PROTECTED. Marcus Calvert
mouth went dry as I took the corsage with shaking fingers.
“Don’t worry,” Giovanni grinned as he patted me on the back. “I’ll keep an eye on both of you tonight … er, up to the hotel room, of course.”
“You got that right, Gio,” Frescanetti said half-seriously, as he put the union card back into his wallet. “No future son-in-law of mine’s gonna be haunted during his prom night nookie.”
A WONDERFUL DAY FOR DUELING
My half-time mid-air refueling was almost complete. The monstrous YR-1 refueling/armaments plane was linked to my fighter via three hoses. One refueled me. Another refilled my coolant tank, which had taken shrapnel damage and was still leaking. The third one refilled the chin turret, which I had all but fired dry.
Twelve high-altitude repair drones kept pace with us. The ladybug-shaped constructs refitted me with missiles and made repairs to the ship’s hull and engine. My internal systems were at 83% capacity and climbing. That was a good thing, considering the way Ugasu’s Blade of Osiris half-nailed me with that EMP surge. Erika’s Afrikan Phoenix wasn’t quite so lucky. The surge fried her systems and turned her sleek little plane into a multi-ton paperweight. She barely managed to bail out before her bird crashed into the Indian Ocean (today’s pre-designated “battleground”).
I took care of Ugasu with my minigun. Then I got lucky and dumped my last spread of missiles into Thomas’ Queen and Country, turning him into a fond memory. Just before intermission, Gregor’s Iron Sickle fell to Assad’s Scimitar of Allah. But, as Gregor attempted to water-land his bird, Assad decided to follow his hated rival downward and finish him off. For some reason, Gregor didn’t eject, which would’ve been the equivalent of yielding. Per the rules, he would’ve been safe. Instead, he let Assad get in close. Then the Russian blew up his missile payload out of spite. The resulting explosion took both planes out of the air.
Five of us remained.
My tac-link chimed once. Command was calling to give me a sitrep on the other four fighters.
“Nice flying up there, Mendez,” Colonel Zint declared as his face appeared on one of my many monitors.
The gaunt, white-haired ex-aviator was one of the best dueling pilots that House America ever produced. He taught me everything I knew about aerial combat. Were he not pushing fifty, Zint would be in this cockpit right now. Behind him was a massive control room full of personnel and fancy computers, all tasked to this mission. This duel was my twelfth and probably most important.
“Thank you, sir,” I said with a casual salute.
He returned the gesture with a proud grin.
“Any injuries to report?”
“No sir,” I replied. “What’s the word on the weather? That morning sky’s getting pretty dark.”
“There’s a major storm front coming in from the south.”
“So this aerial massacre might be called on account of rain?” I jokingly asked.
Zint gave me a reassuring smile.
“That’s the sweet advantage of being able to fly at MACH, Mendez. Uploading coordinates for a secondary dueling site.”
I looked down and watched the coordinates appear. It looked like we were taking this little brawl to the Adriatic. Fair enough. We once had to duel through any kind of weather conditions. But then one of the planes got knocked out of the sky while trying to maneuver through a hurricane. Since then, the Secretary General updated the rules.
“You’ll be done and ready to disembark in five minutes.”
“Confirmed,” I replied. “Any footage I need to see?”
“Oh yeah,” Zint replied, suddenly all business. “You’ve got a real dogfight on your hands, son.”
“Show me.”
My monitor flashed once. A tiny holo-camera to my left shined out a larger image of aerial combat footage, taken about six minutes ago. Two sleek fighters were engaging each other with the standard missiles and minigun rounds. Based on the House emblems on their wings, the planes were from India and Brazil. Ghanendra, the House India pilot, had the upper hand at first. He slipped in behind Lenore’s Rio’s Light and cut loose with the minigun. Just as he was about to take her out, a plasma surge erupted from the Brazilian fighter like an expanding bubble.
It hit the Shiva’s Hammer like, well … a hammer. The fighter’s armor was shredded as it fell from the sky. The Rio’s Light broke off to engage another fighter. I couldn’t blame Lenore for making the mistake. The Shiva’s Hammer was on fire and heading for the drink. That should’ve been the end of it.
Then, all of a sudden, it disappeared!
“Where’d it go?” I asked, kind of mystified.
“Satellites spotted it a few seconds later,” Zint replied as he hit a few buttons on his end. “Check this out.”
The Shiva’s Hammer reappeared miles above his previous position then continued to fall like a wounded animal. From the angle, it looked like Ghanendra teleported upwards to buy himself some time. House India should not have teleportation tech that fucking small!
“The sneaky little bastard popped up in sub-orbital range,” Zint continued, “allowing himself more time to work his engines. But that’s not all. Look at the zoom-in.”
The satellite image fast-forwarded as it zoomed in on Shiva’s Hammer. Its armor was regenerating.
“How long did it take?”
“About a minute,” Zint replied with evident astonishment. “The fires were doused and the damned fighter’s hull looks nearly good-as-new. But this was the slick part.”
I watched the fighter teleport again. A few seconds later, an adjusted satellite feed showed the Shiva’s Hammer as it reappeared behind the Rio’s Light and just cut loose with its forward wing turrets.
“Guess Ghanendra lost his cool,” I muttered.
“Fine by me,” Zint replied. “It spooked Lenore enough to make her tip her hand.”
The Rio’s Light, reeling under minigun fire, suddenly sprouted an extra layer of nose-to-tail armor.
“Nanite-based?” I asked.
“Probably,” Zint replied. “It shrugged off his rounds like nothing.”
The footage ceased.
“How many times can he teleport?”
Zint sighed.
“We’re still trying to figure out how they managed to rig a teleporter without a fusion generator to power it.”
“Fusion generators count as a third modification,” I hinted. “Think they’re cheating?”
“The Secretary-General’s one savvy AI, with spies in every House,” the colonel replied with dead-certainty. “If they were cheating, he’d know about it. Besides, the satellites didn’t pull a fusion reading off his plane.”
I didn’t buy it.
“Colonel, how could he run a teleporter – multiple times – off a regular jet engine?” I asked. “That smells to me.”
“I’ll bug the Judges about it,” Zint assured me. “Just assume that Ghanendra can teleport all day and expect him to pop out on your six at any time.”
“Understood. What about the Aussies and Italians?”
“Pull up their combat footage,” Zint ordered to someone off-screen.
The image shifted to their respective fighters. At first, they made three high-speed