Orbit, Baranyk Homeworld

Coda ran through the corridors. Dressed in his flight suit, he barely received a second glance. They were in the middle of a battle, after all.

Slowing as he came to the double doors of the drone operation center, Coda gathered his breath and strode in. The two-story room, easily one of the largest on the Redemption, was alive with activity. The room smelled of sweat and determination, and the curses and battle chatter that Coda was accustomed to hearing over the radio echoed off the room’s bulkhead.

Coda quickly found Phantom, who was conveniently removing his flight helmet and sliding out of his operation bay. Coda’s orders had been simple: report for duty and fight wherever Phantom told him to fight.

Coda snapped to attention and gave Phantom a sharp salute. “Lieutenant Commander O’Neil reporting for duty, sir.”

Phantom returned the salute. “Coda, I just got off the line with the captain. It seems he wants you fighting a real war machine.”

Coda smiled. The competition between the Nighthawk and Hornet pilots was little more than a sibling rivalry, but that didn’t mean they didn’t take every chance they had to enter into its pissing contest. “Something like that, sir.”

“Good. We could use you out there.” Phantom glanced up at the battle map, which showed the familiar terrain of the Baranyk hive. “We’re fighting on two fronts and dropping like flies any time we encounter those turrets.”

“Sorry to hear that, sir,” Coda said, not knowing how else to respond. “How can I help?”

“Take my bay,” Phantom said, indicating his operation bay. “I’m better suited out here, where I can coordinate the larger strategy more effectively.”

“Yes, sir.” Coda failed to hide the glee in his voice.

He sat down in the drone operation bay, feeling an overwhelming sense of familiarity. Each cockpit, from the Terran Fleet Academy to the various ships in the Sol Fleet, had a similar design. The bay was equipped with a panel in front of him complete with the various buttons and levers required for flight. The seat was clearly modeled after the Nighthawk’s gel seat but lacked the flight harness that would normally hold a pilot in place. The stick between his legs was similar, though it didn’t have the resistance and weight of his fighter. And of course, there was no motion. Just him, his seat, the stick, and the panel.

“Another flight is about to launch,” Phantom said from behind. “You’ll be in the dash-five position.”

“Thank you, sir,” Coda said. “Where are we headed?”

“The hive.”

“Hell yeah, sir.”

Phantom barked a quick laugh and gave him a sharp nod. “Good luck out there, Coda.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Phantom strode away, and Coda slid on the VR helmet. His view was immediately replaced with a first-person view from the seat of the drone’s would-be cockpit. He barely had time to collect his bearings and settle into the seat before the fighter was fired through the launch tube. One moment he was in the Redemption, then he was in the black.

I’m back.

His change in fortune had been so abrupt, he hadn’t had an opportunity to reflect on it. Within minutes, he’d gone from being restrained on a gurney to piloting a war fighter. He didn’t have time to reflect beyond that. A battle raged around the ship.

Baranyk fighters swarmed in, targeting the Redemption, while Hornets and Nighthawks alike fought to keep them at bay. As it always seemed, the human forces were outnumbered, though clearly, the enemy was more interested in the Redemption than the rest of the fleet. It made the enemy fighters easier targets, but the ship was taking a beating. There were several pockmarks where there’d been breaches in the hull, and in the brief moments Coda watched, the Redemption took two more direct hits that rocked the deck under him.

Coda fought every instinct he had to aid, and instead took his position in the formation and followed as the rest of the Hornets made for the planet. He tightened his grip around the joystick, willing himself to focus. Squawks, Nails, Moscow, and the rest of the Forgotten were out there, protecting the Redemption. He couldn’t let himself be distracted by their task. He had his own.

They cut through the atmosphere and made directly for the hive’s entrance. It looked exactly as it had in their simulations, and Coda was grateful that he and the rest had flown their own training hops. He didn’t miss a beat as the formation crested the hill, spun, and dove into the tunnel.

Without slowing down, the flight screamed through the tunnel, past its ruined plasma turrets then into the first chamber. Where the entrance tunnel had been empty and devoid of all life, the chamber was its opposite.

The ground itself was crawling. Thousands of Baranyk charged the brigade of marines who were already on the ground. A squad equipped with massive flamethrowers laid waste to everything in front of them, while more marines behind and stationed on the high ground the rocky surface provided offered cover fire.

Grenades exploded in the writhing mass of Baranyk, sending yellow blood and limbs into the air, but for every Baranyk they killed, three more took its place. The marines were putting up a hell of a fight, but if they didn’t get cover fire soon, they would be overrun.

“Crimson Flight,” Rascal, Crimson Flight’s flight leader, said over the radio. “Follow my mark and provide cover fire for our marines below.”

A series of affirmatives echoed across the line, then they were banking hard to starboard and racing toward the marines’ position. Coda’s hand tightened around the stick, his thumb ensuring he had his cannons selected, then squeezed the trigger. His joystick vibrated as rounds erupted from the nose of the Hornet. They tore through Baranyk as if they were nothing more than paper targets.

Crimson Flight ripped through the heart of the mass, tearing deep gouges through their ranks, then angled around for another pass, this time cutting across diagonally. The drones weren’t equipped with exterior auditory sensors, but Coda thought he could almost hear the high-pitched squeals of the dying enemy.

Any normal enemy would have retreated or taken cover under the onslaught, but not the Baranyk. Not under the Overlord’s control. The enemy warriors continued to push. The flamethrowers were proving incredibly effective, though, and coupled with the marines’ discipline, the human forces didn’t just hold their position but advanced.

Refusing to allow the enemy to gain any footing, Crimson Flight carved three more rents through the enemy mass, even expelling a handful of missiles to soften their ranks, before disengaging to make for deeper parts of the hive.

While isolated in the medical ward, Coda hadn’t heard anything about the battle. He soon learned that the drone squadrons had found more than half a dozen chambers, with more than three times the number of tunnels. Some were used for storage, but others housed the Baranyk colony. Many of those chambers were strangely vacant.

A good part of their population, Coda expected, were attempting to fight off the marines, but from what he’d seen of the hive so far, it had housed hundreds of thousands—far more than were currently engaged with the human ground forces. Did that mean the bulk of the missing Baranyk were warriors with the fleet? Or pilots flying their organic ships? Or was something else at play?

They continued deeper underground, following tunnels and discovering new chambers, often coming to dead ends. As frustrating as each was, Coda took it as a sign of progress. Dead ends meant they were finding the limits of the hive. It was only a matter of time until they discovered a tunnel that led to the Overlord’s chambers. Instead, they found where the missing Baranyk had gone.

After successfully eliminating another set of turrets in a short tunnel, Coda came out into another chamber. This one was wider and longer than the others, but its ceiling hung lower, and light shone through hundreds of small holes. Based on the ground’s topography, this chamber was somehow closer to the surface. Dark shapes, slightly larger than the Hornet drones, hung ominously from the tunnel’s ceiling.

“What are those?” someone asked over the radio.

Coda’s first thought was a large alien bat, but as he slowed and shone his fighter’s headlamps onto one, his blood ran cold. He knew that shape. He’d seen hundreds of them. Thousands. More.

“Baranyk fighters,” Coda said.

Then, as if the enemy had heard him, they dropped from the tunnel’s ceiling.

“Evasive maneuvers!” Phantom yelled.

To Coda’s left, a ball of orange flame lit the corridor. Before it burned out, another flashed to his right. The enemy fighters had fallen directly onto two Hornets, destroying them without ever firing a shot.

Coda didn’t wait for an order to open fire. He angled his fighter close to the chamber’s ceiling and flew its length, squeezing the trigger, destroying enemy fighters before they had a chance to disengage from the ceiling. Around him, several pilots did the same, but there were too few Hornets. For every fighter they eliminated, two more dropped, and in moments, the chamber was alive with activity.

The Baranyk fighters massed into a swarm as Coda reached the end of the chamber then banked hard to make a pass in the opposite direction. To his surprise, most of the swarm, hundreds of Baranyk fighters in all, flew out of the holes and above ground. What remained was a force only slightly larger than their flight.

What remained of Crimson Flight’s squadron broke. The drone pilots liked to employ large formations and collective firepower to make up for their biggest disadvantage: the lag time. But the Redemption was close enough that it was minimal, allowing Coda and the rest to operate their drones almost as if they were Nighthawks. The chamber’s narrow confines would have made formations difficult anyway.

A Baranyk fighter zipped across Coda’s trajectory on the six of one of the drones. Coda banked hard, moving into firing position behind it. After a moment, he got missile lock, squeezed the trigger, and eliminated the target before it had a chance to destroy its prey.

Coda whooped. He’d known deep down that there were other ways to make a difference, that he had more to offer than death, but this was what he’d been trained to do. His short time in leadership had taught him that it was best to put people in positions where they could be most effective. And this was that for Coda.

He fell into the rhythm of the battle, allowing its underlying beat to influence him. Moving almost on instinct, he banked and swerved, toggling between guns and missiles, focusing first on providing backup. It was a tactic he’d long since developed as a Nighthawk pilot when a downed fighter also meant a pilot’s death. When he didn’t do that, he used the chamber’s natural terrain to his advantage, often flying between its stalactites and natural rock formations for cover then coming out and reengaging from an unexpected angle.

He relished the moment. His face hurt from the smile he hid under his helmet. He’d longed for this moment for so long, he wasn’t going to let any of its details escape him. He savored the speed. Lived for the drag on his fighter’s wings. Embraced the challenge the planet’s gravity presented to his fuel and navigational thrusters. Most of all, he treasured every kill. Each downed fighter was one less enemy that could hurt him or his friends above.

He was ruthless and efficient. By the time the skirmish ended, only three fighters remained. Coda’s breathing was heavy with the exhaustion of a job well done as Phantom’s voice came over the radio.

“Reinforcements en route,” he said. “Crimson Flight, hold position until they arrive.”

“Yes, sir,” Coda said.

“Where did the rest of those fighters go?” someone else asked. Chipmunk, based on the icon next to her fighter.

“Skyward” was all Phantom said. It was all he had to say. They all knew what that meant.

They were headed for the Redemption. If it was destroyed, the battle was over.

52

Bridge, SAS Redemption

High Orbit, Baranyk Homeworld

“Sir, I’m picking up multiple contacts accelerating from the planet’s surface,” Lieutenant Poiu said.

“Are they the fighters Lieutenant Cahill warned us about?” Coleman asked. Word had come from his drone squadron CAG moments ago.

“No, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “Well, yes, but I’m also picking up readings from other parts of the planet.”

Coleman exchanged an uneasy glance with Commander Garcia. The fresh fighters from the surface already represented a large threat. What else could the enemy be preparing?

“Put it on the map,” Coleman said.

“Yes, sir.”

The battle map focused on the planet itself. The yellow planet had five separate red beacons shining where his tactical officer was picking up readings.

“Those are the other hives,” Commander Garcia said.

“Yes they are,” Coleman said. “Lieutenant Poiu, what am I looking at?”

“Enemy fighters, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said in a resigned tone. “Preliminary readings estimate… nearly four hundred, sir.”

“Four hundred?” Coleman repeated.

“I thought we weren’t expecting a large defensive presence?” Commander Garcia said.

Coleman did his best to keep his face stoic. He wanted to pace, to massage his forehead, anything to help him process the information faster. Four hundred fighters was larger than the entire force on the Redemption. There was outnumbered, then there was outnumbered. They couldn’t contend with that.

As if to echo his thoughts, the ship shook under a massive impact then four more in quick succession. Red alarm claxons flared on the bridge.

“What the hell was that?” Commander Garcia asked.

“Multiple hull breaches,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “Decks seventeen—”

“That wasn’t a normal impact,” Commander Garcia said. “What did they hit us with?”

“Unknown, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “Containment teams are on their way.”

Coleman let the exchange wash over him. He was still focused on the incoming enemy. “Why now?”

“Hmmm?” Commander Garcia asked.

“Why wait until now to deploy their full force?” Coleman asked. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“They wanted to draw us in,” Commander Garcia said. “Make us commit our resources then strike where we’re weakest.”

“Yes,” Coleman agreed. “But there’s something else. Something we’re missing. It’s like they never thought we were a threat to begin with. The Overlord is planning something, Jaime. I can feel it.”

“I hope you’re wrong, sir,” Commander Garcia said. “Either way, we have to do something about those incoming fighters.”

They were close enough now that the battle map was registering individual fighters flying from the planet, not just shining red beacons on the surface.

“How long until they arrive?” Coleman asked.

“Eight minutes, forty-three seconds, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said.

Coleman cursed silently. That wasn’t enough time. Not nearly enough time. There was zero chance they could hold the enemy back. But what could he do? He couldn’t just sit idle as a wave of enemy fighters were inbound. Withdrawing their forces meant allowing the enemy to regroup. Allowing the Overlord to hide. Retreat. Disappear. And without Joseph, they had no chance of finding him again.

This was their chance. Their one chance.

They couldn’t disengage. And the Redemption couldn’t hold its position. That left only one option.

“Lieutenant Poiu,” Coleman said. “I want every available drone fighter on the surface. We’re going after the Overlord with everything we have.”

“What about the ship, sir?” Commander Garcia asked.

“We’re falling back,” Coleman said.

“You know what that’ll do to the drones’ lag time,” Commander Garcia said.

“I do,” Coleman said. Their fallback position was a little more than four hundred thousand kilometers from the planet, which meant the lag time was a little under two seconds. That would create massive challenges in the hive. “We don’t have a choice, Commander.”

“What about the Nighthawks, sir?” Commander Garcia asked.

“No,” Coleman said, shaking his head.

“They’re your best asset, sir,” Commander Garcia pressed.

“Which is why we can’t risk them. You saw what those turrets did to the drones, Jaime. No, they’ll have a part to play in this. It’s just not yet.”

“Yes, sir,” Commander Garcia said in a tone that said he disagreed but was powerless to do anything about it.

Coleman opened a line to Moscow and Phantom. “Gentlemen, it’s Coleman. We’ve got a large force of enemy fighters inbound and are being forced to retreat. Phantom, I’m sending every available Hornet your way, but you’ll be significantly hampered by lag time. Continue with your objective. Find the leader of the Baranyk.”

“Yes, sir,” Phantom said. “We’re ready, sir. We’ve trained for this.”

“Moscow, you’re wasted out there,” Coleman continued, “Prepare to RTB for rearm and refit.”

“Sir—”

Coleman heard the objections in Moscow’s tone the moment he opened his mouth and shut him down just as quickly. “I know, Moscow. You’ll get your chance. In the meantime, prepare to RTB.”

“Yes, sir.”

Coleman let out a quiet breath. The plan was decided. The Hornets would continue their assault. The marines would continue their raid. The Nighthawks would prepare for what came next. And Coleman would bide his time, wait for the exact moment to commit his most prized assets in a do-or-die gambit.

He watched as the last of the Hornets launched from the ship and raced toward the surface, then the Nighthawks broke off their attacks and landed back on the ship. Without fighter support, the Redemption took a beating. Plasma fire carved deep holes into her hull, and the ship bucked several more times with those terrible impacts.

What the hell are they hitting us with?

As soon as the last Nighthawk was aboard, Coleman gave the order to jump. He nearly fell into his chair as the world stretched in front of him. A collective calm washed over the bridge as it snapped back into focus. The Nighthawks weren’t the only ones who needed to rearm and refit. His bridge crew needed a breather as well.

“Jump complete—”

“Sir!” Ensign Richey had her hands over her ears, listening to something in her earpiece. She looked up, terror marring her young face. “We have enemy hostiles onboard!”

“What?”

That’s when he heard the distant gunfire.

“How the hell did the enemy get onboard?” Commander Garcia asked.

Then it all clicked into the place. “The impacts,” Coleman said. “They weren’t hitting us with a new weapon. They were landing raiding parties.”

The enemy was on the ship. And most of their marines were on the surface, nearly four hundred thousand kilometers away.

53

Corridor, SAS Abraham Lincoln

Rendezvous Point, Human Controlled Space

Admiral Orlovsky marched through the Abraham Lincoln’s corridors, careful to keep his back straight and expression firm, exuding every ounce of confidence he didn’t feel. Knowing he was a living, breathing, walking lie, he did his best to avoid eye contact with the others in the corridors. When he failed, he could see his lie reflecting back at him through the mirrors of their eyes and hear their unspoken questions on their lips.

What are we going to do next?

It was an impossible question without an answer. It was the worst part about leadership. The unspoken reality that everyone looked to him for answers—especially when he didn’t have them.

The reality was since their battle at Tau Titus, five human systems had fallen, and in the aftermath, the enemy had simply disappeared. Admiral Orlovsky hadn’t believed the reports. The enemy had hit them like clockwork, following their pattern with precision, until they didn’t. Since then, he had sent every reconnaissance drone in the fleet to scout nearby systems, and each and every one of them had come back emptyhanded.

The enemy hadn’t disappeared—they’d vanished. He’d widened their search, but with each returning drone, the feeling of helpless dread coiling in his core stretched outward.

