Enemy Space: The War of Syzygy

Enemy Space

The War of Syzygy

Brent Dorian Carpenter

Copyright 2013 Foundation Press

Prologue

Chronicler's Journal

Entry 12 February 2098

World War Three was not the end of humanity. But history may yet record it was surely the beginning of that end. The cataclysmic nuclear horrors of that most anti-human event ever perpetrated set the peoples of the precious blue-green Earth careening into chaos. New realities became clear. The home planet of Mankind was starting to die. And those of affluence and means looked Heavenward for salvation, casting their desperate gaze upon the nearby red planet of Mars. Thus was born the Great Schism that I fear will inevitably pit Earthling against Martian, and possibly destroy them all.

In that most notorious year of 2024, when the limited exchange of four atom bombs incinerated Tel Aviv, Mecca, Tehran and Islamabad, and rendered much of the Middle East a Nuclear Dead Zone, our collective, yet uncoupled fates were forever sealed. Two billion dead, many vaporized, so vastly more to perish from radiation sickness, burns, famine, suicide and during the mad, endless diaspora out of the uninhabitable region. A new word enters the public lexicon—megacide--the intentional killing of millions. Global systems strained to collapse, governments toppling, new world powers rising. Alas, to what?

That nightmarish Pandora's Box, ignited by human hubris, was but the starting point. The balancing scales of Earth's fragile ecosystem, already strained by her bulging, insatiable populations, is tilted past its brink by the black clouds of Holocaust. The ash of once-great peoples and cities blotted the upper atmosphere. The looming specter of climate change accelerates, and the anti-science deniers could no longer ignore the fact that reality is slowly turning our home into a sweltering hellscape. A wave of Mass Extinctions begins.

The polar ice caps melt and water levels rise worldwide. Florida, Louisiana,and Manhattan, the crown jewel of American financial power, underwater, as are Denmark and Bangladesh. Central America, now an island chain. New miseries unfold as crop failure, drought, starvation, plague and riots become commonplace on every continent, and anarchy threatens to propel society into a New Dark Age inconceivable at a time of such scientific achievement.

Despite these horrendous circumstances, the indefatigable human spirit forges ever forward. Driven by the abrupt loss of the prime source of vital fossil fuels, the frantic dash for clean energy leads to the dawn of the Fusion Age, inexhaustible power supplies generated by simple hydrogen and the scientific principles that govern the Sun. This development is significant for it purchases invaluable time to discover a way to save our doomed species from the utter folly of our own ruinous actions.

Arguably of greater important, the profound breakthrough came in 2045, the Year of the Singularity Event. The advent of the Artificial Intelligence, computers of such incalculable talent as to not only eclipse that of all living human minds combined, but also achieving a form of sentient self-awareness. Computers as conscious entities, beings. Many science fiction tales of the previous century obsessively warned of such creations plotting to destroy their fleshly masters. Of course, the towering minds of the Singularity Society predicted all of this as early as the 1980s. In fact, that vainglorious institute planned for it, steered it, figured out in advance how to tame and control it—before being seized and engulfed itself by the invidious Crock Brothers Industries.

How the Society's glorious A.I. inventions helped us solve so many of our mortal problems. At last, human beings were able to unlock long-forbidden frontiers, thanks in no small part to their infinite calculating powers. The knowledge to reverse-engineer the human brain and conquer disease, to unleash burgeoning technologies such as cloning and nano-robotics with all their astonishing applications, now in our grasp. And the holiest golden grail of all, the bio-technological revolution in chromosome manipulation leading to the indefinite extension of the lifespan. No less than the absolute defeat of Death itself and the rise of the Immortal Man.

Alas such a prize would surely be worth even the wealthiest man's entire fortune. As the narcissistic billionaires and trillionaires such as the Crocks of the world realized they could live forever and thus had even more to lose, the secret planning was undertaken. In collusion with the dispirited United States military command, weary of watching politicians bicker while acre upon acre of territory slips beneath the oceans, the Singularity Society did what every self-aggrandizing nobility does in time of great crisis, seek higher, safer ground.

With those vast monies at Charles and Alexander Crocks' disposal, they manipulated their puppet U.S. government to ply the former organization NASA and the Army Corps of Engineers to set about the most daunting task yet undertaken by Man—the terraformation of Mars into a habitable world. A sanctuary where the few hundred thousand elite, with their perfectly engineered genes, bio-mechanical implants and haughty sense of infallibility, might escape the gruesome fate of the Wild Stock humans. Utilizing every resource they could muster, the Society built their magnificent floating mansions, spaceships employing the newest micro-fusion engines, fleeing as fast as they could and never once looking back. The Bloody Exodus of the 2050s would forever sear the Singularity Society's betrayal into the minds of those billions they so callously left behind to bake.

