in. I wouldn't want the truth to ruin your reputation. He didn’t mean the bar incident. He meant the truth that Zubren was seeking out. The receptionist at Sector 20 must’ve reported his presence. Meaning Fleet Services had ordered Agliese to shadow him. Zubren stared out the window, hating everything in that moment. Fleet Services knew Agliese would find the right moment to incite a rule violation from him. A way to blackmail him as necessary. It was a warning. Next time they would do worse. So there couldn’t be a next time. He’d stop this search, he decided. For now.
* * *
There was no free fall. Instead, Zubren ascended closer to the edge of Oras’ atmosphere every second.
Even though his ankle propulsion systems were running at a less-than-optimal 97%, the flight was smooth. Like floating on the surface of a pool.
Sweat beaded on his brow nonetheless. The psychologist told him he was cleared for flight, but he still couldn’t shake off the apprehension from the East Alkebulan Drop.
The Model 11’s HUD was almost the same as the original’s, only more responsive and elaborate. He checked the navigational specs. The counter was decreasing from 5000 meters. Less than 5000 meters until contact with the first Crawler satellite.
A crackle of static. “You know what I hate about these things,” Elton said. “I can’t scratch my nose.”
“Yeah, why didn’t you think about that when you redesigned these suits?” chimed in Derith.
Zubren swiveled his head to see the two exosuits flying beside him, the words Model 12 and Model 13 gleaming gold on their helmets, and raised his middle finger. The motion brought the slightest brush of turbulence.
“Don’t let those two greenies get to you. They’re just jealous that you got your name in the history books as the first one to pilot an exosuit,” Gilm said. He was a hundred miles away, inside a secure bunker control room with other Fleet Services technicians and Lieutenant Maxforth. Just the same, he recognized Gilm had put as much into this suit as he did by piloting it.
“Roger that,” Zubren said, knowing Elton and Derith had heard.
He and Gilm had spent most of the last two months rigorously testing the exosuits. First in computer simulations, then in war games on the empty dunes of the Magdalenian Desert. Together with Elton and Derith, he’d shattered dummy tanks and unmanned aerial vehicles with only a sore back to complain about.
Then came the real missions. Fleet Services deployed Models 4 to 10 to Crawler hot spots on Oras. Zubren played support on those operations, coaching the pilots from a control room with the nerves of a father watching his own son step up to the proverbial baseball plate. The exosuit had lived up to their hopes and expectations. In just two days, Elton, Derith, and the other pilots cleared out every new Crawler nest on Oras. There were a few glitches, sure, but they'd resolved those easily enough with a little tinkering.
“Hey, heads up,” Elton said. His tone warned the time for trash talk was past.
Suddenly a green fog enshrouded them. Zubren felt his ears pop. A red arrow appeared at the top of his HUD, indicating the first Crawler satellite was within his combat radius. He felt his muscles tense up as the vague outline materialized in the spore cloud. It floated effortlessly in space, a hundred translucent blue tentacles hanging from a giant bulb. Red and blue light particles danced along the bulb’s rim as it rippled in and out, emitting microscopic spores.
The sensation of swallowing a bucket of ice came over Zubren.
“I see your heart rate has risen considerably,” Lieutenant Maxforth said, naming no one pilot in particular. “Remember, if you can take this thing down, you’ll make history.”
Make history. Some said the Book of Makori contained the history of a hundred dead civilizations. Zubren steadied his breathing with that thought. Up until now, no missiles, no aircraft, nothing had penetrated
* * *
There was no free fall. Instead, Zubren ascended closer to the edge of Oras’ atmosphere every second.
Even though his ankle propulsion systems were running at a less-than-optimal 97%, the flight was smooth. Like floating on the surface of a pool.
Sweat beaded on his brow nonetheless. The psychologist told him he was cleared for flight, but he still couldn’t shake off the apprehension from the East Alkebulan Drop.
The Model 11’s HUD was almost the same as the original’s, only more responsive and elaborate. He checked the navigational specs. The counter was decreasing from 5000 meters. Less than 5000 meters until contact with the first Crawler satellite.
A crackle of static. “You know what I hate about these things,” Elton said. “I can’t scratch my nose.”
“Yeah, why didn’t you think about that when you redesigned these suits?” chimed in Derith.
Zubren swiveled his head to see the two exosuits flying beside him, the words Model 12 and Model 13 gleaming gold on their helmets, and raised his middle finger. The motion brought the slightest brush of turbulence.
“Don’t let those two greenies get to you. They’re just jealous that you got your name in the history books as the first one to pilot an exosuit,” Gilm said. He was a hundred miles away, inside a secure bunker control room with other Fleet Services technicians and Lieutenant Maxforth. Just the same, he recognized Gilm had put as much into this suit as he did by piloting it.
“Roger that,” Zubren said, knowing Elton and Derith had heard.
He and Gilm had spent most of the last two months rigorously testing the exosuits. First in computer simulations, then in war games on the empty dunes of the Magdalenian Desert. Together with Elton and Derith, he’d shattered dummy tanks and unmanned aerial vehicles with only a sore back to complain about.
Then came the real missions. Fleet Services deployed Models 4 to 10 to Crawler hot spots on Oras. Zubren played support on those operations, coaching the pilots from a control room with the nerves of a father watching his own son step up to the proverbial baseball plate. The exosuit had lived up to their hopes and expectations. In just two days, Elton, Derith, and the other pilots cleared out every new Crawler nest on Oras. There were a few glitches, sure, but they'd resolved those easily enough with a little tinkering.
“Hey, heads up,” Elton said. His tone warned the time for trash talk was past.
Suddenly a green fog enshrouded them. Zubren felt his ears pop. A red arrow appeared at the top of his HUD, indicating the first Crawler satellite was within his combat radius. He felt his muscles tense up as the vague outline materialized in the spore cloud. It floated effortlessly in space, a hundred translucent blue tentacles hanging from a giant bulb. Red and blue light particles danced along the bulb’s rim as it rippled in and out, emitting microscopic spores.
The sensation of swallowing a bucket of ice came over Zubren.
“I see your heart rate has risen considerably,” Lieutenant Maxforth said, naming no one pilot in particular. “Remember, if you can take this thing down, you’ll make history.”
Make history. Some said the Book of Makori contained the history of a hundred dead civilizations. Zubren steadied his breathing with that thought. Up until now, no missiles, no aircraft, nothing had penetrated
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