They were ghosts. The irrational part of him wanted to believe their sudden change in strategy had been the direct result of something Captain Coleman and the Redemption had done. Maybe they had the Overlord in their sights and the enemy fleet was hightailing it back to their home world to protect him.

No, he told himself again.

Even if it were possible for the Baranyk to jump halfway across the galaxy, which it wasn’t, Coleman’s chance of success was so small, it was barely worth thinking about. More likely, Orlovsky had fallen into some bait-and-switch strategy.

Or they discovered a new piece of information they didn’t have before, which caused them to alter their strategy.

He couldn’t shake that terrifying thought, and it was impossible to confirm. But he had an idea.

The sick bay door opened with a hiss as Orlovsky stepped into the medical ward. The beds lining the bulkhead were all occupied, and medical personnel scrambled from patient to patient. Often secluded on the bridge, he could easily forget the true cost of war. The painful cries of the wounded were stark reminders.

He found Dr. Sullivan near the back of the ward, where she was helping a wounded pilot. She had her thin blond hair tied back in a bun. Worry lines carved deep trenches in her skin. She was the best kind of doctor—one who cared. He’d met too many physicians who had become cynical after seeing thousands of patients and administering years of treatment, lacking the comforting bedside manner a doctor was meant to possess.

Dr. Sullivan was the opposite. If one could say anything negative about her, it was that she cared too much and took on too much of the pain herself.

She laid a hand on the pilot’s leg as her medical assistant prepared a shot. The pilot still wore his flight suit, but much of it had been burned away, leaving red-and-black blistered skin below. He thrashed and screamed, the agony of plasma fire burning without remorse. Once burned by the enemy weapon, there was no escape. Not until the dead skin had been removed and new skin had replaced it. Even then, its victims often complained of its phantom pain.

“What is it, Admiral?” Dr. Sullivan asked without looking up. She sank a needle into the pilot’s shoulder, providing the temporary promise of relief. “As you can see, I’m a little busy at the moment.”

Orlovsky bit back a smile. It didn’t matter how far he’d risen through the ranks, the doctor of his ship was always the one with the most power.

“I need to see O’Neil.” He glanced around the ward and didn’t see the former fighter pilot.

Dr. Sullivan let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m sorry, Admiral, but I have more pressing needs.”

She turned back to her patients but hesitated when Orlovsky placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I assure you, Doctor. There is nothing more important right now than O’Neil.”

She peered into his eyes and must have seen something in them, because she gave a quick order to her assistants then said, “Follow me.”

Dr. Sullivan led him through a door and into a separate room just off sick bay that usually stored their various medications and extra medical equipment. It had been turned into a makeshift isolation ward with Joseph O’Neil’s comatose body lying on a gurney at the room’s center. Various probes were attached to his chest, arms, and head, and several monitors surrounded him, displaying his heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen levels, and brain activity.

“There’s unfortunately been no change,” Dr. Sullivan said. “His vitals remain spiked. His heart rate is well over one hundred beats per minute, his breaths quick and shallow, and the adrenal medulla is working overtime, pumping his body full of epinephrine at an alarming rate.”

“Which means what exactly?”

“It means his body is in a steady state of fight-or-flight.”

“And you have no idea what’s causing it?”

Dr. Sullivan shook her head. The entire ordeal was strange. One moment, O’Neil was following the plan, meeting with his son in the Baranyk network at their scheduled time, and the next, his body had spasmed and his vitals had spiked. Ever since, he’d been in this state.

“My guess,” Dr. Sullivan said, “is something happened to him in the Baranyk network. Drs. Rydell and Naidoo’s report cited evidence that injuries sustained in the network manifest physical reactions in the real world. Either way, his body can’t sustain this forever.”

Orlovsky grimaced. He’d provided the doctors’ reports, as well as Captain Coleman’s own, to Dr. Sullivan before O’Neil first connected to the network from his ship. He needed his fellow leaders prepared. Unfortunately, her thoughts echoed his own. Something had happened to him, and they had no way of determining what.

“What are they doing to you?” Orlovsky asked.

The situation was eerily similar to what Coleman had described when the host was under the Overlord’s control. Only in those instances, the host was forced to act against their will.

“Could the Overlord be forcing him to remain connected to the network?” Orlovsky asked.

“I think it’s safe to assume he’s doing exactly that,” Dr. Sullivan said. “The question is why?”

“To torture him?” Orlovsky asked. “Captain Coleman said there was something oddly personal between them.”

“Torturing him for the sake of torturing him?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said, but while it wasn’t out of the question, it felt too simple. “Or to question him.”

“Lieutenant O’Neil was out of the Sol Fleet for almost twenty years,” Dr. Sullivan said. “His military intelligence is sorely lacking.”

It was true. Any military intelligence O’Neil possessed would be so outdated it would be next to useless to the Overlord.

“Unless…” he said, a thought coming to him.

“Unless what, sir?”

“Unless there’s something that O’Neil himself knows. Or rather, something only a human would know.”

“Like what?”

“Military bases. Population centers. Or…” Orlovsky’s blood ran cold. “Good god, it all makes sense.”

“What makes sense?” There was fresh urgency in Dr. Sullivan’s tone.

But Admiral Orlovsky had already moved on. “Find a way to break the connection. Drug him. Put him into a medically induced coma. I don’t care, but do whatever you can to get him out of the Baranyk network.”

“That’s dangerous, sir,” Dr. Sullivan said.

“Not as dangerous as the alternative.”

She knew better than to ask, so all she said was, “I’ll see what I can do, sir.”

Orlovsky stormed from the room, through the adjoining sick bay, and back into the corridor. Like sick bay, the bridge was located in the belly of the ship, and he would be there in moments, but he opened a direct channel to his XO anyway.

“What is it, sir?” Commander Yoshida asked through his earpiece.

“Prepare the fleet to jump.”

“Sir?”

“I’m on my way to the bridge,” Orlovsky said. “I’ll be there in two minutes. I want the order to go out and the ships moving toward the JumpGate by the time I get there.”

“Yes, sir,” Commander Yoshida said. “Where are we jumping, sir?”

Orlovsky hesitated, as if vocalizing the thought would somehow make it a reality. Like them, the enemy was prepared to strike humanity where it hurt most. Their home world.

“Earth. We’re jumping to Earth.”

54

Bridge, SAS Redemption

Distant Orbit, Baranyk Homeworld

“Enemy contact!” Lieutenant Poiu bellowed. “Decks nine, thirteen, seventeen, twenty-two, and thirty-five. Personnel requesting immediate assistance, sir.”

“Deck thirty-five,” Commander Garcia echoed. He looked at Coleman, concerned. “That’s where our drone pilots are located.”

Coleman gave him a gruff nod of acknowledgment. “How many onboard?”

“Unknown, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “I’ll have numbers and live locations in two minutes.”

“Let me know the moment you have something.”

Coleman suppressed a curse. He hadn’t planned for enemy boarding parties. His marines were on the planet’s surface. Thankfully, the ship was equipped with a security force. More than that, he had an entire ship full of military personnel.

“In the meantime, close the blast doors and shut down all elevators on the infiltrated decks,” Coleman continued.

“That’s casting a death sentence to everyone down there,” Commander Garcia said quietly enough that only Coleman could hear him.

Scanning the bridge, Coleman knew Garcia wasn’t the only one thinking it.

“We can’t let them reach the drone operation center,” Coleman said. “Get with the master-at-arms and lead a team of security and nonessential personnel to sweep the other decks, beginning with twenty-two. But listen to me—no matter what happens to the rest of the ship, we can’t lose our drone fighters or our ability to jump back to the planet.”

Coleman expected his XO to exude some level of concern, but to the man’s credit, his resolve seemed to harden. Back stiff, he snapped a salute with a crisp, “Yes, sir” and strode from the bridge, already using his earpiece to assemble a resistance.

“Where are we at with those scans, Lieutenant Poiu?”

“Coming in now, sir.”

“Put it on the battle map.”

The image on the battle map changed from the macro view of the planet to a single wireframe image of the Redemption, sixty-three levels at its tallest point. Each level was displayed with surprising detail. Red circles indicated the enemy’s entrance points, while red dots moving through corridors represented the enemy forces on the ship.

“Scans indicate twenty Baranyk warriors onboard, sir,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “Four per infiltrated deck.”

Not an overwhelming force, but left unimpeded, twenty Baranyk could inflict catastrophic damage on the ship.

“Provide Commander Garcia with a live feed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Good luck and Godspeed, gentlemen. Do us proud.

* * *

The ship was eerily quiet as Commander Garcia led his fireteams toward the beacon. He and the rest of their ragtag group had been outfitted for the battle by the master-at-arms. They wore full tactical gear, including a pair of clear tactical glasses under their combat helmets that gave them a live view of the enemy’s movements. Since the captain had closed the blast doors and shut down all movement between decks, the enemy was still contained on the original infiltrated decks.

The beacon was a red symbol located in the middle of deck thirty-five and moving toward the center of the ship, where the drone operation center was located. Commander Garcia didn’t know if the Baranyk were aware of that, but their movements indicated they were.

“We’ve arrived at the blast doors, sir,” Commander Garcia said.

“Good work, Commander,” Captain Coleman said through his headset.

Unlike much of the Sol Fleet, the fleet’s ground forces still wore bulky headsets designed more than a hundred years ago. Their range was longer, the communication was crisper, and they were supposedly more reliable. When it came to noise suppression, though, humanity hadn’t found a better design than the good old-fashioned over-the-ear design.

“Opening the door now.”

Commander Garcia nodded to his fireteams and stepped back, raising his rifle. His men were already fanned out across the corridor, four having dropped to a knee, with Garcia and three others behind them, eight in all against four enemies within a confined space.

I should have stayed retired.

The interlocking segments of the blast door separated and slipped into the bulkhead, opening a passage beyond. Garcia’s finger rested against the trigger of his rifle, but no enemy waited for them on the other side.

Garcia stepped out from behind the security guard and strode into the infected deck. The corridor on this side of the blast doors couldn’t have been any more different than the one they’d left behind. The normal soft white glow of the bulkhead was dimmer and flickered where panels had been destroyed, creating long shadows. Sparks flashed, and electrical currents hissed as exposed wires brushed against metal surfaces.

The dead littered the deck—fallen bodies, torn to pieces. Blood smeared the white bulkhead and pooled across the deck. The poor souls had tried to escape but had come to a dead end of their own leader’s creation. Unarmed and with nowhere to run, they hadn’t stood a chance. He could almost see them banging against the blast doors, screaming, begging, pleading for someone to open them. They would have tried to pry open the doors as the enemy advanced on them. Salvation hadn’t come, and there was nothing Garcia could do for them now except exact revenge and prevent as many more meaningless deaths as possible.

The red indicators on his tactical glasses showed that the enemy force was moving in the opposite direction, toward the center of the ship. Garcia waved the squad forward, and they advanced through the corridor, keeping their rifles trained forward, not trusting the ship’s readings, refusing to be taken unawares.

A woman’s scream cut through the corridor ahead of them. Garcia took one look at his team and darted forward double time. Rounding a corner, they came on the enemy and the pathetic resistance of the trapped personnel. A pair of men in bloodstained uniforms wielded fire extinguishers, swinging their bulk when the enemy warriors lunged at them.

The corridor’s straight design left the enemy between the two human groups but also left the survivors in the line of fire. Garcia hadn’t fired a weapon in years, but he didn’t have a choice. He opened fire, shooting controlled bursts into the enemy’s flank. His squad followed suit, and the corridor erupted into rifle fire.

High-pitched shrieks washed over them like a warm blanket as bits of Baranyk carapace and yellow alien blood splattered against the bulkhead. The two enemy warriors in the rear turned and charged Garcia’s fireteams. One leaped and spun, landing on the bulkhead. Its sharp legs dug into the panels, keeping it suspended on the bulkhead as if it were in a tunnel. Panels of light shattered in its wake, and as the enemy warrior advanced, darkness followed.

They moved with terrifying speed, their size nearly filling the narrow corridor, but the squad’s combined firepower was too much. The enemy shrieked as dozens of rounds peppered its carapace. When the advancing force finally fell lifeless to the deck, Garcia released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and looked beyond the fallen enemy. The human resistance had been slaughtered, their bodies hardly recognizable. Their attackers had vanished.

Garcia cursed. The red dots were moving directly toward the drone operation center, and they seemed to be moving with more urgency.

“Move!” His legs pumping under him, Garcia opened a line to the ship’s tactical officer. “Lieutenant Poiu, we’ve engaged the enemy, but a contingent has broken off and is making for the drone operation center. We’re in pursuit but unlikely to arrive in time to halt their advance. Advise.”

“Understood, Commander,” Lieutenant Poiu said. “The captain has already ordered the drone operation center’s doors sealed. They’re not as thick as the blast doors, but they should hold long enough for you to engage.”

“Roger.” Garcia closed the line.

The remaining two Baranyk enemies were too big, too fast and powerful to keep up with. With every step, the enemy force created more space between them and their pursuers. And in their wake, they destroyed bulkheads and the light they provided.

Garcia’s squad passed more than one frightened crew member and others that had been injured in the enemy’s passing. He resisted the urge to drag them to safety and order a member of his team to provide medical assistance. He had his orders, and the sooner he completed them, the sooner medical personnel could arrive on the deck.

The red enemy dots on his tactical glasses stopped moving.

They’ve arrived.

Grinding his teeth, Garcia pushed harder. He was already tired and winded. Combined with his lack of recent firearms training, it wasn’t a good combination. Worse yet, he and his squad were still at least another fifteen seconds out. Would the operation center’s reinforced doors hold for that long?

When they finally came upon the enemy, the two warriors were scratching at the doors with terrifying violence. The reinforced windows in the middle of the doors had been shattered, and the scared pilots beyond watched in horror as Baranyk limbs reached through, scratching and clawing, trying to find purchase. A couple drone pilots had left their bays and were trying to repel the enemy by any means necessary.

Garcia registered all of this in the blink of an eye and opened fire in the next. Painful cries followed, but the enemy didn’t turn to engage. Their efforts increased in intensity, movements becoming desperate. And because they didn’t turn to engage, they kept their flank facing the squad, protecting their vital organs. That meant they took longer to kill.

Garcia’s rifle clicked. Out of ammo.

Shit!

He released the magazine, ripped a replacement off his belt, fumbled with it, dropped it, picked it up, and snapped it into place. By the time he chambered a round, the enemy had fallen. The doors still held.

Garcia advanced cautiously. If the enemy had turned on him while he made a mockery of replacing the magazine, he would have been torn to bits. The Baranyk to his left still moved, its limbs reaching for the door to continue its efforts. He circled its body, finding the triangular head at its front.

What would Sergeant Haniger have said if he was the one who had slain the beast?

“Oorah, motherfucker.” Garcia squeezed the trigger, sending three quick rounds into the enemy’s head.

55

Drone Operation Center, SAS Redemption

Distant Orbit, Baranyk Homeworld

“Enemy forces on deck thirty-five neutralized,” Commander Garcia said. “I repeat, deck thirty-five is secure.”

There were so many improbable things about the situation that it took several moments for Coda to register. Commander Garcia looked like a bratwurst shoved into a too-small bun. His tactical vest barely covered his round chest, and his helmet was so small that it wasn’t even latched at his chin. Still, he was covered in yellow blood and had just saved Coda and the rest of the Hornet pilots.

“Moving out,” Commander Garcia said.

“Wait,” Coda said. “Sir, please.

The words were breathless and nearly inaudible above the sound of Coda’s hammering heart. He was still on the other side of the operation center’s doors, but the glass in the windows had been shattered, and he could hear the commander’s conversation on the other side. Before that… the Baranyk had nearly forced their way in.

“What the hell’s going on?”

“Enemy boarding parties,” Commander Garcia said, looking down at the lifeless bodies of the two Baranyk warriors at his feet. “It’s under control.”

“Under control? Didn’t you just say there are other Baranyk on the ship, sir?”

“We’re working on it.” Commander Garcia spun his finger in the air, signaling for his team to form up and move out.

“What if they come back, sir?” Phantom asked. He had been part of the group who’d tried to fight off the enemy on this side of the doors. They weren’t armed, so they’d been forced to use anything that wasn’t bolted to the floor.

“The captain has them locked on the affected decks,” Commander Garcia said. “Now, if you please… I have a job to do.”

Phantom nodded, but his gaze fell to the fallen Baranyk warriors as if he were afraid that they were playing dead and would rise again the moment the marines were gone. That fear, fortunately, wasn’t realized as the security force disappeared down the corridor.

“What the hell’s going on?” Phantom asked, turning to Coda. “Enemy boarding parties? I’ve never heard of that.”

It wasn’t quite a question, but Coda heard the uncertain tone in it. He and the rest of the Forgotten had seen more action than any other unit or squadron in the fleet. More than that, they’d flown deeper into Baranyk space than anyone else ever had. If anyone had seen nonstandard enemy tactics, it would have been them.