And so now, the great Martian project is three generations underway. The very first domed  settlements have sprung up on her rusty mantle. Small radiation-free fusion bombs are routinely detonated at the Martian poles to release the trillions of metric tons of water locked frozen beneath her surface. These life-sustaining liquids are key to the cultivation of genetically enhanced plant life and crops that will, over time, generate a proper self-sustaining atmosphere for human consumption and long-term survival.

However, while the monumental engineering proposal moves forward, by my estimation, with astounding speed, the intricacies involved means decades longer before Mars is fully capable of sustaining mass populations. Thirty years spent crammed in their pampered, orbiting tin cans has strained even the patience of these newly immortal Singularitarians, and civil discord over the settlement pecking order threatens to rend asunder all we have built   here. The Crock Bros rule by absolute fiat and have managed to replicate every luxury known to Man out here on the edge of the inner solar system, all save one—freedom. From themselves and their evil natures.

While back on Earth, the shock of abandonment by the cream of society has metamorphosized into deep, abiding resentment, particularly when Martian ships return there to raid what few resources remain. And always under the watchful guns of the former U.S. Military Space Force and Marines, ever-vigilant from their Luna moon base for unauthorized Earthling activity that might threaten the Singularity Society government's order. The seeds of war are being planted faster than those newly greening fields on Mars. A new kind of conflict unknown prior in human history, not waged across artificial and arbitrary borders, or even oceans. Humankind is entering the era of Interplanetary Warfare, a war between worlds. Earth versus Mars—and the Martians are us.

I am a very old spirit, and have watched this human drama unfold time and again. I am forced to wonder, even after all my years and witness to countless atrocities, if perhaps this time, we have truly undone ourselves. I have my doubts as to whether we can ultimately survive this latest failure of foresight...

Chapter One

Moon Grunts

Major Darius Palladin sits in the sealed cockpit of his blue-and-white Stingray-class space fighter contemplating both the emptiness of the vacuum beyond his canopy and the mirroring void deep within his soul. Despite the immediate presence of his escort group of five ships, including best friends and wing-men First Lieutenant Dominico Soltis and Shariel Woo, the normally cocky young pilot has never felt so alone in his life. He strains to glimpse one specific dot amidst the spectacular starry panoply that is the backbone of the Milky Way.

The six small, heavily weaponized ships hover soundlessly and weightlessly in tight formation, thruster engines idling, awaiting the arrival of the inbound Martian water freighter the Moltan. Earth and Luna continue their timeless pirouette not terribly far afield, about a million-and-a-half miles away, but distant enough to belie the terrible conflicts raging on her darkening surface. The first rocket ships to traverse the 238,000 mile distance from Earth to her satellite took three days. Now, if their critical charge ever arrives, Palladin expects to cover six times that distance in mere hours.

The Major impatiently checks his radar again for sign of the errant tanker, then peers over at the men and women under his command awaiting nervously in their ships. The sound of his own breathing within his pressurized spacesuit is very nearly about to drive him crazy. He opens a wireless subspace radio channel to Soltis.

"Mi amigo, are you still with me out there?"

A hissing static accompanies his fellow warrior's acerbic reply, in thick Spanish accent. Where the hell else would I be than covering your ass, Major? You're lookin' right at me.

"Then you should be able to see which finger I'm holding up, gringo."

Don't make me eject out of this ship and jet-pack over there to kick your black ass—sir!

Soltis utilizes his neural grip glove controls to playfully rock the 21-foot wingspan of his Stinger vessel in a display of machismo. Such interface technologies truly make these craft, with their classic arrowhead design, an extension of their physical bodies.

Another voice cuts through the ether, a female. Hey, boss, are you really gonna let Soltis punk you like that in front of your squad?

Don't fret it, Carson, Palladin states with the confidence of a beloved leader in possession of the unflinching loyalty of these dutiful soldiers. My buddy Dominico knows full well after I smack him down, I'll have him cleaning lunar dust off my boots when we return to Imbrium Base.

"You mean if your big sister lets you, eh, Major? She's the one wearin' two pairs of pants in your family."

Even Palladin had to chuckle at that one, as he could hear Carson, TaunTaun, Woo, and Pickering doing likewise over the open microphone. Well, all I can respond to that is, you better hope she's not listening in, mate.

I am, came a deep-throated voice harsh enough to pierce the ubiquitous static. The Major knows the brusque tone well, having grown up in its presence his entire life, back when his superior, Brigadier General Palladin, was just his big sister Cretia. She is monitoring the proceedings back at Imbrium Base Space Force Command HQ on Luna. And I'm going to have all your butts scrubbing floors and refurbishing the motor on my golf cart for jacking around on this channel during a mission.

While the others gulp ever-so-slightly, Darius dismisses his elder sibling's hyperbole. Sir, yes, sir. However, we are just kinda sitting out here clenching our asses from the cold. Any sign of the Moltan?

Yes, we're still in contact with Captain Davos. He's slightly behind schedule, approximately four minutes from your present position, coming in at a declination of 35 degrees.