“I haven’t either,” Coda said. In reality, the battles were fought in the black, often times hundreds of kilometers away from the capital ships themselves. The enemy rarely got close enough to attack the larger ships and certainly not close enough to land a boarding party.

“What does it mean?” Phantom asked, clearly shaken.

“It means we’re getting close,” Coda said.

Phantom took a shuddering breath then turned to face the rest of the operation center. In the chaos of the fight, they’d forgotten about the battle on the planet. Some had removed their flight helmets midbattle. Others, like Coda, had been so distracted that their drone fighters had been shot down. They were now looking to their commander for orders.

Coda ignored them and focused on the live feed on the battle map. Their forces had done an admirable job of exploring its depths, uncovering chamber after chamber below the surface. Seeing the hive at a macro level, he realized just how expansive it was. Not just its depth but how wide it was too. Separated from the battle and finally with a moment to breathe, Coda found himself studying it.

“We’re getting close,” he repeated. But to where?

Phantom suddenly cocked his head to the side and reached for his ear. He was getting a communication. “Roger.” After the communication ended, he added, “Shit.”

“What is it?” Coda asked.

Without responding, Phantom changed the view on the battle map to show a more distant view of the planet itself. Green indicators represented their available drones—just before jumping, the captain had launched all available drones, using their onboard computers to navigate the fray and take up station in the planet’s orbit. It left them as sitting ducks, but it was better than being several hundred thousand kilometers away.

That wasn’t what Phantom was looking at, though. Farther away from the planet, the Baranyk fighters that had been engaged with the Forgotten and the Redemption itself weren’t sitting idle. They raced toward the planet.

“Lock in!” Phantom bellowed.

His pilots moved without hesitation, donning their flight helmets and turning back to their operation bays.

“Wait,” Coda said.

“We don’t have time. The enemy fighters will be on us in minutes.”

“They’re headed toward the planet,” Coda said. “We have no indications they’re making for our drones.”

“Those are the only drones we have left,” Phantom persisted. “We can’t take that risk.”

“Just wait,” Coda said. “Two minutes. That’s all I ask.”

Phantom shook his head in frustration but did as Coda asked.

Coda was right, and he knew it. They were close to the Overlord’s doorstep. Really close. And regardless of whether they powered up those drones now or not, this would be their last chance. They couldn’t afford to search aimlessly in the dark.

Studying the battle map, he realized their entrance point wasn’t the main entrance to the hive. Several dozen kilometers to the north, closer to the mountains, was an entrance centralized to the rest of the dwelling. The hangar they’d discovered was in the opposite direction, on the outskirts of the hive and near the surface. That made sense since they needed to get airborne quickly, and they wouldn’t want such a prime military target close to the rest of the hive.

His eyes kept returning to those mountains. Just like engineering, the bridge, and the drone operation center were protected in the heart of the ship, the Overlord would be too. And what better way to protect himself than with a mountain range. Even back on Earth and Mars, critical bunkers meant to protect the world’s leaders had been built deep below mountains. They often had hidden emergency exits too.

“There,” Coda said. “Those mountains. How much of the hive have we searched under them?”

Phantom zoomed in on the area. “Not much. The little we found appeared to be domestic areas. We encountered moderate resistance, but it appeared to be of little tactical importance.”

“That’s it.” Coda knew deep down, with every cell of his body. “That’s where we need to focus.”

“There was no—”

“Think about it,” Coda said. “That area is protected by the largest mountain range on the planet. That’s almost ten thousand meters of rocky protection above ground, not counting what’s below it. And what better way to rule your minions than being in the middle of them? Remember, the Overlord isn’t just their king. He’s their emperor. Their ruler. I’m telling you—that’s where we’ll find him.”

Phantom looked back at the battle map, his eyes narrowing, almost as if he were seeing it in a new light. “There’s only one flaw with that line of thinking.”

“What’s that?”

“You say he’s like a god to them,” Phantom said. “That he’s basically an Olympian looking down at all of his peasants from Mount Olympus.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? Gods don’t look up to mortals. They look down on them.”

It clicked.

“Holy shit, you’re right! He’s not using the mountains because they provide more protection. He’s there because it offers enough protection and allows him to rule from above. We’ve been searching all wrong. Are there any chambers in the region we’ve found that go up?”

Phantom was already zeroing in on the area. Within moments, he’d found what he was looking for. He looked at Coda, true excitement burning in his eyes. “We thought it was a ventilation shaft, but looking at it again…”

“It’s directly over the main habitat.”

Coda clapped his hands then pointed at the screen. “That’s it. Relay the information to the captain, and let’s go get the sonuvabitch.”

If Phantom had any issues with being ordered around by someone technically under his command, he didn’t show it. He radioed the bridge and began his report.

Coda left him to it, returning to his operation bay. I’m coming for you. I hope you’re ready.

56

Drone Operation Center, SAS Redemption

Distant Orbit, Baranyk Homeworld

Forty-eight fresh Hornets cut through the Baranyk home world’s atmosphere, burning a fiery tail like a comet about to make impact. They flew in a revised delta formation that was more diamond in shape than the traditional V.

Coda couldn’t help but anticipate the bumps and shakes that came with breaking atmo. Tucked in the belly of the Redemption hundreds of thousands of kilometers away, he felt none of it. Strangely, he missed it. Having trained to fly the Hornet at the Terran Fleet Academy, he was more than capable, but after spending the last year in a Nighthawk, he couldn’t help but long for his old cockpit and everything that came with it.

There was something about feeling the movement, experiencing the flight, that he thought made him a better pilot—even if the Hornet was capable of performing maneuvers that the Nighthawk could not.

“The enemy formation has spotted our reserve force,” Phantom said over the radio.

Coda glanced at the battle map on his HUD. The red indicators of the incoming enemy force moved toward the leftover Hornet drones. When Captain Coleman had ordered every available Hornet launched before the Redemption jumped away, they’d thought that they would be able to keep a reserve force on standby. That would have allowed shot-down pilots to reenter the battle in fresh fighters. Unfortunately, the enemy appeared to have spotted them.

The massive force that had launched from the planet’s surface before descended on the reserves, laying waste to them with deadly efficiency. In moments, they were beyond and in full pursuit of the formation.

This truly is our last chance.

“Enemy in pursuit,” Phantom said. “We won’t be able to stagger our attack runs the same as we did before. Keep it tight.”

Coda shifted in his seat, his hands tightening around the controls. They were flying at over two thousand kilometers per hour, but as soon as they neared the hive’s entrance, they would be forced to slow down. With the Redemption so far away, they estimated the lag time to be nearly two seconds. To the uninitiated, that didn’t sound like much, but when flying at several hundred kilometers an hour and within a tight space, even a split second of delay could be catastrophic.

No time for excuses. This is what we trained for.

The white haze of atmo washed away, leaving a clear picture of the planet’s surface. They’d come in on a steeper approach, enabling them to dive directly toward the entrance. The giant hill loomed up at them as if it were the mouth of a giant worm, preparing to swallow their fighters in a single, massive bite.

“Deploy flaps and slow to three hundred KPH,” Phantom said.

Coda flicked the switch on his terminal, and his fighter immediately bucked. Had he been in the cockpit, he would have been thrown violently against his flight harness.

There are benefits to the drones, he admitted to himself.

The enemy rushed in, making up ground by the second.

“Emerald Flight,” Phantom said, “decrease speed to one-seventy-five and circle the hive’s entrance. You’re to come at the incoming enemy from its flank. Stall them for as long as possible. Every second counts.”

“Yes, sir,” their flight leader said.

“The rest of you, prepare to enter in five seconds.”

As they neared the entrance, the formation flattened out, shifting from a diamond to a spear shape. Bringing up the rear, Emerald Flight broke away and flew toward the mountain range.

Darkness washed over Coda’s fighter as they dove into the entrance, and he immediately switched to his computer-aided view. Inside the hive, they slowed. Compared to their previous attack runs, it felt like they were crawling, but the reduced speed gave them time to see the corridor’s end and make the necessary course adjustments.

It was an odd sensation to see the incoming obstacle and turn the stick, only to have the image on the display continue on its previous course. Then, a couple heartbeats later, the image shifted as the signal finally made it to the drone.

The crisp lines of their formation grew ragged, and at least one fighter misjudged the timing. The craft exploded into a ball of fire and molten metal, leaving a blackened splotch on the yellow-tinted walls. As they exited the tunnel and entered the first chamber, they increased speed again, flying its length before deploying flaps again. They moved like that through several tunnels and chambers, making for the hive’s center.

When they came upon it, Coda couldn’t help but feel awed. Phantom had said the chamber was primarily a residential area. What he hadn’t said was that it was at least ten kilometers deep and an equal distance wide or that it had a strange alien beauty.

Dug into the ground were various holes and chambers, almost honeycomb in design, while fissures and stalagmites had been hollowed out to create buildings and structures above ground. Even the walls of the chamber had been gouged out to create tunnels for individuals. Long, flat strips were cut through the honeycombs in what must have been streets, and soft blue light emanated from several of the structures.

For the first time in his life, Coda realized the Baranyk were much more than an enemy of bugs. They were a race complete with soldiers, workers, families, and who knew what else. They had built a civilization, something worth remembrance. He couldn’t help but wonder how much of this had existed before the Overlord. Had their civilization thrived before him? How much had they lost under his rule? Coda didn’t have long to think about it. Their objective was dead ahead.

At the center of the city was a circular clearing. The ground rose up gently in its center. Anyone who stood at its peak would be visible to everyone around them. A hundred meters above the small hill was a massive stalactite reaching toward the ground like a finger pointing downward. They flew a small circle under it, getting a better vantage. As he'd expected, the formation was hollow.

“Crimson Flight, you’re up,” Phantom said. “We need eyes in there. Show us what we’re dealing with.”

The affirmative came over the radio, and twelve fighters broke away from the formation. They approached the entrance then banked hard, flying upward into it.

Coda called up a new image on his HUD. In the top left corner, the new visual appeared, taken straight from the lead fighter in Crimson Flight. The inside of the tunnel looked much like the others, except this appeared to have row after row of teeth.

Not teeth. Turrets.

And they were already glowing hot.

Without waiting for Phantom’s order, Crimson Flight struck first, firing a wave of missiles. Explosions littered the inside of the tunnel, destroying the nearest turrets, but within moments, a wall of plasma fire erupted downward, washing over the fighters and onto the clearing below. In a single destructive second, every fighter in Crimson Flight was eliminated.

“All right,” Phantom said. “If there was any doubt this is where the Overlord is holed up, that’s gone now. Break into subflights and wait for my mark. We’re going to have to take out those turrets one by one. Azure Flight, you’re up first.”

Coda flew wide circles around the entrance, keeping an eye on Azure Flight’s approach and their forces outside the hive. The enemy force was nearing the hive’s entrance, and Emerald Flight had already launched a volley of missiles. Judging by the size of the enemy force, Emerald Flight wouldn’t be able to hold out for long. But they didn’t need to. They just needed to hold the enemy off long enough for them to find the Overlord.

Azure Flight entered the tunnel. Having seen how the turrets were displayed, their computers locked onto their targets quicker, and they were able to release three waves of missiles before the plasma struck.

Coda studied the readout on his HUD. The tunnel’s defenses were much more imposing than any they’d run into before. The Overlord seemed more concerned with his own people attempting to overthrow him than with an outside force assaulting the planet. That made Coda wonder how much autonomy the individual Baranyk had when the Overlord wasn’t controlling them. In some way, he actually empathized with them.

The tunnel’s defenses appeared nearly insurmountable. They’d lost multiple flights just breaking into the tunnels, and this presented a much bigger challenge. And they didn’t have the reserves they’d had before.

We can’t use the same strategy as before.

Blue plasma fire poured from the tunnel like water from a faucet, incinerating everything in its path. Phantom was about to order the next flight in when Coda opened a direct channel.

“Phantom, it’s Coda. You’re on a private channel. We don’t have the numbers to assault the tunnel the same way as before. We’ve already exhausted nearly half our forces.”

“If you’ve got another suggestion, I’m all ears.”

“Some of our Hornets are still equipped with Welcome Parties, right?”

“Yes.”

“Two of those should do it.”

Coda could almost hear the drone CAG thinking. They’d had to be very careful using the Welcome Parties when entering the hive since a mistimed blast would have collapsed the tunnel system and made it impossible to enter, but here, the debris would fall downward, leaving nothing but a hole above.

“All right,” Phantom said over the wide channel, “change of plans. Bombers, form up. Two per run. Target opposite sides of the tunnel, launch, and retreat. The rest of you, give the tunnel a wide berth. It’s coming down.”

Two drones per flight had been equipped with the Welcome Parties. They were bulky and had enough mass that it reduced maximum speed and made performing even basic maneuvers trickier. They shifted into their own formation while the rest of the squadron created some distance between them and the tunnel.

Two bombers broke away from the formation and made for the mouth of the tunnel. From Coda’s vantage, they looked like little more than specks of dust being sucked into a long tube. As soon as they disappeared, Coda pulled up their live feed on his HUD. The plasma turrets were already charging, their exteriors beginning to glow.

“Bombs away,” one of the pilots said. Their Hornets bucked as the heavy missiles detached and zipped for the sides of the tunnel. Before the missiles had gone far, the two drones flipped nose to tail and burned hard, racing for the exit.

The first spit of plasma fire appeared as the missiles struck.

A terrible but intensely gratifying explosion rocked the chamber. Rock and debris fell from the ceiling, and for a brief second, Coda thought the entire chamber ceiling was about to collapse. A massive shock wave exploded from the tunnel, and half its length broke away. It tumbled toward the surface of the chamber. Rock, fire, and smoke trailed behind and crashed against the floor, sending up plumes of dust and debris.

“Next wave!” Phantom bellowed.

Two more bombers disappeared into the dust. The next explosion was even more devastating than the first. The already-damaged tunnel exploded outward, sending boulder-sized chunks careening into the colony, destroying homes and community buildings.

When the dust finally settled, the scope of their efforts became apparent. The tunnel had completely fallen away from the chamber’s ceiling, leaving a terrible maw where the entrance had been.

Coda pumped his fist excitedly. They’d done it and without losing any more fighters.

“Phantom, this is Waddle,” a voice said over the radio. Waddle was Emerald Flight’s flight leader. “We did what we could, but the enemy is inbound. I repeat, the enemy is inbound.”

Glancing at the battle map on his HUD, Coda saw the enemy fighters had broken through Emerald Flight’s resistance and entered the hive. They weren’t more than five minutes away.

“Collapse the tunnel,” Coda said.

“What?” Phantom said.

“Collapse the tunnel,” Coda repeated. “There’s probably another way in, but it’ll slow them down.”

“And eliminate any chance we have of getting our drones out of here,” Phantom said.

“This was always a one-way mission.”

“If we’re wrong…” Phantom said. “Or if he’s not there… We won’t get another chance.”

“We’re not going to get another chance anyway,” Coda said.

Phantom’s resigned sigh was clearly audible through his flight helmet. “You’re right. Do it. Bombers, collapse the tunnel. The rest of you, form up. It’s time we saw what’s waiting for us above.”

Coda moved into formation as the bombers broke away. Their work was done in moments, the Welcome Parties making quick work of the tunnel entrance. As Phantom had said, that isolated the Hornets in the chamber and would at least make retreat much more difficult, but that was the farthest thing from their minds. Not this close.

“What is that?”

It took Coda a moment to figure out what the pilot was talking about. He’d thought it was just the aftermath of the tunnel collapsing, but no, this was different. It sounded like distant thunder, and it was coming from…

Deep cracks formed in the ceiling as dust and debris fell downward.

“Fall back!” Coda bellowed.

Too late.

The ceiling around the entrance to the Overlord’s chamber shattered, then the entire thing was coming down. Shards of rock tumbled, crashing on drones and habitats alike. Coda did his best to dodge the falling debris, but it was more luck than skill that saw him through it. He didn’t know how long rock rained down, but when it was over, only a handful of Hornets remained.

Breathing heavily, he surveyed the scene. It was tough to make out through the thick dust, but it appeared much of the colony had been destroyed. Above him was the remains of an empty chamber. He had no idea what it had looked like before its floor had fallen away, but hovering at its center was a single Baranyk fighter. Flat black in color, its lines were sharper than others, and silver stripes decorated its sides. He’d seen that coloring before. Seen those stripes.

It seemed the Overlord had a fighter of his own.

Coda punched his engines and angled his stick to engage.

It didn’t respond.

For a brief moment, Coda thought that he was under the Overlord’s control again. Or that his fighter had been hit with a signal that had rendered it inoperable. But then he remembered the lag time. Two seconds in a fighter was an eternity. And, it proved, more than enough for the Overlord.

The enemy fighter rocketed forward, plasma fire erupting from its front turrets, eliminating two drones Coda hadn’t even seen. Then it was banking hard, moving in pursuit of another.

Finally, Coda’s fighter was moving, racing toward the spot the Overlord had been. Coda was already trying to turn, but the Overlord’s flight pattern was too random, he had no way of keeping him in his sights. Every time he turned, he’d spot the Overlord, but just as quickly as he came into his sights, the enemy was gone again.