I still don't have him yet. He must be haulin' ass.

He is. About 90 thousand kph. So all of you be ready to match speed. Got to stay ahead of any stray End of the World Anarchists and whatever junk they've managed to launch into space.

Well, personal starship technology was bound to happen sooner or later. We'll handle  anything that comes at us.

You better, Darius, the gruff General dryly replies. Because that's precisely what Major Waldren said before he and his wing-man just vanished, along with the cargo vessel they were protecting, on the previous such mission. Went radio-dead despite our anti-jamming systems. And now here I am, chewing your asses out, just as our father chewed out mine, and Prime Regent Crock chewed out his before me.

And we all know how much you hate having your ass chewed out by anyone other than your wife, Darius wisecracks to Cretia's dismay. And how is Roxie doing, by the way?

Damn you, Darius, switch over to the encrypted privy frequency. He does with a twitch of his hand within his neural grip glove, and their family conversation goes private.

Christ, Cretia, what's the big deal? The little woman gone bipolar on you again?

You know St. Valentine's Day is in two days. She's going to lose control. The crazy bitch is planning this big romantic party on base. You know how I detest these things.

You mean, like showing feelings, emotions, human behavior? Yeah, I get it. Not your thang. So you need me to get the tanker filled and on its way, and get back to Imbrium to help babysit your wife. Grand.

You warned me not to marry someone who hadn't gone through basic bio-neural screening for common defects. But what can I do? You know how love is.

Indeed, I do. As best as anyone can, I suppose. But this isn't about you and Roxie, is it, sis?

I'm worried about you, baby bro. You've been acting strange lately yourself. Anything you want to talk about before you go flying off to certain death?

"Aside from thanking you for the vote of confidence? Naw, Cretia, everything's all good with me."

Bullshit. That line didn't work with me when I had to protect you from bullies when we were kids. Ain't flyin' with me now.

Yeah, well, we're not kids anymore. And all these rockets and guns on all these ships under your command informs me we're the bullies now.

Okay, Darius, you've got about two minutes before you go hot to explain to me what the hell you're talkin' about this time?

It doesn't even remotely bother you what we're doing out here? the Major barks back. Your wife, running around in this day and age with a mental illness that can be cured by the Singularity's doctors, just like that? Not to mention the slight matter of our blatant mortality?

"Oh, the class warfare thing," the Brigadier General snidely replies. She was weary of this contentious debate with him.

And here we are, Darius rants on, holding back the poor fools down on Earth who only want to survive, and have their fair shot at a piece of the glorious pie. He reaches into the utility pouch on his suit and produces a small picture frame bearing the holographic image of a stunningly beautiful, long-haired woman.

And you would rather be down there with them? You know my view on this. You've got the same chip inside your head I do, collecting all your thoughts and memories that can be downloaded into a clone body if anything should ever happen to you. Distinguish yourself in service, as you have been so admirably doing, and you've got a better shot at being brought back to life than most Wild Stock humans.

"Of course. Why wouldn't the brass want to hang onto a good soldier? But it's just the stopgap measure. People like you and me, we'll never attain the big enchilada—the telomere cure to permanent immortality."

Even though our own father has?

You mean the grand poobah Lord Defense Minister Francisco Palladin? Good for Pops. He's as thick with the Martian Singularity government as a man can get. He's one of them now. A perk that has so far not rubbed off onto you or me. And certainly did Mother no good, may God rest her soul.

There is no God, Cretia scoffs resolutely. And if there is one, the son-of-a-bitch long ago turned his back on this corner of Creation.

"It's all a form of control. They've even got you using the term 'Wild Stock humans' as though you and I aren't one of them. I've got news for you, big sis. We're just Moon Grunts doin' what our Martian masters order us to. Tin soldiers in space, protecting their precious cargoes with the hope of someday being rewarded with some nugget. Nice crib on Mars with a view of Olympus Mons, a taste of cloned delicacies, like meat, maybe even a shot at not having to ever again fear death. But that one's out of reach for most of us, isn't it? Can't have too many immortal beings running around. Not enough resources to cover that, old sport."

Before General Palladin can respond, an insistent beep pierces the silence of Darius' cockpit. His radar screen relays a corresponding blip, the one he and the squadron have been waiting for. The younger replaces his precious photographic bauble into its satchel. There will be time to dwell upon Raveena later. After all, its been over five years since he's seen her.

His elder makes her move to weightier topics. 

Can I assume you're done with this foolishness? That's your man right there. I don't have time to go over Singularity Society policy with you. Aside from having to coddle you, hotshot, I've got hostile Chinese spacecraft making provocative flyovers of my base. So may I strongly suggest you stay focused on your present mission, and if you survive, maybe one day you can become the Defense Minister to the Martian Prime Regent and have your wish.