One by one, the Overlord systematically destroyed what was left of the Hornet squadron. Somehow, he saved Coda for last. It was almost as if he knew Coda was behind its controls. By then Coda had all but given up. He’d throttled back enough that his drone was doing little more than hovering. The Overlord came on his six.

He didn’t fire.

Coda spun, and several lethargic moments later, his ship rotated at his command. Coda squeezed the trigger, opening his cannons, all the while knowing it was a useless endeavor. It took two seconds for the signal to arrive in the drone operation bay. His fighter was destroyed before he ever knew it.

His terminal went black.

They’d found the hive. Discovered the Overlord. And failed.

57

Bridge, SAS Abraham Lincoln

Jovian System, Sol System

The world snapped back into focus as the Abraham Lincoln completed its jump. Admiral Orlovsky sat in his admiral’s chair on the bridge, fingers digging into the armrests. He expected chaos, a system under siege, humanity fighting for its very existence. Instead, he found stillness.

The red, orange, and white bands of Jupiter shone brightly, its moons little more than shadows against its backdrop. Earth may have been the ancestral home of humanity, but Jupiter, with its habited moons and stations, could support greater numbers and had become its economic hub more than a century past. And it appeared as it would have any other day since.

The night sides of Europa and Ganymede shone with orange artificial light, and Jupiter Station, the largest station in the Sol System, blinked steadily. Space traffic would be too small to make out at their distance, but Orlovsky could almost see the hundreds of ships commuting between the moons, harvesters braving the planet’s storms to mine important gasses, and others using any of the dozen JumpGates to move to more distant locations.

A terrible worry gripped his heart like a fist. Where were the Baranyk? Had he guessed wrong?

“Report,” Orlovsky said. The vanguard, fifteen of the fleet’s most powerful ships, had arrived first and would have already taken readings from across the entire system.

“The New Dubai is reporting no enemy activity,” his tactical officer, Lieutenant Erikson, said.

Orlovsky sat back in his chair, rubbing his chin in nervous habit. Had the fleet simply beaten the enemy here? Even if the enemy had improved their jump capabilities, Orlovsky doubted they would have been able to jump straight to the Sol System the same way the fleet had. The JumpGates may have been limited with how many ships they could send per jump, but they were still capable of sending ships farther than any individual jump drive. Arriving first wasn’t out of the question.

He squashed the wriggling doubt threatening to take root in the back of his mind. He'd rolled the dice, believing he knew the enemy’s next move. He couldn’t second-guess that now. One of the worst traits a leader could have was indecisiveness. If he started second-guessing his decisions, the crew would follow his lead and second-guess him as a result. Until he had reason to believe he was wrong, it was best to move forward as planned.

“It appears we’ve arrived before the enemy,” Orlovsky said. “Have all civilian and nonessential personnel evacuate to Earth and Mars, and have the fleet take position. We’re moving forward with attack plan Delta-Four.”

“Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Erikson said.

The battle plan would divide the fleet into several smaller forces. Even with the system’s defenses, they didn’t have the strength to take the enemy head-on. Their best hope was to divide their number and force the enemy into as many separate battles as possible. Jupiter and its four Galilean moons naturally lent itself to that strategy.

With his orders being relayed and the fleet in motion, there was nothing left to do but wait. Wait and pray.

It took a little more than an hour for the rest of the fleet to arrive and an equal amount of time for them to move into position. The evacuation was slower, though there was nothing that could be done about that. No matter how well coordinated their efforts, moving several billion people took time.

Every minute felt like an hour, every hour a day. Orlovsky refused to let doubt nag at him but couldn’t keep his hands from becoming clammy or the sweat from dripping down his back. It had often been said that the time leading up to a battle was more troubling than the battle itself, and it couldn’t have been truer in that moment.

That was why, after several hours and a short sleep shift, it was almost a relief when Lieutenant Erikson bellowed, “Contact!”

Something akin to relief flooded through Orlovsky. He’d been right. And even better, they’d beaten the enemy to the location and moved their forces into position. More often than not, he who controlled the terrain won the battle. That idiom had been tested recently, but it was better than the alternative.

That relief, however, was quickly replaced with tempered nerves as more of the Baranyk fleet arrived. They assembled on the outskirts of the Jovian System, well beyond the Galilean moons, nearly eleven million miles from the planet itself.

Location is nearly impossible to predict in space. The distances are so vast they’re nearly incomprehensible, but based on prior battles, Orlovsky had guessed about as well as any man could. The enemy had assembled on the outskirts of the system, biding their time until their full force had arrived, then took a slow and methodical approach into the system. He hadn’t known if that was some sort of technical limitation, but so far, the Baranyk had employed the strategy like clockwork—and today was no different.

The biggest gamble had been assembling the Sol Fleet in the Jovian System and not at Earth. Destroying the hub of humanity would devastate their war efforts in a way that would effectively end the war. Destroying their home planet, on the other hand, would be more of an emotional blow.

Fortunately, the Jovian System offered more defensive measures. With ninety-two different moons with orbits ranging from 128,000 kilometers from the planet all the way to 24 million kilometers, there were ample places to hide strike forces.

Leda, Himalia, Lysithea, and Elara were all moons a little more than 11 million kilometers from the planet, and while they were too small to build any sort of infrastructure on, they were more than large enough to hide multiple ships. Better yet, they were located behind the gathering enemy.

“Lieutenant Erikson,” Admiral Orlovsky said. “Send in the strike forces. Let’s hit them before they have a chance to get their hands up.”

“With pleasure, sir.”

The final battle for humanity was underway.

* * *

Buster’s drone was dead. No lights. No guns. No power. Around him, two full squadrons, nearly fifty fighters in all, were dead as well. Little more than space debris flying at a predetermined course.

It was exactly as he wanted it.

Moments before, the Olympia and Monaco had crept around opposite ends of Himalia, just enough to launch their drone squadrons. After a quick burn, the squadrons shut down all systems except life support and raced toward the assembling fleet. There were already more than one hundred enemy vessels and more arriving every minute. Buster’s squadrons had one job and one job only: to thin the ranks and wreak havoc.

Buster watched the countdown in the corner of his HUD. His ship wasn’t measuring speed or angle of approach, and he was still too far away for visual. The attack vector and time to contact had all been measured long before he’d ever launched. There was little to do now except trust their calculations. They were about to find out just how accurate those calculations had been.

3…

2…

1…

Buster flipped the power switch on his terminal, and the drone came alive. Speed, distance, vector, and battle readings flooded his HUD.

“All fighters report in,” Buster said.

One by one his pilots acknowledged they were online.

Good.

It had been a risk to enter the battle in a powered-down mode. The Hornets were reliable but, like all things, prone to error from time to time and not designed to operate like a light switch. It seemed they had been able to avoid any issues, however. A good omen for the battle to come, perhaps?

“Prepare to break formation in ten seconds,” Buster said. “You know your targets. Let’s do ourselves proud.”

Like the timed burn and the following dark flight mode, the opening sequence of the attack had been preplanned. The two squadrons were to break into their subflights, creating eight separate strike forces of six fighters a piece, and because their primary mission was to destroy as many capital ships as possible, they were equipped with a full complement of CapKillers. What they’d lack in maneuverability, they made up for with sheer destructive power.

The enemy fleet was coming into visual range now, their blue drive signatures growing in size so that they now burned brighter than the stars surrounding them. Since they were coming in from behind the enemy line, that’s what they’d target first. Even if they didn’t destroy the enemy capital ships, they’d incapacitate them and remove them from the upcoming battle. As CAG, his subflight took the heart of the formation.

Red targeting brackets surrounded the centermost ship. He was locked on. Buster took one final steadying breath.

“Break!”

The Hornet squadrons broke with practiced precision, shattering from a revised delta formation into their individual strike formations. Only seconds after that, pilots bellowed that missiles were away.

“Azure-1, Fox-Two!”

“Bronze-4, Fox-Two!”

“Emerald-Six, Fox-Two!”

Buster’s display lit up with yellow indicators as the infrared-guided CapKillers streaked toward their targets. They hadn’t hit yet before a new wave was launched, these targeting more of the ship’s center mass. By the time the fighters were cresting the aftmost part of the ship, they were missiles away again. Three CapKillers per ship to ensure they inflicted maximum carnage while also spreading the love to as many enemy ships as possible.

The three missiles hit in quick succession. Explosions lit the black, burning hot and orange. Yellow-and-black-streaked carapace-like material shattered outward as various gasses and fluids billowed into space.

“Splash one!”

Eight separate runs, eight separate ships, eight examples of perfection.

They didn’t have time to celebrate. The enemy fleet had jumped in with a few kilometers’ space between them, but at the Hornets’ speed that meant they were on the next enemy vessel in moments. The next three fighters in the formation had already locked onto the second targets. A fresh succession of pilot communication rang over the comm.

“Crimson-Four, Fox-Two!”

“Emerald-Three, Fox-Two!”

A fresh set of yellow indicators raced toward their enemy counterparts, followed by two more in quick succession. Just like the first wave, these struck without fail. The attack run had been a thing of beauty—precise, coordinated, and deadly. Somewhere behind Buster’s fighter, one of the enemy vessels went critical.

The explosion was white hot, and in its wake the ship shattered into two main chunks that veered toward other ships in the line. They might as well have been moving in slow motion, but even then, the other enemy vessels couldn’t move their behemoths fast enough. The pieces of the destroyed ship crashed into two others, creating a chain reaction of destruction.

It was a goddamn work of art. A Picasso of devastation.

And they weren’t done. Each drone in their squadrons had been armed with two of the CapKillers—any more than that and they wouldn’t have been able to maneuver at all—and so far each fighter had only launched one. Since they were launching them one subflight at a time, that meant they had two more runs left, and the Baranyk ships were already launching fighters.

“Enemy fighters inbound,” Buster said. “Stay on target and provide cover fire for the CapKillers. Let’s bring this mission home.”

Buster’s next target was a massive carrier that was one of the ships launching fighters. The enemy ships spewed from its hull like escaping oxygen before coalescing into a stream of fighters several kilometers long. Buster’s targeting brackets went solid. He had tone.

“Azure-One, Fox-Two!” Buster shouted.

Just behind him in the Hornet formation two more pilots bellowed their missile launches. They tore into the enemy capital ship with the full might of the Sol Fleet. Fire cascaded down its bow.

Another capital ship down.

By then the enemy fighters were on them. Plasma fire streaked past his Hornet, and the one in the dash-two position exploded into a sea of shrapnel. Thankfully, it didn’t destroy any of the other fighters in the formation. Even better, it had been one of the Hornets that had exhausted its CapKillers.

“Bollywood,” Buster said, keeping the line to his entire flight open but talking specifically to Azure-Six. The other pilot, of Indian descent, had earned his call sign because he looked like an actor from the Bollywood era of Indian cinema. “We’re spent. No more CapKillers. Let’s see if we can draw some of these fighters off the rest and give them time to finish the mission.”

“Sounds good, sir.”

“On my mark, cut thirty-degrees positive-Z,” Buster said. “That should give the rest of you two, maybe three seconds. Make them count.”

Affirmatives from the rest of the flight came in.

“And… Break!”

Buster pulled back on his joystick, bringing his fighter above the orientation line. Bollywood moved into the dash-two position off his starboard wing. Behind them, the front of the enemy formation cut away in pursuit. They were on Buster and Bollywood in moments, but the maneuver had accomplished what it needed to accomplish, giving the fighters still armed with CapKillers critical moments to use them.

Voices bellowed across the comm as the last of the CapKillers were released. Buster watched with half an eye as he and Bollywood spun their Hornets to engage the incoming wave of enemy fighters. They may not have any missiles left, but they still had cannons. The front of his Hornet erupted as he squeezed the trigger.

Unlike the missiles, cannon fire didn’t register on his HUD. Like tiny fireflies, they sparked into the black before being lost forever. Several enemy fighters exploded, organic carapace and fluids caking those around them. At their speeds, the enemy fighters were unable to take evasive maneuvers, and several more were destroyed from the shrapnel.

In the end, there were too many of them, and Buster and Bollywood were overrun. Shortly after that, the rest of Azure Flight was as well. In their wake they had destroyed six enemy capital ships, not counting the rest of the squadron.

Maybe that’ll help even the odds.

They’d soon find out, because four ships and a full complement of fighters were inbound to Himalia. The mission had been a success, but Buster couldn’t help but think they were little more than a sliver in the enemy’s foot.

More capital ships poured in, already replacing the ships he and his pilots had destroyed. He couldn’t help but shake the feeling that it hadn’t been enough.

No matter what we do, it’s never enough.

58

Bridge, SAS Redemption

Distant Orbit, Baranyk Homeworld

“Commander Garcia is reporting that decks thirteen, seventeen, and thirty-five have been cleared of Baranyk activity,” Lieutenant Poiu said.

“Good,” Captain Coleman said absently. “Keep me apprised of their progress on the remaining decks.”

“Yes, sir.”

The boarding party had been an unexpected wrinkle in their battle plans but, in the end, had proved to be little more than a distraction. That was largely because of the ship’s depressurization alerts and rapid communication from the crew. Had they been even a minute or two slower, the enemy would have gained unfettered access to the drone operation center.

Little good it did us.

He’d just watched as the Hornet squadrons had found the Overlord’s location and blown its entrance like a battering ram against an ancient castle. That was before the Overlord had collapsed the chamber’s ceiling, destroying the bulk of their fighters in the process. What remained, he had single handedly destroyed in a fighter of his own. Where he was now, Coleman had no idea.

Would he have left? Coleman expected not. There was no reason to anymore. There were no more human fighters in the area, and the tunnels offered maximum protection. Couple that with the enemy fighters that had returned to help repel the Hornets, and Coleman himself wouldn’t have withdrawn.

No… The enemy leader was still there. Problem was, Coleman was out of Hornets.

But you still have the Forgotten.

“Moscow,” Coleman said, opening a direct line to his CAG. “What’s your status?”

“Locked and loaded, sir,” Moscow said.

Moscow’s confident bravado eliminated any underlying reservations Coleman had. His pilots had a purpose, they knew that purpose, and as a former pilot, he knew it himself. They were there to perform the impossible. To fly harder and faster, to push the limits more than anyone else in the fleet. When you were in the cockpit, there was no time for doubt or second-guessing. There was only time for action.

And it was time for action.

“Assemble your pilots and meet me in the ready room in five minutes,” Coleman said.

“Aye, sir.”

Coleman closed the line and immediately opened a new one. Time for action indeed.

* * *

Coda sat in his drone operation bay, staring at the black screen of his VR helmet in disbelief. He’d found the Overlord. He’d damn near stared him in the face. And the bastard had slipped through his fingertips like the eel he was.

“Fuck!” Coda screamed. He pounded his fist against the terminal and jumped to his feet, ripping his flight helmet off. “Damn it! We were so close!”

If the terminal’s chair hadn’t been bolted to the floor, he would have flung it across the room. Instead, he looked to the vaulted ceiling of the operation center and closed his eyes. It was almost too much to bear. He’d been given a second chance, entrusted with a critical mission, and he’d failed. When Coleman, the fleet, and his father had needed him most, he’d failed.

Disappointment of a kind he’d never felt before burned through his veins. He felt empty, drained, dead. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to find a dark hole to hide in or burn the entire ship down.

Instead, he did… nothing.

He didn’t know how long he stood there like that. Eventually, it was a friendly voice that brought him out of his apathy.

“Coda?”

Coda opened his eyes. The voice came from the earpiece they’d implanted after he’d been named CAG.

Damn, those days feel like a lifetime ago.

“Sir,” he said mechanically.

The voice on the other end was his friend and mentor, Captain Coleman. “I have one question for you,” he said. “Did you use the training simulations of the Baranyk tunnels I provided?”

“Sir?”

“I’m asking, Coda, if you and the Forgotten flew the same training scenarios as the Hornet squadrons.”

An awkward silence.

“We did, sir.” Coda had no idea where this line of questioning was headed. “Why?”

“Tell me,” Captain Coleman continued, ignoring Coda’s question. “Who was faster? The Forgotten or the Hornets?”

“The Forgotten, sir,” Coda said. “It wasn’t even close.”

“And among the Forgotten, who was the fastest?”

Any other time, and the question would have brought a smile to Coda’s face. In this moment, however, all it did was remind Coda of everything he couldn’t do. Everything he’d lost and couldn’t be. How he’d failed in the one task he’d been given.

“I was, sir.”

“That’s what I thought,” Captain Coleman said. “I need you in the Nighthawk ready room. You have a briefing in two minutes.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me, Commander.”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“Then I suggest you get your ass to the ready room so I can explain.”

Two minutes later and slightly out of breath, Coda was seated in the stadium seating in the Nighthawk ready room. Moscow sat to his right, Squawks to his left, with Nails beside him. Others milled about behind them. The soft leather of the seat embraced him like a mother’s hug. The faint smell of sweat and hydraulic fluid was his cologne. This was where he was meant to be. What he was born to do.

The door to the ready room hissed open, and Captain Coleman strode in. “Be seated,” he said before anyone could call “attention on deck” and strode directly for the podium.

“Less than ten minutes ago, our drone fighters identified the Overlord’s location.” Coleman toggled his terminal and brought up the image of the chamber under the mountain. The vertical tunnel that the Hornets had destroyed was still intact in the image and was marked by a large red circle. “The entrance to his chamber was located here. It was heavily guarded with dozens of plasma turrets. Our forces were able to neutralize the defenses and blow a hole into the chamber above.”

Coleman clicked his terminal again, and the image changed to show the aftermath of their assault. The tunnel had collapsed to the ground, leaving a jagged maw in the chamber’s ceiling.

“However,” Captain Coleman continued, “before our forces could proceed, the Overlord triggered a defense protocol that collapsed the chamber’s ceiling, destroying the majority of our forces. The rest were destroyed by this…”

Another click, and the Overlord’s fighter filled the screen.

“He has his own starfighter?” Moscow asked.

“Yes.”

The word echoed through the ready room and was followed by quiet chatter. Coda didn’t say anything. He just stared at the image. He didn’t need to—it had been taken directly from his fighter and would be forever burned into his memory.

“This is your target,” Captain Coleman said. “We do not have any intelligence on it beyond what you see here. But expect it to be bigger, faster, more maneuverable, and more powerful than anything you’ve faced before.”

“When are we going in, sir?” Moscow asked.

“The Redemption’s computers are plotting the intrasystem jump now,” Captain Coleman said. “We’ll jump into high orbit and launch fighters. The enemy force that engaged us in orbit have since returned to the hive, so our expectation is that you’ll have a clear path to the hive. After that, expect enemy resistance. You may also encounter fleeing dropships returning with surviving marines. But make no mistake, this,” he pointed at the screen, “is your only objective. Am I clear?”

A chorus of “Yes, sirs” reverberated through the room.

“There’s one final wrinkle,” Captain Coleman said. “The enemy fighters were inbound on the Hornets’ location, so they collapsed the tunnel leading to the chamber. We know based on scans that there are additional entrances to the chamber, but you’ll need to find them on your own. Any questions?”

Silence was the only response until Squawks decided to chime in.

“So all we have to do is make an incredibly difficult intrasystem jump, get to the surface unscathed, and navigate a complex tunnel system without a map without getting blown to bits by the hundred or so fighters patrolling the hive?”

The quip elicited a bout of nervous laughter.

“Don’t forget the Overlord,” Nails added.

“Of course,” Squawks said. “Let me try again. Intrasystem jump. Complex tunnel system. Don’t get blown up. And then fight the bigger, badder Baranyk leader in his bigger, faster starfighter with the fate of humanity hanging in the balance.”

“There you go,” Nails said. “That’s better.”

“Well,” Squawks said, blowing his cheeks out. “Good thing you’ve got us. We’ve forgotten how to say no.”

That actually brought a small grin to Captain Coleman’s face. “I know how you feel, Squawks. Do us proud.”

“Always, sir.”

“All right,” Captain Coleman said, returning to business. “If there are no other questions, lock and load.”

Coda stood with the rest of his squadmates but hung back as they filtered through the doors to the hangar bay beyond. He sought out Captain Coleman.

“Why, sir?” Coda asked. “Why me? Why now?”

“Because you’re the best, Coda,” Captain Coleman said as if it were truly as simple as that. “And you have the most to lose. That means you’ll fight the hardest. And right now, we need that.”

“Thank you, sir.” Coda gave his captain the finest salute he could muster.

“Good luck out there, Commander.”

Coda strode through the doors, back straight, chin high. There were a thousand logical fallacies with Captain Coleman’s line of thinking, but when it boiled down to it, Captain Coleman believed in him.

And that helped Coda believe in himself.

59

Cockpit, Nighthawk

High Orbit, Baranyk Homeworld

The moment Coda was thrown back in his seat and felt the welcome return of real G’s, he understood he had been wrong about everything. He’d thought returning to the cockpit of his Hornet was a reunion of sorts, that the Nighthawk ready room had been home, but in both situations, he’d been wrong.

This… This was home. This was him.

Every nook of his fighter was his, a relationship forged through thousands of hours in its cockpit. From the shape of the gel seat to the way his fingers had smudged the controls, wearing paint in unique shapes and angles specific to only him. The g-forces were old friends. The zero-g an ex-lover. Rocketing through the launch tube and into the black, blood rushing from his body into his extremities, he grew lightheaded as if he were suffering from the brain fog after a first kiss.

He and the rest of the Forgotten immediately formed up into six flights of four fighters apiece, all in finger-four formations. Coda had gotten his wings back, but he hadn’t been placed back in command. That was fine with him as long as he was in the cockpit. Flying at his wing and wingman for the mission was Rocket, someone who had sadly earn his call sign based on the bright-red color of his hair and the way his pale skin blushed furiously whenever he grew embarrassed or strained. They were in Moscow’s flight, angling for the planet. Coda had never flown with Rocket before, but this was a different kind of mission, and the unique bond wingmen had would be less important.

If we find the Overlord, he’s mine.

Cutting through the upper layer of the planet’s atmosphere, his fighter bucked and kicked. The temperature in the cockpit rose as the fighter’s heatshield glowed red and orange from the friction. Sweat beaded on his head and slid down his back. Even that brought a smile to his face.

Once they were through the atmosphere, they approached the hive entrance at full burn, angled up its peak, shot above the entrance, and performed an inverted dive into the tunnel.

Even with their nose- and wing-mounted lamps, visibility was limited inside the tunnel, and they relied heavily on computer-aided sight. If anyone had expected that would result in slower speeds, they were sorely mistaken. The Nighthawks ripped past rock formations, stalagmites, and stalactites fast enough that they were barely recognizable. They darted around bends and flipped into the first chamber.

Once inside, they quickly assessed the various chambers branching off from it, and Moscow ordered each flight to proceed into one on their own. In essence, they were racing through a maze at breakneck speeds, hoping someone would make it to the end.

The particular branch of tunnel Coda, Rocket, Moscow, and Dumper had ventured into was one of the few that had largely been unexplored. Moscow ordered them to reduce throttle by twenty-five percent, which allowed their onboard computers to scan ahead and plot an optimized flight path that avoided obstacles. They had just enough time for the computer to scan, analyze, visualize, display, and give the pilots the precious half-second to adjust.

Tunnel after tunnel, chamber after chamber they ventured, each one taking them farther away from the hive’s center. Moscow saw it too, and when none of the branching tunnels from the latest chamber seemed promising to get them back on course, they doubled back to find one that did.

It was tedious work without radio chatter. They couldn’t risk any distractions. Even the main comm was quiet as every fighter in the squadron struggled with the dangerous speeds.

The minutes ticked by, each more agonizing than the last, and Coda began to sweat in earnest. Not from heat or physical exertion but the immense focus the flight required.

They’d seen thousands of Baranyk as they’d ripped through various tunnels and chambers, but none were fighters. Nothing that posed a threat. Beyond the exterior defenses, it seemed the Baranyk had little in the way to repel invaders. That shouldn’t have surprised him. They were basically flying through alien cities and towns, racing down streets and highways, around farms and lumberyards.

“Shit!” someone screamed.

Coda jumped, tweaking his joystick to the right and narrowly missing a protruding rock formation. His HUD didn’t show any enemy signatures, and the confines were too close to risk a look at the battle map, but it was clearly not his flight under attack.

“Contact! Contact! Contact!” the pilot said in rapid succession.

“Report!” Moscow bellowed. “Where are you?”

“Aaaarrrgghhh!” the pilot screamed before the line went dead.

“Report!” Moscow said, but nobody else from the flight reported in. “Shit.”

It wasn’t until they entered another chamber, this one some sort of storage yard, that Coda called up his battle map. They were getting more central in the hive but were several levels below where they needed to be. He’d thought about the hive all wrong. The hive wasn’t just a maze but a three-dimensional labyrinth. And they were trying to navigate it at a full sprint.

The other flight had been more successful in finding an alternate entrance to the Overlord’s chamber, which indicated that the enemy forces were staying close to the Baranyk leader. That was good. They wouldn’t run into the monsters roaming the labyrinth’s corridors—at least not until they drew closer to the prize.

“Stay focused,” Moscow said. “It could be us next.”

Moscow led them into a tunnel that led back toward the surface. Based on the computer estimates, they were under the mountain range, which meant they were getting closer. They followed it into another chamber then another tunnel that continued to lead upward.

This is it. This is the yellow brick road that’s going to take us to Oz.

As they shot through the tunnel into another chamber, Coda’s HUD immediately flashed red, and emergency claxons rang.

“Contact!” Moscow bellowed. “Evasive maneuvers!”

In the dash-three position, Coda and Rocket shot starboard, Moscow and Dumper to port. Plasma fire ripped through the space where the formation had just been, close enough that Coda could feel the heat through the reinforced glass of his cockpit canopy.

The chamber was much larger than the tunnel, giving him the room and freedom to check his battle map. They’d come upon a full flight of Baranyk fighters, twelve in all, and forced to take evasive maneuvers they were already at a disadvantage.

Coda shot toward the chamber wall, eliminating one of the angles the enemy had at their disposal, and raced around the chamber’s edge as the Baranyk formation split into two.

“We’ve got six fighters coming around on our tail,” Rocket said. “Moving into firing position.”

Coda grunted an acknowledgment. If they were in the black, he would rotate his fighter one hundred eighty degrees and attempt to pick one or two of them off. Here in the chamber with the planet’s gravity, that wasn’t possible.

“How high do you think that ceiling is?” Coda asked.

“No idea,” Rocket said. “One hundred meters, max?”

That wasn’t too far from his guess. “Tall enough. On my mark, dive negative-Z, forty degrees toward the chamber floor, then sharp, positive-Z eighty degrees. When they’re in vertical pursuit, drop chaff. We’ll let gravity do its work.”

“That’s—” but the rest of Rocket’s remark was cut off as plasma fire peppered their flight path, narrowly missing both fighters.

“Now!” Coda bellowed.

He shoved the stick forward, diving toward the chamber’s surface. Despite his obvious reservations, Rocket did the same, and as they were about to bottom out, they ripped their joysticks back, shooting toward the ceiling of the cavern.

The maneuver put intense pressure on Coda’s lower back, and his stomach did somersaults in his chest. The Baranyk fighters mimicked the maneuver, but with more fighters and a wider formation, one clipped a rock protrusion and broke apart, leaving a yellow smear against the gray rock.

One down.

As soon as the enemy fighters performed the second part of the maneuver, going vertical, Coda shouted, “Chaff!”

Fist-sized hunks of metal shot out of the backs of both Nighthawks directly into the incoming fighters. Even at these reduced speeds, the chaff tore jagged chunks from the Baranyk fighters, sending them careening into each other and the nearby chamber walls.

“Four down,” Coda said as the red indicators blinked out on his HUD. “Two left. Cutting to port, sixty degrees on three. Once we’re clear of this wall, break into a Helix maneuver.”

“Roger.”

“Mark!”

Coda threw his joystick to the left, veering away from the wall toward the center of the chamber. Rocket, despite never having flown with Coda before, was right on his wing. He then shot away hard to starboard as if peeling away. Coda moved in the opposite direction simultaneously, putting significant space between the two of them.

As Coda hoped, the remaining Baranyk fighters moved into individual pursuit, one on each of them. As soon as he was far enough, he eased his joystick in the opposite direction, turning his fighter starboard just as Rocket moved his to port. The maneuver brought the two fighters veering toward each other at a rough forty-five-degree angle. Most importantly, it meant they had a clean firing angle on each of the enemies in pursuit.

“Gold-3,” Coda said. “Fox-Four!”

He squeezed the trigger just as Rocket shouted his intent to fire.

Coda’s Nighthawk kicked as the missile released and rocketed away. A separate missile from Rocket’s fighter zipped toward him. It was an unnerving sight, even if Coda knew he wasn’t the missile’s intended target.

The chamber flashed with orange fire as Coda’s missile exploded into the Baranyk fighter behind Rocket. A split second later, Coda’s Nighthawk lurched as a second explosion erupted behind him, Rocket’s missile finding its target.

Coda yelled victoriously.

“Splash six!” Rocket added.

The celebration was short-lived, however, as Coda reassessed the battle map. Moscow and Dumper weren’t having the same luck against their pursuers. They’d clipped two of them off, but the four remaining enemies sprayed plasma fire across their bow.

“Moscow, I’m sending you a beacon now,” Coda said. “Trident maneuver. Acknowledge.”

“Received,” Moscow said. “Thanks, Coda.”

“Just get there.”

The beacon appeared on Coda’s and Rocket’s battle maps. Since Moscow and Dumper were on the opposite side of the chamber, it meant the four Nighthawks were now flying toward each other.

“Trident maneuver,” Coda said again, this time for Rocket. “Two-second stagger.”

“Understood.”

As with the Helix maneuver, both fighters veered from their current flight path, Coda once again to port and Rocket to starboard. Together, they made the outer prongs of the so-called trident, with the middle prong created by Moscow and Dumper in the middle.

Once he was wide enough, Coda cut hard back to starboard, racing toward the beacon. Nobody was there yet. They weren’t supposed to be. He raced to the spot they would be.

As Moscow and Dumper came into view, Coda’s targeting computer locked on to the lead fighter in pursuit. Since he was coming in at an angle, he had a clear view of the fighter’s broadside.

“Gold-3, Fox-Four!” He squeezed the trigger.

The missile took the lead fighter, but its destruction didn’t cause any other deaths.

“Gold-4, Fox-Four!” Rocket bellowed a moment later. His missile had a similar effect, taking out another Baranyk fighter.

Coda continued his trajectory, ripping through the space the enemy fighters had just been, now behind Moscow and Dumper’s flight path. He turned hard to starboard, preparing for another attack run when a bright flash flared in the edge of his vision.

“No!” Moscow screamed. “Dumper! Dumper, do you copy?”

But the remains of Dumper’s fighter fell to the chamber’s floor.

“Dumper! Goddamn it!”

The enemy opened fire again. Moscow’s erratic flight path was the only thing that prevented him from becoming slag as well.

“Moscow,” Coda said. “Moscow, listen to me. I’m almost in position. Cut thirty degrees to port on my mark. Do you hear me? Moscow?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Coda said. “Mark!”

Moscow ripped hard to his left, giving Coda another clean angle. He made this one count. The missile took off the right half of the enemy fighter, sending it crashing into the last remaining fighter. Both went down, breaking apart against the chamber floor.

The silence that followed was heartbreaking. Coda knew that pain. He’d felt it on too many occasions. The sense of loss was palpable, but the suddenness of it all was the most difficult to process. One moment, you were whole. The next, a piece of your soul had been ripped away.

“Moscow,” Coda said.

“He was my friend,” Moscow said.

Coda was struck by how many layers there could be to such a simple statement. “I know. And he would have wanted us to complete the mission. We have to get out of here before more fighters arrive.”

“I know,” Moscow said, but his fighter didn’t alter course.

Coda took the moment to scan the battle map. It seemed they had come up in a chamber parallel to the one they were trying to get to. If there was only a tunnel that went—

“There!”

Coda spotted the tunnel mouth on the adjacent wall. Unless it veered off at a crazy angle, it should lead directly to the central chamber.

“Moscow, we’re so close. Let’s finish this. Sending you coordinates now.” He sent another beacon. A blue indicator appeared on Coda’s HUD as it would Moscow’s and Rocket’s, with arrows pointing in the proper direction. Rocket formed up on Coda’s wing.

Moscow sighed deeply. “Let’s finish this.”

His fighter banked hard, moving with purpose for the tunnel entrance, and soon he shot past Coda and Rocket, taking the lead. Coda and Rocket fell into formation behind him.

As Coda expected, the tunnel led directly into the central chamber. It felt larger than Coda had expected, seeing it in the flesh, and was easily twice the size of any they’d entered before. At its center was what remained of the massive tunnel that had extended downward from the ceiling like an arm holding the rest of the Baranyk down. It now lay shattered against the city below.

A deep, unnerving presence washed over Coda like a thick stench. It felt wrong and seemed to penetrate his every pore.

“He’s here,” Coda said. “I can feel him.”

As if the Overlord had heard him or maybe felt him too, a squadron of enemy fighters poured from the maw in the tunnel’s ceiling and made directly for their three fighters. And at their head was a fighter bigger and more menacing than the rest.

It was the Overlord.

60

Cockpit, Nighthawk

Hive, Baranyk Homeworld

Coda immediately fired two missiles. They shot toward the Overlord with blistering speed, but before they closed the distance to the enemy, a mass of ships behind the Overlord’s fighter zipped past their leader, sacrificing themselves by jumping into the missiles’ path. The rest flooded toward the three Nighthawks.

“Evasive maneuvers!” Moscow said, darting to port while Coda and Rocket moved starboard.