"Oh, I intend to stay deadly focused. You can count on that, Cretia. Get back to your Chinese problem. I know how you love a good fight. And afterward perhaps you can sneak in a round of low gravity golf. I'm switching back over to my squadron frequency."

With a flick of the finger, Darius Palladin severs the privy link to his sister and sighs. He wonders would there ever come a time when she would not treat him like he was still a child, and rather like the veteran of two wars he in fact was? He girds his loin, for the mission ahead, he already knows, will prove irrevocably life-changing for him, however it turns out.

Alright, ladies and fellas, the Major bellows into his headset mike, rev 'em up! We've got to match Moltan's speed and bring her in as close as possible to the Earth's upper atmosphere before braking to sub-mach speed. Dominico, you're with me on perimeter patrol.  Woo, Carson, take the port side. Taun', Pickering, that leaves you starboard.

Copy that.

Aye, aye, Major.

Palladin nods a silent affirmative. Inside his helmet, an interactive three-dimensional display from his rear view cameras is transmitted to his faceplate, along with speed, telemetry and various computational readings, allowing him to spy a solitary speck of light hurtling rapidly across the backdrop of a million billion others. A flicker of light rapidly growing in size. He employs the maneuvering thrusters to make slight adjustments to the pitch of his vessel.

Captain Davos, this is Major Palladin from Imbrium Base Space Force Command, do you read me?

A few moments of static, and then the response. This is Captain Alphonse Davos. Glad to make your esteemed acquaintance. Major. I already feel a lot more comfortable knowing you're leading this escort. My people know what they're doing. We'll be in and out in less than three hours.

My grunts will be delighted to hear that, sir. Seems there's a big Valentine soiree coming up on base they can't wait to get back to. Stay on your present course until we are just above the outer satellite line. We'll be making a 46 degree latitudinal adjustment to a northerly declination at T-plus 5 minutes before splashdown into reentry.

Awaiting the coordinates. And good luck, sir.

The Stingray pilots brace for the tremendous G-force of rapid acceleration as the two micro-fusion engines jutting from the rear of each Stinger flare white, filling the cockpits with a rising whine that cannot be heard just outside. In perfect unison, the sleek, precision, deadly machines rocket toward Earth. Even as fast as they increase velocity, a far more massive vessel tears through the darkness, threatening to overtake the military planes. In moments, the lumbering bulk of the Moltan slides into matching speed, and the escort is underway.

Palladin is able to see the tiny forms of Davos and his small helm crew through the transport's bridge view-port window and offers them a reassuring salute. They looked like fine civilian officers, by his account. He then turns his attention to his comrades. Sync up computers with me, he orders his five pilots as he grips his virtual control stick. On my mark, throttle up to 65 percent. Mark.

That is one butt-ugly ship, Soltis remarks as he gazes over at the boxy spacecraft off his wing, more like a streamlined flying refinery.

"It's built for function, not aesthetics, compadre, Pickering, the youngest of the six spacemen said informatively. Not every ship is gonna be a Mustang. She sucks the water up, she transports it back to Mars. We keep her from getting her gas hole shot off."

We're pretty sure there's a group of rebel End of the Worlders holed up and using some abandoned underground missile silo network in Sitka, the Major informs them. We'll be operating well north of there, near Barrow, but keep your eyes open. We're still not entirely clear what brought down Major Waldren's group.

And you've got another problem, the lesbian General's booming voice suddenly cut in. She was still on the channel. We're experiencing a glitch in our radar and satellite jamming system. We won't be able to blind the enemy like we planned.

That's...odd, Darius said tentatively, knowing such a circumstance would serve to level the playing field against their obscene advantage. Get your A.I. Controllers on it. We've got less than an hour before Earth orbit. He could see the shape of the planet looming larger in his forward screen with each passing second.

They're both down at the moment. Dharma had that electrical feedback problem, remember? She's down in the lab for repairs. And I dispatched Doth up to Tranquility Base to assist with the upgrades. Stand by. I may have to pull the plug on this operation.

This is Major Palladin's moment, when he knows he must step out from the Brigadier General's very large shadow, and into fateful vergence with manhood.

Relax, sis, I got this, Darius calmly states. Had he not been preparing for this for weeks? There's nothin' our EOWA friends, or anyone else for that matter, can throw at us that we can't defend against. Besides, our Martian buds need that water, right? I'm goin' in. You with me, fellas?

Til the bitter end, boss, Shariel Woo replies affirmatively. After Dominico, she was the Major's favorite. The Asian firebrand could kick ass in or out of the cockpit, and possessed the medals and shrapnel wounds to prove it. She could have cut and run, mustered out at the end of her last rotation, gone back home to help the Emperor build his glorious Imperial Asian Republics empire. If there was one true superpower left, one bright spot on Earth, that was the place to be. But these military folk were her family now. And she was Darius' family, as were the others, as close to him, if not closer, than his own living kin. It would be heartbreaking to ever have to leave them.

Hey, Soltis, can you hear me? the General's rasp comes across all their headsets.

You betcha, sir.

Make sure you've got my baby brother's narrow little butt, Dominico—or don't bother comin' back to base.

It goes without saying, sir.

I love you, too, sis, Darius chuckles, not without irony. He is glad he has the opportunity to say it. They all laugh as their happy little caravan hurtles along.

Chapter Two

The Battle of Alaska

A vast inland lake of crystal clear water sits a few dozen miles from Alaska's northern rim. New spill-off rivers flowing northward empty out into the Arctic Ocean. Once, not a mere century before, this entire region was locked and bound in ancient glacial ice for eons. Now, the sad effects of climate change have submerged these pristine lands, slowly drowning Mother Earth beneath her rising tides. It is a balmy 44 degrees in the middle of February.

No purer source of H2O may be found on this planet, and is one of the few things beyond human beings still available in abundance—if you possess the means to acquire it. Space Force fighter ships and transport tankers have been successfully coming here for three years to raid this resource to slake the endless, immortal thirst of those greedy barons out on Mars. No mean feat, considering the extremely contentious and inglorious nature of the military's departure three decades prior during the Bloody Exodus. It is here the Moltan freighter and Major Palladin's escort squadron find themselves carrying out their infildelitous mission.

There would be a lot of people, many groups who would love to take a shot at them. Underground American patriots, EOW Anarchists, splinter Islamic terror cells, Russian mercs. Someone, or something, brought down Major Waldren and his charge, the Bulwark. As Palladin makes his latest pass over the siphoning vessel, he wonders what else is out there, in the dark tree lines of the distant mountains, or beneath the inky depths. The Moltan is a sitting target, vulnerable like some mindless, drinking elephant awaiting the hunter's shot. No wonder the beasts went extinct along with all those others.

Captain Davos wanted to land on the lake's surface. The old mariner had spouted something about more efficient water pressure for his pump configurations. Darius had ordered them to remain in hover mode forty feet above the surface, ready to blast off at first sign of trouble. Even in the scant twilight of the brief sunrise, he can see the twitching hoses beneath the hulking monstrosity's undercarriage extending down into the water as he whizzes by. The internal chronometer implant inside his skull lets him know exactly two hours and twenty minutes have passed since this phase of the mission began. He gives a quick salute wave to his stationary team also hovering in close proximity to the Moltan, then turns to scan the horizon of the rambling wilderness.

Just beyond the ten kilometer perimeter of Palladin and Soltis' defensive flight pattern, a solitary figure stands atop a high marshy mound. His height is extreme, surpassing seven feet tall, and is covered nearly head-to-foot in carbon graphite composite armor that serves to disguise his very remarkable bio-signature. In combination with the fusion-powered jet-pack on his back and high resonance Level 3 force field harness to repel lethal projectiles, he appears to be a man ready for radical action. The auto-binocular camera imbedded on the forehead of his helmet resolves the distant image of the Moltan, and he smiles with depraved satisfaction.

A tap of his finger against his helmet activates the subcutaneous radio antenna implant in his skull, and he speaks to another unseen ally. Good morning, Sercy, I trust you're making all of this?

Yes, Dyson, replies a strangely melodic voice, clearly bearing an India-born accent. It would appear the Singularity Space Force has tripled the size of its escort.

Doesn't matter. Just means thrice as many sons of bitches to kill. And darlin', when's the best time to swat a mosquito? Right when the bastard has almost finished sucking your blood. When he's bloated and full, and can't take off so well.

I calculate the Moltan has pumped to 85 percent of its capacity. The Stingrays flying perimeter should not be able to detect you even at close range. Your window of attack will close in approximately fifteen minutes.

I'm laser-tagging them now. You should have their precise coordinates. And do me a favor. Tell Sarah again I love my new armor. Damn, is there nothing that kid can't whip out of nothing?

May I assume that is a rhetorical query, Dyson, as the variables involved to calculate so vaguely worded a statement containing double-negative phrasing would require--

The tall armored man laughs. Dealing with the endless logic of these A.I. Controllers could be quite entertaining or maddeningly frustrating, depending on the demeanor, usually, of the non-Controller. Yes, yes, Sercy, you may rightly assume it, darlin'. And while you're at it, patch me through to Mighty Mouse.

My database shows 'Mighty Mouse' refers to an animated super-powered rodent cartoon character created in 1942 for the defunct movie studio Twentieth Century Fox for the purpose of entertaining children--

God damn, woman, for a cyborg whose purpose is to interface with the world's smartest computers, you sure can be denser than lead. So use that stunning logic of yours, grow a sense of humor, and figure out who on our team I might likely be referring to.

Of...course. I have him for you now.

Hey, Gumball, do you copy? Ready to rock and roll, bud?

I copy, you asshole, erupts the reply. The voice is male but high-pitched. And how many times I gotta warn you to stop callin' me that?

What do you prefer? Little man? Half-pint?