They weren’t going to last long. The Overlord had close to thirty ships to their three, and because of their previous engagement, all three were already running low on missiles. They still had cannons, but that wouldn’t be enough to handle these kinds of numbers.

“All forces,” Moscow said over the comm. “We’ve found the Overlord. I repeat, we’ve found the Overlord. Uploading a data package now that provides the route we took to get here. We are outnumbered and need immediate assistance.”

“Acknowledged and received, Moscow,” Squawks said. “We’re on our way.”

It was good to hear Squawks’s voice, good to know he hadn’t been part of the flight that had previously been shot down, but any good feelings that brought were quickly replaced when the enemy opened fire. It was like trying to dodge hail in a hailstorm. Unrelenting plasma fire sprayed across his fighter from bow to stern, narrowly missing wings and fuselage.

The enemy forces had divided into two flights when the Nighthawks had split. According to his computer, that left thirteen fighters on each of their tails. The only chance they had was to divide those further and start to pick off a few. That and hope Squawks could arrive in time to provide assistance.

“Rocket, break away,” Coda said. “There’s no use in remaining as a fighter pair.”

“Agreed.” Without another word, Rocket darted away.

As Coda had hoped, nearly half the enemy fighters on his tail broke away in pursuit.

Coda let out a long breath. It was time to strap in. The only reason he hadn’t been shot down yet was because the fighters behind him weren’t as tight on his six as they could have been. Nor did they have the guided missiles of the Nighthawks.

He ducked and dived, dodged and weaved, falling into a steady rhythm. Blue fire shot across his bow, narrowly missing him on a dozen different occasions. It was only a matter of time before his luck ran out.

His body moving automatically on nothing more than thousands of hours of training, Coda assessed the situation. He’d lost sight of the Overlord, but that feeling of dread and oppression hadn’t relented. He was still present. He wouldn’t have given up his front-row seat to Coda’s destruction. If Coda could just hold out long enough, he would get his chance.

Rocket had darted toward the deck and was weaving in and out of the various city structures. If he’d thought that would slow the enemy’s fire, he was dearly mistaken. They fired at him with reckless abandon, taking no caution and not caring when their plasma fire shattered homes and buildings. The Overlord’s disregard for Baranyk life was appalling.

It also gave him an idea. “Rocket, I’m adjusting thirty-five degrees to port. If you climb positive-Z, that should give you a clear shot at the fighters on my tail.”

“Do it,” Rocket said.

Coda banked his fighter, adjusting to his left. It moved him closer to the middle of the chamber, flying toward the large tunnel that had broken from the ceiling and crashed below. Rocket was coming around it now, having used the debris for cover, then shot upward.

Rocket performed the maneuver perfectly and knifed directly into the enemy fighters on Coda’s six. A missile hit the fighter dead center in the middle of the mass, but not before plasma fire that had missed Rocket’s ship struck another Baranyk fighter. The formation shattered as enemy fighters swerved to miss the friendly fire coming in their direction, and two more crashed into each other in the chaos. Four fighters on Coda’s tail had been eliminated, and Rocket had expended only a single missile.

“Great work!” Coda bellowed. “Moscow, cut six degrees to starboard, fourteen degrees positive-Z, and I’ll pay it forward.”

Moscow grunted a response, clearly too under duress to say more, but did as instructed. His course brought him racing past Coda, relatively perpendicular to Coda’s own trajectory. Coda targeted the lead fighter and squeezed the trigger, sending a missile on its way. He immediately thumbed the firing switch to cannons and shot off two more quick bursts.

His attack wasn’t as devastating as Rocket’s, but he eliminated two Baranyk fighters in the process. It gave them time to breathe. Not much, but some.

With his sliver of freedom, Moscow cut harder to starboard, jetting toward the center of the chamber. It caused him and Coda to fly past each other. Moscow opened fire again, and it wasn’t until then that Coda realized the enemy had been forming back on his tail.

“Thanks, Moscow,” Coda said.

Their CAG still didn’t answer. He shot toward Rocket, who had made it to the chamber ceiling, near the black maw that was the entrance to the Overlord’s chamber, but was looping back around and diving toward the surface. The route put them close to a collision course.

“Break left!” Moscow bellowed as their two fighters screamed toward each other.

Rocket swerved hard, grunting under the strain. His ship banked to port. As soon as it was out of firing range, Moscow laid on his cannons. Plasma fire mixed with his cannon fire, peppering the flight path of the Baranyk fighters pursuing Rocket. In a single instant, half the fighters on Rocket’s tail were eliminated, nearly half from friendly fire. The Overlord was getting a hard lesson in the power of teamwork.

They weren’t out of the woods yet, though. Even if they had decimated the enemy forces, almost half still remained, and they were regrouping. The Overlord himself rose slowly out of the city’s wreckage. His black ship was all sharp edges, striped and menacing. The remaining fighters swarmed around him, shielding him and making it abundantly clear who was in charge.

Coda and Rocket looped around the chamber’s edge then reassembled with Moscow in a simple parade formation. Unlike in the black, where the two forces could have floated in space, neither moving, almost standing like two gunslingers on a dirt road in the old west, they flew in a steady circular pattern. They were like two opposing weather patterns circling each other, a hurricane of destruction on the horizon.

Coda’s fingers tapped the joystick in anticipation, waiting for the standoff to end. He knew where this would lead. The two formations would dart toward each other and open fire, then any remaining fighters would bank hard to make another run, hoping they were faster at getting into position and get a cleaner shot. With their numbers disadvantage, Coda thought he knew how that would end.

He was about to say something when he caught a glimmer of movement out of the corner of his eye. Almost simultaneously, four new green icons appeared on his battle map.

“Hello, boys,” Squawks said over the comm. “I heard you were having a party. Thanks for the invite!”

His flight, flying in a finger-four pattern, increased thrust and shot sharply at the mass of enemy fighters. Their timing couldn’t have been more perfect, allowing them to close the relatively short distance toward the enemy’s flank. Four missiles raced ahead, exploding in the center of the Baranyk mass.

“Now!” Moscow screamed.

Their three ships raced forward, unleashing three of their own missiles. For the first time Coda could remember, the Baranyk seemed panicked. Their mass exploded outward, enemy ships flying in every direction. In response, the two Nighthawk formations broke into fighter pairs, moving to engage.

Coda only had one target in mind.

The Overlord, perhaps sensing a potential defeat for the first time since engaging, raced toward the dark maw in the ceiling.

“The Overlord is trying to escape!” Coda yelled. “I’m in pursuit!”

“Not alone, you’re not.” Moscow’s and Rocket’s fighters formed up on his wing. Together, the three of them entered the maw.

61

Cockpit, Nighthawk

Hive, Baranyk Homeworld

The Overlord’s chamber had been destroyed when he’d collapsed its floor on the chamber below. That meant the black maw had existed above even the Overlord’s chamber.

Speeding into it, Coda had to immediately reduce throttle. On the other side wasn’t another chamber or even a tunnel like the ones they had flown through before. This was narrow and uncut and looked like a natural formation, not the engineered style of the rest of the hive.

An emergency exit? Coda wondered.

Within the narrow confines of the tunnel, the Nighthawks fell into a basic trail formation, the three fighters flying directly behind one another, fifty meters between them. Having entered the tunnel first, Coda was in the lead of the formation, with Moscow behind and Rocket bringing up the rear.

Coda switched his HUD’s view from his normal vision back to the computer-aided sight they’d used in the other tunnels. It gave him a green flight path to follow to avoid the boulders, stalagmites, and stalactites that rose from the floor, dropped from the ceiling, and protruded from the walls.

“What’s your status, Coda?” Moscow asked. “You have visual on the enemy?”

“Negative,” Coda said.

The tunnel was too narrow, with too many obstacles, twists, and turns to see much beyond what was directly in front of them. He doubted Moscow even had a visual on the rear of his Nighthawk most of the time.

When Coda had been a child, his father had enjoyed watching weekend sprint races on the stream. Twenty racers would climb into what almost resembled starfighters and would race through incredible terrains across the galaxy—canyons, across rocky, windswept deserts, frozen tundra, and more. The speed was incredible, the tension high, the wrecks as exhilarating as they were catastrophic.

Those racers had never flown through anything like this. The tunnel was barely wide enough to fit his Nighthawk, its walls little more than a few meters from the tips of his wings. The ceiling was so low, he thought he could almost reach out and touch it—and that wasn’t the worst of it.

Without warning the tunnel would squeeze together, making an opening that was nothing more than a vertical slit in the rock. Coda had to flip his fighter ninety degrees so that his wings were vertical to squeeze through then immediately flip it back horizontal on the other side to maintain maximum maneuverability.

Another time he came head-on to a rock wall, where the tunnel seemed to end even though the flight path showed a one-hundred-eighty-degree horizontal spin, followed by an inverted dive. Coda performed the maneuver perfectly, but it left him lightheaded with black stars creeping in from the edges of his vision.

Behind him, Moscow cursed, and Rocket screamed, but both made it through the sudden obstacle.

Righting his fighter, Coda came into a hollowed chamber. Like the tunnel, it felt like a natural cave formation, and at its far end was another opening. He made for it, wondering how much more of the tunnel there was. There hadn’t been any junctions or intersections, and they had to be nearing its end.

Coda was two hundred meters into the tunnel, Rocket just entering its confines, when he screamed over the radio.

“Contact!” Rocket yelled. “Shit! He’s on my six.”

“Come again?” Coda said.

“He’s on my six!”

Coda risked a quick look at his battle map and saw a single red indicator directly behind Rocket’s fighter. How is that possible? There was only one possible answer. He must have found a spot to hide in the chamber then moved into pursuit the moment the Nighthawks had entered into the new tunnel.

“He’s opening fire!”

From Coda’s vantage at the tip of the formation, he couldn’t see the blue plasma fire, but he heard the panic in Rocket’s voice.

“There’s no room! I can’t—”

The line went dead.

“Rocket!” Coda bellowed.

No answer.

“Rocket!”

Still nothing.

“He’s gone, Coda,” Moscow said. There was something in his voice that said he was next. Without Rocket behind him and without room to take evasive action, there was nothing Moscow could do.

No, Coda thought, grinding his teeth. No. Not again.

“Increasing thrust twenty percent,” Coda said.

“Increasing… Coda, that’s insane.”

Coda’s flight suit tightened around his limbs as the recommended flight path had him yank back on the stick, climbing again. They were moving in a rough vertical path toward what would be the top of the mountain range. It was their only hope. If they couldn’t beat the Overlord in the tunnel, then they would have to best him outside it, and Coda was confident the tunnel had an exit somewhere. They just had to find it.

“What does Captain Coleman say all the time?” Coda asked, his voice strained from the weight of the G’s.

“Speed is life,” Moscow said.

“Speed is life,” Coda repeated.

If Coda had thought the previous speed was pushing his limits, then this was truly on the edge. His fighter moved at nearly the same speed the computer could take the readings from its sensors and calculate a flight path. Coda had less than half a second to get the reading and perform the flight action.

His flight helmet was wet with sweat, his heart beating a steady staccato. He had no time to think. No time to question. Just read and react. Read and react.

“He’s gaining on me!” Moscow said.

How is that possible? The Overlord’s fighter was larger than the Nighthawk. If it was a tight fit for them, it had to be absolutely suffocating for him.

“He’s opening fire!”

“Increase thrust five percent!”

“Coda!”

“Do it!”

“Aaaaghhh!”

“Moscow!”

“He missed!” Moscow screamed.

Coda could see it in his mind’s eye. They had just come to a switchback that had them cut hard to starboard then almost immediately back to port. The natural formation must have shielded Moscow from the fire—but it wouldn’t for long.

“Increase thrust five percent,” Coda repeated. “Create some distance.”

“Roger.”

Coda made his own adjustment. The hum of his thrusters increased, the vibration in his seat intensifying. The boosted speed left him with barely three-tenths of a second to read and react. He widened his eyes, maximizing blood flow, refusing to even blink.

Eyes burning, Coda moved his fighter, pitching, swaying, looping, and climbing. They were only climbing now. No more horizontal movement. No more chambers.

The tunnel grew tighter. Narrower. Something registered on his HUD. Bright. Small. Growing larger. It seared his eyes like a fire poker to the pupil.

Then white fire washed over his ship. Coda screamed, slamming his eyes closed from the pain, knowing that the reaction meant his death. He waited for a screech. A violent twisting. Anything that would mark his end. It never came.

Coda opened his eyes to slits. The white fire had changed to gray clouds. He opened his eyes wider, taking in the full view of the Baranyk sky. His HUD had darkened, compensating for the harsh light of the surface, allowing his eyes to adjust.

They’d done it. They were out of the tunnel.

Coda cut thrust, allowing the planet’s gravity to slow him, then flipped back around and fell toward the rocky mountain range. He had just completed his maneuver when Moscow’s Nighthawk flew out of the hole in the mountainside.

Coda tightened his hand around the stick, fingering the firing stud. As soon as Moscow’s fighter was out of the line of fire, he squeezed. Cannon fire erupted from the nose of his fighter, peppering the tunnel’s entrance just as the Overlord’s fighter emerged. It bucked under Coda’s fire, and chunks of carapace ripped free.

Overspray slammed into the mountain, sending dust and rock exploding into the air and collapsing the tunnel. For a brief moment, Coda thought he had done it, that he’d brought the tunnel down on the Overlord, but then the Overlord shot out of the dust like a dark comet.

He raced skyward. With Coda still in his dive, the two ships barreled toward each other. Blue plasma fire blasted toward Coda, forcing him to corkscrew. He didn’t have time to switch to missiles and get a lock. He squeezed the trigger, firing three bursts of cannon fire. Most missed, but some of the third struck, blasting off more chunks of the Overlord’s fighter. His ship rocked but continued its climb, shooting past Coda. Whatever that ship was made out of, it was a stronger material than the normal Baranyk fighters.

Coda pulled back on his joystick, leveling out his dive, then banked hard to port, expecting the Overlord to be in his own dive, pursuing Coda’s Nighthawk. Except he wasn’t. He was still climbing. Coda pulled back again and plotted an intercept course. He maximized his burn. The dive and time it had taken to level out his fighter had given the Overlord a significant lead. He disappeared into the clouds.

“Moscow, I’m in pursuit, but I lost visual. Copy.”

“Copy,” Moscow said. “I’m moving into a better attack vector.”

Coda had lost visual on him too. He was somewhere in the gray clouds above the surface.

Coda could hear the strain on Moscow’s voice. He had to be banking hard.

Distant cannon fire echoed across the horizon. Moscow had opened fire. “Damn it!”

“What?” Coda asked.

“He slipped past.”

“He’s going to orbit,” Coda said. “We can’t let him get there.”

Coda didn’t understand the physics of it, but something about gravity wells made interstellar jumps impossible. That was why every jump the Redemption had performed had been done no lower than a high orbit and why the more powerful JumpGates were located deeper in-system, away from any planetary bodies.

The Overlord was fleeing, doing everything he could to escape the attack and jump to another system.

“Redemption actual, this is Moscow. We’ve flushed the Overlord from his hole, but he’s fleeing to orbit. We need all available units. I repeat—we need all available units.”

“Copy,” Lieutenant Poiu said over the comm. “We’ve got a bead on your position and will attempt to box him in, but, Moscow, there are no other fighters. I repeat, there are no available units."

The implication of Lieutenant Poiu’s words was clear.

“It’s up to us,” Coda whispered, barely loud enough for his own ears to hear. If they lost the Overlord, they might never get another chance.

“Roger,” Moscow said. “Coda?”

“Yeah?”

“That ship’s too strong for cannon fire. We’ll need to hit him with missiles, but I’m too far for lock. The Redemption’s computer can help, but I’m not confident he’ll get close enough to them either.”

“So, what’s your plan?”

“Have you ever been bird hunting before?”

It was such a strange question at a strange time that Coda didn’t know how to respond. “Uh… No?”

“Well, the concept is simple enough. The Redemption is moving into position, but all that’s going to do is make the Overlord alter course. It might give me enough time to get into a firing position, but if not, I’m going to flush him toward you.”

Coda’s recovery from the dive had moved him several kilometers away from the mountain range. He was in pursuit but at an angle, unlike Moscow, who was more closely on the Overlord’s six.

“I’m sending you coordinates now,” Moscow said. “If it works, if I’m able to flush him… do you remember our last battle at the Academy?”

“Of course.”

In the final battle between their two squadrons, Coda had employed a tactic known as the Coleman Diamond, named after their eventual captain. It leveraged a formation that included a lot of fighter movement to mask a single fighter going dark. That fighter was the knife in the night, the one that could change the entire battle by cutting the head from the snake.

The tactic had worked. In that battle, Coda’s fighters, which had powered down as the rest moved into formation, moved silently toward Moscow’s capital ship, only powering up at the last second when Moscow couldn’t do anything about it. They’d destroyed his capital ship and become the Ace Squadron of their graduating class.