"How about I got a name? Roddy Wyatt. Rodan to my real friends, which you ain't one of—

Vanguard."

I didn't know you had any real friends, pipsqueak. I thought everyone you knew only existed in those freaky computer fantasy programs you spend all your free time plugged into. But I guess porn is a lot more real than in the old days, with all that neural sensory input, 3-D image modeling...

Look, your majesty, everyone gets it, Wyatt rants, not attempting to hide his utter disdain for his comrade. "Ooh, look at you, you're an Immortal! Wow, you've got bio-engineered strength and good looks, a goddamn real-life superhero! Guess that explains why you're a super douche bag. So if you're done putting us regular humans in our place, can we get this firefight over with? Sooner I can tune you out of my head."

Launch when you're ready—Rodan. The Stingrays are all yours. I want to see if I can bring down the tanker with my bare hands.

Let's hope they're mightier than your bare wits, you bio-enhanced doofus. Launching in three...two...one. Launch.

The armored man dubbed Vanguard triggers a cyber signal within his armor, instantly igniting his jet-pack rockets, vaulting him into the Arctic skies. His resonance field sheathes his form in a nearly impenetrable cocoon. The braveness of this man is indisputable, for had he not once walked the untamed, naked surface of Mars, forging its rock and metals to his will? It is only his valor in question, as is usually the case when one's motive is revenge.

Nearly a thousand miles to the southeast, a very strange aircraft bursts from beneath a canopy of evergreen trees. Something like two boomerangs mounted at perpendicular axes, with tripod-mounted micro-fusion engines extruding from its rear. Space capable, its hull is also constructed of radar absorbing carbon graphite composite and bristles with plasma laser blasters and missile launchers. And yet, nearly as compact as the flying cars of the era. Too small to be a conventional manned fighter craft, surely.

Nevertheless, jammed within the impossibly small cockpit is Rodan Wyatt, sealed up in his own pressurized suit. He throttles up his unique creation and achieves Mach-4 speed in mere moments utilizing his virtual neuro-input controls. He has his own reasons for despising those elite Singularitarians. He represents the very epitome of what they left behind—the weak, the deformed, the genetically unpalatable. He intends to show them all what true abiding contempt looks like.

Sercy, it's time to do your thang, Wyatt states into his wireless headset. I'm in-bound in two minutes.

I have executed a backdoor command via satellite to Imbrium Space Force Base. They should be experiencing a low-level power surge that will trigger a disruption in their subspace microwave radio communications.

In plain English, you've figured out how to jam them without them knowing they're being jammed. Sweet.

It won't take them long to discover it, Sercy replies in her matter-of-factly way. I calculate an increased likelihood General Palladin will send an entire platoon down here to investigate.

Let her. After this operation, we'll be long gone to the new HQ.

The newly re-elected Americanadian President has only just recently lifted martial law. I am merely concerned that unforeseen circumstances I may have failed to account for might lead to new suffering should the Singularity's military seek to retaliate.

No one doubts the accuracy of anything you do, Serce. And there's nothing new about the peoples' suffering. It's just time to make sure the Martians know what it feels like, too. Let those cocksuckers dehydrate in their orbital mansions.

According to my database, a most unpleasant way to die.

Don't know too many pleasant ones, babe. Stand by, I'm closing fast.

As is Dyson.

Inside his Stingray, Major Darius Palladin is beginning to suspect the trap he hopes to be caught in is about to be sprung. He bends his vessel back toward the Moltan's mining site to investigate a low, rapidly streaking glow vectoring in fast and attempts to radio his wing group.

Crypter One, this is the Major. I've got some kind of dim light flying extremely low just above the water line approaching from the east. Does anyone else see that? Copy, copy?

Nothing but static. Whatever the hell that thing is, it's closing speedily with the Moltan and four of his crew. Darius' blood runs cold as he realizes it is not registering on any of his equipment and none of his pilots are moving into defensive positions. And with communications abruptly corrupted, no way to warn them except to engage. He searches for Soltis in the dismally lit sky even as he punches his engines to close the gap.

Palladin can be excused for his initial confusion, for he could not have imagined his mighty squadron being attacked by a lone man wearing a jet-pack. Indeed, that man, Vanguard, turns his bio-engineered body into a living torpedo, and smashes straight through the Moltan's hyperglass bridge view-port with shocking ease. The giant transport's hull is compromised, and depressurizing air whips the ship's control room into a frenzy of shards and loose items. Captain Davos and three members of his shocked crew leap from their control stations.

Doesn't look like you good ol' boys are going to be taking off anytime soon, Vanguard bellows haughtily, tall and dark in his magnificent graphite. Unless you want to be sucked out into space?