“Good,” Moscow said. “We’re only going to get one shot at this. Once you’re clear of the planet, power down to critical systems only. I’ll flush him your way, giving you a clear shot. Make it count.”

“Copy,” Coda said.

Moscow’s coordinates came in a moment later, and Coda altered course to move into position. By now, he was nearly fifteen kilometers from the surface and above the cloud cover. He still didn’t have visual on Moscow or the Overlord, but he watched the readings on his HUD. Because the Redemption had jumped in nearly directly over the hive, it had been close to an intercept position already. The Overlord didn’t know it yet, but he was flying into a trap.

Two minutes ticked by, and the light haze of atmosphere burned away, leaving nothing more than the black of space and glimmer of stars beyond. The pull of the planet’s gravity lessened as the familiar feeling of weightlessness returned.

Spotting the Redemption, the Overlord suddenly altered course. It was nearly a fifty-fifty chance. If the Overlord moved hard to port, then he would slip away. Hard to starboard, and he would move toward Coda.

Moscow must have foreseen this decision and had slightly adjusted his course so that he was off the portside of the Overlord’s ship. In doing so, if the Overlord moved in that direction, Moscow would have a cleaner attack angle.

Coda could almost see the calculations in the Overlord’s brain and knew what direction he would head. Coda powered down his Nighthawk, keeping nothing but his targeting, weapon, and life support systems active.

Captain Coleman must have seen the same thing, because when the Redemption opened fire, it shot over the portside bow of the Overlord’s ship. At that distance, they had no hope of hitting the fighter, but he wasn’t about to run into a stream of antiaircraft fire either.

The Overlord angled hard to starboard, avoiding the fire, and moved directly toward Coda’s position. Even if the Overlord somehow got close enough to get a visual, there was no way he would ever see Coda’s powered-down fighter. The Nighthawk’s matte-black exterior made it all but invisible in the black, and its surface was resistant to radar, lidar, and other forms of detection.

Surprisingly, Moscow’s Nighthawk was faster and more maneuverable than the Overlord’s. Every time the Baranyk fighter moved to climb farther, Moscow moved into a better attack position. It prevented the Overlord from gaining too much altitude and forced him to move in a more horizontal direction. The Overlord would eventually get clear of the planet, but he would have to take the long way to get there.

Coda stayed off the radio. He wasn’t risking anything giving away his position. Seconds ticked by, and the Overlord grew closer. Coda was the assassin in the night, the sniper in the bell tower, Moscow’s hunter waiting for his prey.

Targeting indicators appeared on Coda’s HUD as the Overlord came into range.

For years, Coda had dreamed about restoring honor to his family’s name. He’d been the squadron leader of the Ace Squadron at the Terran Flight Academy. He’d become CAG of the Forgotten, the first and last line of defense for the Sol Fleet while their Hornets had been inoperable. He’d even found his father, a person the entire world thought dead, and learned the truth behind his actions.

Since that day, Coda had thought about little else than destroying the Overlord. Even more since his father had been captured in the Baranyk network. When the targeting indicators grew bold and the steady sound of tone filled his cockpit, Coda couldn’t help but think it was all too easy. But it really wasn’t, was it?

He’d given up everything for this moment. He’d left his mother behind. Lost friends and mourned comrades. Seen more death and destruction than any human being should ever witness. He’d been scarred internally and out. Physically, mentally, and emotionally destroyed. He would never be the same, likely incapable of living what most would deem a normal life.

But through it all, he had grown more human. Driven by incessant dedication and prone to rage, Coda had learned to forgive. Not only his father but even his former adversary, Moscow. Nothing, he realized, could have been more profound, more poetic, in a sense, than Moscow driving the Overlord toward him.

Teamwork.

Comradery.

Love.

Forgiveness.

That was what separated them from the Overlord. What made them human. And in the end, it was that humanity that made them victorious.

Coda squeezed the firing stud. With his fighter’s engines and navigational thrusters powered down, his fighter bucked, swaying in the zero-g. He squeezed the firing stud a second time, releasing a second missile.

As if seeing the trap spring, the Overlord attempted to dart away. Too late. The first missile struck. It exploded, sending large chunks of carapace into the black. Still, the Overlord continued, though clearly weakened.

Coda thought he heard a distant scream in the back of his mind. Maybe it was his connection to the Baranyk network. Maybe it was just his imagination. It could have even been his own triumphant hollering.

The second missile struck. The Overlord’s ship exploded. Vaporized.

He waited for something. He didn’t know what. Maybe some sort of galactic boom. A shock wave across the universe. An exclamation point to their efforts. It seemed odd that the entire war could end with a single act, something little more than a pair of flashes in the night, all but invisible from anything more than a few kilometers.

Coda sat in silence, his body trembling with adrenaline, relief, and immense satisfaction. It wasn’t until he powered his ship back on that he heard the cheers. They shook him out of his introspection.

Moscow’s voice was the first voice he could make out on the radio. “You did it!” he screamed.

“No,” Coda said over the din. “We did it. We did it.”

62

Bridge, SAS Abraham Lincoln

Jovian System, Sol System

The Baranyk fought with a ferocity Admiral Orlovsky had never seen. Unlike the slow, methodical march through the human systems, now that they were in the Sol System, the heart of humanity, the enemy attacked like an angry bear.

In the aftermath of the Olympia and Monaco’s attack on the rear of the still-forming enemy fleet, the Overlord had moved fast. The response was so swift and devastating, the two human capital ships had to jump to a fallback position and rejoin the bulk of the fleet. Even then, more than half of their Hornet drones had been wiped out, and each ship took severe damage.

Dozens of ships attacked each of the Galilean moons. The outposts on Io and Calisto had been destroyed in minutes, the ships hiding on their dark side eliminated nearly as quickly. Stations on Ganymede, more populous and defensive, had lasted little longer. Europa, the main habitat in the Jovian System, had fared the best, but that said little.

The system burned. Millions, perhaps more, were dead. Remnants of ships floated through space, some pulled to the surface of Jupiter’s moons, where they produced new craters. Others were drawn to the planet itself, lost forever in Jupiter’s massive storms. The space surrounding the system was equal parts graveyard and scrapyard. A place where all things, human and machine, went to die.

“Sir!” Lieutenant Erikson said. “A contingent of the enemy fleet has broken off, sir.”

“Where are they headed?” Admiral Orlovsky asked.

“Toward the inner system,” Lieutenant Erikson said.

That meant only one thing. Earth. The bastards weren’t happy just eliminating their ability to wage war. They had to destroy the humans’ ancestral home too.

Admiral Orlovsky studied the battle map. It was the most complex battle he had ever seen. More ships, more fighters, more planets, moons, and stations, each with their own individual defenses. It hadn’t been enough. The fleet was in shambles, fighting two dozen different skirmishes and losing all of them.

He didn’t have the ships to spare. He’d long since ordered in their reserves. They’d already lost. The weary side of him just wanted to be done, to finally be free of the pressure and anguish, to die so that he could find peace.

A small piece of him believed that Coleman was still out there. That they still had a chance. If his old friend was successful, what kind of world would he return to? Would there be anything to return to at all? That tiny ray of hope, above all else, kept him going.

“How many ships broke away?” Admiral Orlovsky asked.

“It was a small contingent, sir,” Lieutenant Erikson said. “Six ships in total.”

It was amazing how quick the new reality had set in. Two weeks ago, six ships would have been a massive attack force. In the new reality, it was barely worth mentioning.

“Have the remaining Io and Calisto forces jump to the inner system,” Admiral Orlovsky said.

“There’s only four ships remaining, sir,” Lieutenant Erikson said. “The Barcelona, Columbia, Endeavor, and Williamsport.”

“They’ll have to be enough,” Orlovsky said.

“They have all reported considerable damage.”

“Look around, Lieutenant. Any ship that’s still around has sustained considerable damage.”

“Understood, sir. Sending the…”

“What is it, Lieutenant?” Orlovsky pressed, more than half expecting another quip from his tactical officer.

“It’s the enemy, sir. They’ve stopped firing.”

Orlovsky was on his feet in moments. “They’ve what?”

“They’ve stopped firing, sir,” Lieutenant Erikson said. “All of them at once. I’ve never seen anything like it, sir.”

Orlovsky strode toward the battle map and gripped the padded railing. He squeezed it, feeling the rubbery surface squish between his fingers.

The battle map didn’t display anything smaller than a ship-to-ship missile. It was still teeming with those, but each of them were friendlies streaking toward the enemy capital ships. Most of the enemy vessels were in orbit around the Jovian moons and had been assaulting the surface. Those were now strangely quiet. Even the enemy fighters had stopped.

Well, not stopped, rather stopped maneuvering. They flew in the same trajectory as they had before… whatever it was had happened. It was almost as if someone had hit the pause button on the enemy’s side of the battle.

The same couldn’t be said about the Sol Fleet. They used the small reprieve to inflict as much damage as possible. Rejuvenated drone fighters swarmed into enemy formations, attacking enemy ships without hesitation, shattering their assault as if they were nothing more than toys on a table and the Hornets were a sweeping hand. Capital ships launched volleys of rail-gun strikes. Nighthawk squadrons looped in, delivering CapKillers, laying waste to strategic targets.

“What’s the status of the enemy contingent?” Orlovsky asked.

“They’re still moving, sir.”

“They should have jumped by now,” Orlovsky said. Something was most definitely off. The small trickle of hope grew to a steady stream. Had Coleman done it? Had he destroyed the Overlord?

“What should I tell the fleet, sir?”

“Tell them to fire at w—”

“They’re moving again, sir!”

The battle map came alive with new activity. The directionless ships were now maneuvering again. Except they weren’t moving to attack. They were retreating.

If the Overlord is dead, shouldn’t the rest of them be lifeless? Fleet Intelligence had called them drones after all.

That’s not what Chadwick believed, Orlovsky reminded himself. He’d said that the Baranyk were slaves. Forced to do their master’s bidding. If that master was dead, it stood to reason that they would make their own decisions.

Several of the red indicators disappeared off the battle map.

“They’re jumping, sir!”

“Where?” Orlovsky knew it was a stupid question. Science fiction movies and books always talked about jump signatures, but there was no such thing in the real world. Once a ship jumped, there was no way to determine its destination.

“Looks like the edge of the system, sir.”

“Zoom out,” Orlovsky said, surprised.

The battle map zoomed out. The disappearing ships were indeed moving toward the edge of the system. Not toward Earth. Toward Saturn. Farther from the home of humanity. Within moments, every ship in the Baranyk fleet had disappeared, reassembling on the outskirts of Saturn.

Except… No. Not every ship was accounted for. Only about half of the enemy ships had regrouped with the rest.

“Have the fleet pull in,” Orlovsky said. “Regroup. Keep an eye on the enemy. If they so much as twitch, I want to know about it. Send our Io and Calisto forces to Earth and another to Mars. Try and locate the missing ships.”

“Sir?” Lieutenant Erikson said. “Where are you going?”

“I need answers,” Orlovsky said. And there was only one place he was going to get those.

Sick bay was busier than Orlovsky had ever seen it. Pilots, ship personnel, even engineers filled every bed, corner, and available floor space. Medical personnel moved between them with harried expressions, blood covering their scrubs.

Orlovsky didn’t even try to find the doc. He went straight to O’Neil.

The prevailing theory was that Joseph O’Neil had somehow been captured by the Overlord during his time in the Baranyk network and was being held against his will. If the Overlord was gone, then maybe O’Neil was free. If he was free, maybe he had answers.

The door to O’Neil’s makeshift room opened, and Orlovsky’s hope was immediately dashed. The man lay unconscious on the gurney, his features sallow and emaciated. He looked more like a corpse than most of the injured in the medical ward.

Orlovsky grabbed O’Neil’s arm and gave it a soft shake. Maybe the man just needed a little extra coaxing to come out of it. A physical stimuli. He didn’t respond, so Orlovsky shook him again. Still nothing.

“O’Neil,” Orlovsky said. He even snapped his fingers in front of the man’s face. Nothing worked. “O’Neil.”

The door to the small room opened. Dr. Sullivan stepped in then froze when her eyes found the admiral’s. “Sir, what are you doing in here?”

“Looking for answers.” His eyes fell on O’Neil once more.

“Did you find any?” she asked.

“No. No, I didn’t.”

63

Hangar, SAS Redemption

High Orbit, Baranyk Homeworld

A sea of people waited for Coda and Moscow when they returned to the hangar bay. Coda couldn’t hear them through the Nighthawk’s canopy, but they were jumping up and down, clapping, and pumping fists into the air. There were hugs and tears between members from every function, from engineering to the marines.

When he popped his canopy, a sonic boom of cheering crashed over him. He’d never heard anything like it. He slid the canopy into its fully open position, stood, and removed his flight helmet. He didn’t know how it was possible, but the ovation grew louder. He raised his flight helmet in the air and pumped his fist in reply, letting out a triumphant yell. The crowd roared in response.

Across the hangar, Moscow dealt with a similar mob. He and Coda made eye contact then climbed out of their fighters and down the ladders that had been rolled beside their cockpits. Coda was mobbed the moment both his boots hit the deck. People slapped him on the back, offering congratulations, and a few even cried as they voiced their thanks.

Coda nodded to each, smiled at most, gave high-fives and hugs, and said thank you in return. It was a moment he could only have dreamed about—a moment he had dreamed about ever since entering the Academy.

Coda and Moscow found each other in the middle of the throng and crashed into each other, pounding each other on the back with triumphant ferocity.

“We did it!” Moscow screamed. “Holy shit, we fucking did it!”

Coda was laughing now, a permanent smile tattooed on his face. The moment hadn’t felt quite right without his friend. With their arms around each other’s shoulders, they held up their flight helmets again. The mass of people screamed their gratitude, one step away from pure pandemonium. Coda and Moscow spun, taking it all in.

Another sound entered the fray, and Coda turned to see a squadron of Nighthawks entering the hangar. The crowd parted, giving them a place to land. Those closest to the landing zones swarmed around the new pilots. Coda looked from fighter to fighter, searching for his friends.

Squawks wasn’t difficult to find. He had his flight helmet off in seconds and drank in the attention. He held a hand to his ear as if he couldn’t hear the crowd, willing them to get louder. Then he pumped his hands in the air, encouraging them even more, all the while beaming from ear to ear.

Nails was more circumspect. She sat in her cockpit, head down. Coda wondered what was going through her mind. Had she lost someone? Was the moment too big to comprehend? Coda didn’t know, and it wasn’t the right time to find out.

The crowd parted as Squawks made his way through it toward Coda. When he finally saw Coda, Squawks bounded into a sprint and crashed into him as hard as he could. It took everything Coda had to stay on his feet.

“You crazy sonuvabitch, you did it!” Squawks bellowed, then he turned and gave Moscow a vicious shove. “You’re bad, man. You’re bad!”

Coda and Moscow could only laugh. Sometimes there wasn’t anything else to say, and Squawks usually made up for it.

“Just remember,” Squawks continued, “as you’re drowning in women and going on all of the talk shows, just remember who saved your ass down there.”

Coda’s smile was so big it hurt. “I will.”

After all, they had done it together. Not just Coda, Moscow, and Squawks, but Rocket, Dumper, and the rest of the Forgotten. Phantom and the rest of their drone pilots. Sergeant Haniger, Corporal Abernathy, and their marines. Commander Payton and his engineers. Doctor Poiu and Doctor Rydell. Not to mention Captain Coleman and the ship’s executive crew.

Speaking of the captain, where is he?

Coda’s eyes went back to Nails’s starfighter. Captain Coleman had his daughter in a tight hug. Her face was buried in his shoulder, and he held her as if she were a child again. With everything happening around him, the energy, the raucous crowd, the screams, the celebrating, and congratulations, it was that small, quiet moment that hit him the hardest.

That was what they had fought for.

It was also a reminder that his mission wasn’t complete. The Overlord was gone, but the Baranyk were still out there. What does that mean for my father?

Coda pulled away from Moscow and Squawks and began threading his way through the crowd.

“Where are you going?” Moscow called after him.

“There’s one more thing I have to do,” Coda said, and then he disappeared into the Nighthawk locker room. Nobody followed him. They were too caught up in the celebration.

Coda stripped out of his flight suit, and after donning the standard-issue slacks and tank top, he left the locker room behind.

He returned to his bunk in the pilot barracks. If anyone found him, they would think he was sleeping and wouldn’t disturb him. Since losing his private quarters, that was the best he could hope for.

Lying down, he placed his hands on his chest and closed his eyes. After the celebration in the hangar, it was difficult to slow his heart rate and steady his breathing, but once he had, connecting to the network proved as simple as it always had. In moments, Coda left the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of the Redemption behind and floated in a place that was simultaneously nothing and everything.

Coda noticed the difference immediately. The wrongness that had permeated the Baranyk network like an oil slick over water was gone, and in its wake was a distant sense of relief. As he floated through the network, the pinpricks of light that so often resembled stars pulled away from him.

Were they afraid of him? Fearful that he would assume the Overlord’s place and subjugate them? Or were they simply doing everything they could not to provoke him? To show they weren’t like their ruler?