Davos' First Officer is quick to reach for his weapon, a standard issue pulse laser rifle magnetically affixed to a bulkhead astride his station, next to an ax and fire extinguisher. The use of such weapons is strictly prohibited aboard these sealed vessels. Its beam can cut through most metals with ruinous ease. The force field Vanguard wears, not quite so much. The First Officer's shot ricochets off the energy shield and strikes him in his own gut, leaving a cauterized hole through his mid-section the size of a ping-pong ball. The amused Vanguard is unmolested.

Before the dying man's writhing body can slump to the deck, the armored behemoth moves with blinding speed, hurling Davos and the two others through the shattered view-port with the simplest flick of his muscular arms. The trio splash into the frigid, dark lake, now in danger of being sucked up into their own contraption. To no one in particular, Vanguard boasts, Of course, I'm gonna still need you off this ship, gentlemen.

As Major Palladin slices the distance between he and his armor-plated protectorate, he is able to see the four Stingrays flown by Woo, TaunTaun, Pickering and Carson beginning to buzz about the Moltan's bridge. That flaring light wasn't a missile, because the Moltan remained intact. But something is clearly happening. His heart races in his chest. He is sure of it now, that this is the same situation his predecessor Major Waldren had encountered on the previous run.

The seasoned vet is stunned when he sees one of the Stingray 6s suddenly explode in a white-orange fireworks ball just seconds shy of his arrival. KA-BOOM! The flaming wreckage crashes into the black lake. He twists his fighter back even as the three survivors peel away in varying directions.

Crypter, crypter, this is Woo! the Korean pilot cries out to her silenced comrades in vain. That bastard just took out Pickering! Can anyone hear me? What the hell are we dealing with?

Just inside the shattered bridge window, Vanguard is satisfied that the epaulet-mounted missile grenade launcher on his left arm has whittled down the odds. He knows those devilish Stingrays are too fast for him to take another shot, so he dives deeper into the Moltan's bowels, well aware what comes next.

God damn it, Woo screams as she swoops around for a passing strafe of the Moltan's bridge, a massive volley of pulse laser firepower that rips the ship's control center apart and sends ripples of secondary explosions cascading deep into the vessel's interior. The great behemoth creaks and groans, her hovering stabilizers starting to fail. The transport lists precariously to her starboard side.

Great, Shariel, you just did the enemy's work for us, Darius rasps into his useless radio. Before he can formulate another thought, the dazzling sight of laser fire spraying across his bow snaps his attention skyward. It was so blasted dark, it is solely his infrared helmet display that allows him to make out the two ships that scorch by at mind-numbing speed. It is Soltis, being strafed in a dogfight with another ship of extremely unusual design, matching his Stingray zig for zag.

In split-second reaction time, Palladin yanks his bird immediately into the battle, Woo, TaunTaun and Carson directly behind. He is stunned to once more discover his ship's radar system is unable to lock onto the new target. He cannot believe how small the attack craft is, its boomerang-shaped wingspan barely ten feet, by his crude estimate. If it was a drone, someone had built a damn good one.

Within that unique ship, Rodan Wyatt unloads another round of laser fire at Soltis' Stingray, while simultaneously engaging in rude banter with his own comrade. Damn it, man, you said the Stingers were mine!

"Kind of busy now, Big Time. I left you five! Sheesh! Ungrateful bastard." The sound of human screams and tearing metal accompanies Vanguard's words. He is indeed ripping something apart down on the wounded Moltan. Likely the redundancy systems and any remaining crewmen.

Rodan, you have four more hot on your tail, Sercy's voice penetrates into Wyatt's helmet.

I know. Watch this. With a dramatic twist of his neuro-grip gloved hand, his ship responds likewise, seeming to reverse itself on a dime. He opens fire on the incoming hostiles, the perpendicular wings of his fighter whirling like a propeller. They return fire with lasers and missiles, a wicked game of aerial chicken.

Any of the Stingrays' weapons that come within striking distance of Wyatt's ship are deflected away, skipping harmless off its invisible Level 5 force field. His opponents are not so fortunate, their laughable Level 2s offering no such protection. He manages to slice the wing off an enemy ship as he barrels through them, forcing them to swerve and dodge his brazen action.

Palladin is horrified as he watches Carson's plane sputtering in a death spiral toward the marshy Alaskan ground below, trailing a long lanyard of jet black smoke. BAROOM! He can only pray she has the foresight to eject and that the survival skills drilled into her by the Martian Marine Corps are sufficient for this rugged wasteland. He is more presently consumed by the stark notion that mystery fighter possesses advanced deflector shield technology, something theoretically impossible for a vessel that small. He certainly had not planned for this contingency.

By the time the startled Major has swung his ship around, First Lt. Soltis has regrouped to join him and the others. They are all flying deaf, blind, having to rely strictly on infrared assisted visual targeting. At these speeds, in this poor light, chasing after a target a third the size of anything he has trained for. Darius feels a queasy sensation rising in his gullet.

He jumps in his own skin as another spray of red laser fire erupts from the darkness, coming so close this time, he is sure he can smell the ionized air. His razor-sharp reflexes cajoles his fighter against the horrific G-forces and he looses a volley of his own at the mystifying, twirling mini-craft.

Soltis, Woo and TaunTaun begin a campaign of triangulation, but there can be no doubting it now. Several direct hits in classic crossfire formation, with the same results. Lasers veering off, missiles detonating harmlessly. This pilot, whoever he is, is playing games with them. And now he is leading them all back to the foundering Moltan.

On board that hapless vessel, Vanguard emerges topside through a thick metal bulkhead hatch. He reactivates his jet-pack, and tears the quarter-ton pressure door from its frame. He carefully spies the tiny firefly lights of the battling ships with his super-enhanced vision and spots his opportunity.

C'mon, li'l man, bring 'em this way, I beggin' ya, the renegade superman virtually hisses into his wireless.

"You're just not gonna be happy unless you can hog all the glory, huh? Be ready. And try not to hit me, you over-muscled moron." Wyatt needn't worry about it. A quick check of his power grid indicates his deflectors are still at maximum power. He dives toward the dying freighter with all four Stingray birds in tow.

Utilizing reflexes and strength no ordinary human in history was ever naturally born with, Vanguard heaves his monstrous sinews and turns the detached hatch door into a lethal projectile. With unerring precision it cuts an arc through the Alaskan sky as well as TaunTaun's fighter, decapitating the pilot and disarticulating his right arm and upper torso. The poor lad never feels a thing, as a fraction of a second later his entire Stingray is engulfed in a hellish fireball. CHA-BOOM!

Its wreckage crashes down onto the Moltan's exposed side, piercing the transport's hull, a final blow that creates a tremendous explosion, oddly muffled by the millions of gallons of water in her innards. She flips and lands on her back in the lake, her ravenous siphoning hoses flailing and splitting free before the entire mass sinks from sight.

That ought'a piss the Crock Brothers off, Vanguard wheezes in delight as he jets away from the blast zone to safe distance.

Major Palladin has seen enough. The ship he is suppose to protect is lost. Three friends dead, and what remains of his wing group hasn't even so much as identified their foe. All that is left are Soltis and Woo, and damned if he is going to lose them, too, on this fool's errand. He breaks off pursue of the enemy craft and activates the strobe lights on the undercarriage of his fighter.

I know you guys can't hear me, he mutters aloud, but I'm hoping you're not too rusty on Morse Code. The interface of his neuro-glove allows him to transmit the message by tapping the tips of his thumb and middle finger together, his strobes flashing in exact correlation. The intent is short and clear. Bug out.

Shariel and Dominico are aghast. The cargo mission has been decimated, their fighter squadron sliced in half, and the Major is abandoning the fight. But they trust Palladin's judgment unwaveringly. He got them all out of that shithole in Belize where a thousand other soldiers were blown to smithereens, the entire platoon. He pulled the heroism strings with his Big Sis, the General, to land them all cushy gigs in the Singularity Space Force up on Luna base. Clutching their neuro-glove controls, the First Lieutenant and Senior Airman thrust their spacecraft away from the planet and haul ass.

Wyatt is just getting warmed up. He knows as powerful as Vanguard is, that jet-pack can't keep up with where this battle is destined. Head back to base, dimwit, he growls to his armored ally. I've got it from here.

What the hell are you waiting for, then, Ant Man? Take 'em out!

"Just givin' them a head start, let them think they're about to get away—then whammo!"

I like you, li'l man. You're just as depraved a fuck as I am.

Believe it, Dyson. I'm closin' my eyes and pretending it's you I'm shootin' at. See you back at the Workshop. With that, Wyatt opens up his engines and blasts spaceward in pursuit of his prey.

A few dozen miles ahead, Darius nervously checks his radar, taking comfort in the familiar transponder signals from his fellows' ships, now joining them in formation for escape velocity as they smash through the Sound Barrier by multiples of Mach. He signals Soltis and Woo by hand to fly ahead, leaving him in defense of their flank. It must be he who engages the mystery enemy ship. Enough of his friends' blood has been shed on this exercise. It is time to set his desperate plan into motion.

Let's see if this clown built that thing good enough to jump into the vacuum, Palladin thinks to himself. While the others race forward at top speed, he lags just a bit, intently watching his infrared rear camera for sign of pursuit. He braces himself for the buffering forces of the mesosphere and stratosphere, those few brief seconds before they cross the threshold betwixt Earth's gravitational boundary and the edge of outer space.

The giant mass of the Alaskan peninsula falls away and Darius takes warm solace in the sight of the light from his friends' afterburners. His heart is aching for Pickering, Carson and TaunTaun lost in that swamp behind him, but at least these two made it out. Shariel, she is his light in this black world, the one he harbors deep feelings for but dare not act upon. And Dominico, well...he's Dominico. So close, he wishes that Puerto Rican bastard was his biological brother. And both men bear the ritual bonding