Coda tried to give off a sense of assurance that he wasn’t there for violence. That seemed to help. At least the lights didn’t pull away as quickly. A thought came to him, and he projected an image of his father. It was painful to recollect, but he thought of the last time he’d seen him, when they’d sat in the abandoned baseball stadium and been attacked by the Overlord and his minions.

Coda didn’t hide his anguish. He did the opposite, letting it radiate from him like a signal from a radio. He knew the others could feel it, because he’d felt it too. His father had done the same to him when they’d first met in the network. Even the Overlord had radiated his feelings of cruelty and oppression.

He was about to give up and continue the search himself when a single light broke away from the rest. It floated toward Coda, almost unsure, like an anxious dog slowly approaching with its head low, tail between its legs. As it drew closer, Coda had the impression of a Baranyk warrior. This one had been in the hive and had watched with its own eyes as the Overlord collapsed its chamber and destroyed their city. It had lost other Baranyk dear to it.

Their grief was a shared experience that bridged the gap between species in a way that normal language never could.

It’s over, Coda attempted to say. He projected an image of the Overlord’s ship exploding. He’s gone.

The Baranyk warrior recoiled.

No, Coda thought. I’m sorry.

Showing the destruction of their leader clearly wasn’t the right decision. He tried channeling a different image, one of the human survivors helping clear the rubble from the fallen city, then their fleet leaving the system behind.

We can help each other.

That appeared to quell some of the Baranyk’s fears. The feeling of uncertainty solidified into resolve, then the light was racing away. At first, Coda thought he had scared it away for good, but it paused then raced farther away, only to pause again.

It’s waiting for me to follow.

Coda chased after it, and when he did, the light didn’t stop. The Baranyk led Coda through the network, past millions of other consciousnesses until eventually they found one that wasn’t like the rest.

His father had told him that it was possible to tell a human consciousness from a Baranyk’s, and he’d been right. It was difficult to put into words, but the moment Coda saw the light, he knew it belonged to his father.

Coda raced toward it, and as he neared, the image of the network disappeared, replaced instead by a cave. It was not unlike the hive’s chambers, only smaller. There were no light sources, but it was well lit. The rocky walls and stone floor were a yellow-brown shade. There were no entrances or exits, and at its center was a single slab of stone where his father rested.

Joseph O’Neil was almost unrecognizable. He was emaciated and pale except where the dried blood had stained his skin. His lips were crimson and chapped, eyes sunken and hollow, hair thin and brittle. His clothes had been ripped away, leaving a pale body crisscrossed with cuts, littered with bruises, and two punctures where the Baranyk warrior’s forelimbs had pierced him.

Coda went to him in a rush and took his hand. “Dad? Dad, it’s me. Can you hear me?”

His father didn’t respond, but he was breathing, and Coda could feel a faint pulse. There was obviously no air in the Baranyk network, but if his mind was projecting critical life functions, that was a good sign, wasn’t it?

“Dad, it’s Callan. I’m here. I found you. Can you hear me?”

His father didn’t move.

Coda looked around, helpless. His father was connected to a network that didn’t require wires, cables, or plug-ins of any kind. Coda didn’t know how to force him to disconnect. The empty chamber didn’t offer any clues, and try as he might, Coda couldn’t think of anything. So he went back to the only thing he knew to do.

“Come back, Dad.” He patted him on the cheek. “Come on, Dad. It’s me. I’m going to get you out of here, but I need some help. Come on.”

What if he disconnected while holding his father’s hand? Could he lead him out of the chamber? Coda started to try, but as the chamber grew fuzzy, he lost his connection with his father. Panicking, he scrambled back, clawing at the network as if he had fallen into a hole and was trying to scramble back to the surface. Whatever he did worked, because he was back in the chamber.

Firmly back in the network, he rested his hands on the slab and slumped his head. “What am I going to do with you?”

A scraping noise brought his head up. Across the chamber from him was the same Baranyk that had led him to his father. Years of fear boiled to the surface, and Coda stepped back hesitantly. He held his hands in front of him as if trying to ward it off, and he looked around the chamber for anything he could use as a weapon.

The beast’s triangular head watched him, cocking from side to side as if measuring him. Its steps were slow, almost tentative, as it made its way across the chamber toward his father.

“Stay away from him,” Coda said.

But the alien didn’t listen. It crawled to the center slab where Coda’s father lay and stood over him, eyes taking in his frail body. When it looked up, it met Coda’s eyes again. If the Baranyk had wanted to hurt his father, it could have. And if it’d wanted to hurt Coda, there had been opportunities.

“Can you help him?” Coda asked.

The Baranyk warrior made a strange sound in reply.

“Please.”

The Baranyk made the sound again. This time, Coda realized it was coming from the alien’s antennae, but he didn’t know what it meant.

“Please,” Coda said again. “I need him. We need him. Only he can tell the others the war is over. If there’s anything you can do, please do it.”

The Baranyk warrior dipped its head, something Coda took as a submissive gesture. Then it rose sharply on its hind legs, its razor-sharp forelimbs flaring outward.

“No!” Coda screamed. He’d seen those limbs drive straight through his father’s chest.

An ear-piercing shriek rang through the chamber, so loud Coda had to cover his ears. Still, the sound seemed to pierce his brain. The pain was unbearable, as if a creature were trying to burrow its way out of his head. His scream echoed the Baranyk’s, creating a terrible harmony.

Coda crashed into the wall, his legs weak, unable to take any more. He didn’t know how long it lasted, but when it finally stopped, his vision was blurry. He gasped and tried wiping away tears. Tiny lights sparkled at the edges of his vision. It took several moments for him to get his breath back. When he did, he found his father still on the stone slab, without any new wounds. The warrior hadn’t attacked him. Then what did he do?

Suddenly, his father moved. It was a small thing, almost imperceptible, but it was there.

Coda was at his side in an instant. “Dad? Dad, can you hear me?”

His father moved again, his arm moving sluggishly toward his head, legs stretching slowly.

“Dad, it’s me. I’m right here. Go slow.”

One by one, each of his father’s limbs moved until eventually, his eyes opened. He looked at Coda, recognition slowly appearing. “Callan?” His voice was raspy and little more than a whisper, barely making it past his lips, but Coda heard it.

“Yeah,” Coda said. “I’m here.”

A sliver of a smile.

Coda’s eyes must have drifted to the Baranyk warrior waiting on the other side of the stone slab, because his father’s head turned. When he saw their former enemy for the first time, his body visibly tensed, eyes going wide with fear.

“It’s okay,” Coda said. “He’s here to help.”

“Help?”

“Yes,” Coda said. “I couldn’t get you to wake up.”

“There was a noise,” his father said slowly, his head turning sluggishly back to Coda.

“Yeah.”

“Pain.”

“That too,” Coda said. “Listen, Dad, I need you to hear this. We did it. We killed the Overlord. It’s done. I don’t know what’s happening at home, but they need to know. Can you do that? Can you tell them?”

“Done.”

“Yeah,” Coda said. “It’s done. It’s over. It’s all over. We just have to get you home.”

“Home.”

Coda nodded. “Yeah, Dad. Home. Are you ready to go home?”

His father slowly reached up, his hand cupping Coda’s face. His skin was dry and scratchy, but it felt better than anything Coda had ever felt in his life. He placed his hand over his fathers and leaned into it.

“Not without you,” his father said.

A dam of emotion broke inside, and tears welled in Coda’s eyes. “I’ll be there soon, Dad.”

His father made a sound somewhere between a groan and acknowledgment. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Okay.”

He cast another uneasy look toward the Baranyk. Coda did as well.

“I made a promise to you too,” Coda said. “And I have every intention of seeing it through.”

The cold black eyes of the Baranyk just stared at him, its antennae buzzing slightly. For some reason, he had the distinct impression that the alien had understood him.

64

SAS Redemption,

High Orbit, SAS Redemption

The Redemption and its crew remained in the Baranyk system for four days. Captain Coleman initially resisted Coda’s pleas to assist with the cleanup, but in the end, Coda had won out. He’d even flown the first dropship and led the first cleanup crews. Unsurprisingly, Squawks and Moscow had joined him for that. They were a squadron, after all, and whatever one of their brothers did, they did as well.

Eventually, hundreds of the ship’s crew joined in, working side by side with their former enemy. It was difficult, labor-intensive work, and Coda worried the peace would shatter at any point. He had to remind himself that this wasn’t the standard postwar effort so often leveraged by the victors. These people—and the longer Coda spent among them, the more he believed they were people—or at least individuals—had fought a terrible war among themselves before they’d ever discovered the humans.

There was no communication between the two races. No peace talks or conversations about war retribution. Simply hard labor to clean up a city destroyed by war.

When the humans left, the Baranyk lined up on the edge of their city and rose onto their hind legs, their forearms stretched to the sky, and wailed in that high-pitched squeal of theirs. Coda could only guess at the meaning, but he waved from the ramp of the dropship as it took flight and left the city, entering the tunnel that would take it to the surface.

Coda didn’t know what would happen with the Baranyk after they returned to human space. That was a topic for politicians and military leaders. He was just a pilot. Give him a mission, and he would see it through. Though he hoped this was the beginning of a long peace between their races. There was a lot they could learn from each other, and just like the Baranyk, humanity needed time to rebuild.

The return flight took over four thousand individual jumps and nearly three months. Coda kept himself busy with his shipboard responsibilities. The Redemption had suffered significant damage during the attack and took months to repair. Their Nighthawk and drone squadrons needed to be rebuilt and repaired, and until the war was officially declared over, they were still on high alert. That meant CAP schedules needed to be created and flown and trainings completed, including the ones out-of-touch politicians mandated. Even in the deepest depths of enemy territory, the bureaucracy knew no bounds.

In the evenings, the pilots assembled in the small storage locker off the hangar and told stories about friends and old comrades. The nights were filled with good friends and laughter. It was the first time in Coda’s life that he could just be, and they were some of the best days of his life.

They talked of their past and even more of their future. With the battles over, the most popular topic was what they would do when they got home. Having gotten a taste of high speed in confined spaces, Squawks had his sights set on the high-stakes starfighter races. It was the closest thing he would be able to find to the adrenaline rush of flying his Nighthawk and riding that knife’s edge between life and death. “The women don’t hurt either,” he would add with a mischievous grin.

Moscow’s Russian pride was too strong. He intended to stay with the Sol Fleet, likely moving into a leadership role to prepare for the next war. Coda had told them that the galaxy was teeming with life. If humanity had gone to war with the first alien species it had ever come across, then it was a damn good bet there would eventually be a war against another.

Nails, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to get out. She’d joined the Forgotten to get closer to her father, specifically to understand what her father had seen in the Nighthawks all these years. What she’d found hadn’t impressed her. Sure, she enjoyed the camaraderie, and the speed was addictive, but contrary to what many believed, she could find those things elsewhere. Coda wasn’t so sure, but he never voiced his opinion.

For himself, he didn’t have an answer, and it became something of a running joke. Coda was good at telling others what to do but struggled to set a path for himself. He needed orders. When the nights came to a close and Coda lay alone in his bunk, he wondered if it was because he’d lived so long with a singular goal that he’d never thought about what would come after it. Or maybe as a fighter pilot, he’d never truly expected to survive long enough to see the end of the war.

Captain Coleman had long since taught them that death was their comrade, always lurking, always present on every mission they ever flew. Whatever it was, whatever he decided, he had time to figure it out.

When he wasn’t drinking with his squadmates, he communicated with this father through the Baranyk network. It had taken weeks before Joseph O’Neil was well enough to leave the medical ward, but he had fulfilled his promise. Admiral Orlovsky and the rest of the Sol Fleet knew of the Forgotten’s success, that the Overlord was dead, and that the Baranyk were no longer a threat. The enemy had long since left the Sol System, likely headed back to their own home world to rebuild, like humanity.

Of his personal life, Joseph said little, only that he was healthy and had been released from the hospital and pardoned from his crimes. It was a quiet affair, one apparently without any hoopla or celebration. His record had been expunged, and he was allowed to retire. No press conference or formal writ of apology. The Sol Fleet moved forward as if the incident hadn’t occurred. As if his father hadn’t been vilified for decades. It was for the best, Coda told himself. His father was done with the fleet, and now he could live in peace.

When they finally returned to human space, they took the first available JumpGate back to the Sol System. Somehow, word had traveled ahead of them, and an honor guard of ships waited to escort them home, Admiral Orlovsky’s Abraham Lincoln at its head.

The admiral shuttled to the Redemption, where he personally thanked and congratulated the men and women of the ship, promising a great award ceremony accompanied by the world’s leaders and streamed live for all its citizens once they’d had a chance to recover. In the meantime, they had his eternal gratitude.

For Coda, Captain Coleman, and others, the admiral brought other tidings. They spent days reviewing their briefings, reviewing the battle, and answering a thousand questions from the fleet’s top brass. During this, Coda realized an important detail he hadn’t noticed before.

In the aftermath of the Overlord’s death, the Baranyk civilization had fractured. Fleet Intelligence’s best guess was that the forces assaulting the Sol System had divided into two distinct and separate groups. The first had jumped away entirely to parts unknown. It was widely believed that they’d returned to their home system, but there was no actual evidence to support that theory.

The second group had lingered for a time on the edges of human space, watching and observing. They’d made no aggressive moves, but their continued presence kept the fleet on high alert. They had since fallen back, and recent probes showed they were rebuilding their defensive line on the edges of their own system.

Admiral Orlovsky and the top brass didn’t take it as an act of war, but they weren’t as convinced the war was over, either.

“When a power void is created,” Admiral Orlovsky reminded them, “someone always aims to take control. It’s a universal truth, proven since the dawn of time, and it appears the Baranyk are no different.”

Coda wondered about the truth of the statement. There were different kinds of power. Different kinds of leaders. It didn’t mean that whoever took the mantle of the Baranyk’s next leader would be like the Overlord. Maybe they would value peace. He could only hope, just as he could only hope that his efforts on their home world wouldn’t go unnoticed. From what he’d seen, the Baranyk were capable of incredible things, not just great technologies but also art and architecture. Surely, they believed in protecting those things as much as humanity did.

The Redemption docked on Luna, the hub for all of Earth’s space travel, and Coda prepared for a flight to Earth. He had nothing to pack and slung a single duffel over his shoulder. There was a muted set of goodbyes in the barracks. The previous night, they had all gotten well and truly drunk, and the tears had flowed as freely as the alcohol. Captain Coleman had even joined them.

All that was left was the final goodbyes shared between friends and comrades. They promised to see each other again. They were forever brothers and sisters, forever Forgotten. If anyone needed anything, they were only a short message away.

Coda was the last to leave. He stood in the empty barracks, taking mental pictures of it, wondering if he would ever be back. He still didn’t know what he was going to do next. With a final deep breath, he left it behind and boarded a shuttle to Luna.

As the doors opened, he shuffled out, watching as loved ones rushed forward, barreling into each other. There were fierce hugs, kisses, and enough tears to fill an ocean. He smiled as husbands and wives embraced. As fathers hugged children who, in some cases, had never even seen them in person.

He didn’t have a wife or children to hug, but he did spot a familiar face. He stood tall and proud, his shoulders firm, and healthy. Gone were the sunken features and his emaciated form. He didn’t know how much of that had been a projection in the Baranyk network, but here, his father looked as he had in Coda’s imagination. The very definition of a hero.

Coda smiled and fought back the lump in his throat, what little good it did him. When he embraced his father, the tears fell freely.

“God, it’s good to see you,” his father said.

“You too,” Coda said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Glad I could surprise you.”

Coda pulled away and wiped his eyes. “It was a good surprise.”

“I didn’t come alone.”

Coda followed his father’s gaze. Standing to the side of the terminal was a small woman. The years hadn’t been kind to her. She was shorter than he remembered—and frailer, as if she’d spent the time in a constant state of worry and regret. She smiled and waved at him awkwardly, clearly equal parts happy and concerned.

“Go say hi to your mom,” his father said. “She’s missed you.”

His father didn’t have to say it twice. Coda dropped his duffel and bounded to her.

“Callan,” she said as he took her in his arms. “I’m so sorry.” He felt her warm tears on his shoulder.

Coda couldn’t talk. Couldn’t breathe. There are few things in life a person needs more than a mother’s hug. With his arms holding her tight, and his father smiling and watching on, Callan “Coda” O’Neil finally released the burden he’d been carrying since his father had disappeared. With his family together, he was finally whole.

If you liked Wings of Redemption, please consider leaving a review on Amazon. Aside from purchasing a book or recommending it to other readers, leaving a review is the single most helpful thing you can do for an author and I’d be incredibly grateful.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Craig Andrews graduated from Portland State University with a Bachelors of Arts in English. Growing up on a healthy diet of fantasy and science fiction, some of his favorite memories include being traumatized by the TV shows Unsolved Mysteries and The X-Files. He currently lives in a small town outside of Portland, Oregon with his wife and two boys.

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