Chapter 1

“Good morning, Takara.”

“Good morning to you, Stella,” Captain Takara Olmsted, 160th Charlie Company, crossed the habitat’s hangar floor and patted her Stinger on the nose before she started the pre-spaceflight inspection. Some pilots didn’t like their ships greeting them and switched off the functionality; spouting some tripe that they could write a more imaginative program while scratching their backsides. And for some of her fellow pilots, that was the most creative part of their anatomy.

Takara had always found it rather sweet—once she’d programmed out the factory’s deep male voice that didn’t fit her craft at all. The voice they’d shipped her with was a bad imitation of a passé interactives star. Or perhaps it really was Jess Brock fallen on hard times; an IA star’s moments of glory were even shorter than all but the unluckiest soldier’s. Not that she ever been a fan, not even a little. Didn’t matter. Takara hadn’t just changed the selection, she’d erased all the others out of the ship’s banks once she’d found Stella’s true voice.

A Stinger-60 Block III might be eighty meters of flying death to the enemy, but the Stella was a dainty girl in or out of atmo, quick on her thrusters and ready to dance. She was also chic, space black with a near non-existent profile on enemy scopes, could carry a platoon of SpecOps in full fieldsuits, and was armed to the frickin’ teeth.

All were attributes that Takara did her best to emulate, except for the carrying-a-platoon thing. Even off base she dressed in black darker than her long straight fall of hair—cutting edge materials so light-absorbing that she was often told she looked like a hole in the space-time continuum. Perfect! She stayed sleek, fit, and was as skilled at hand-to-hand combat as she was at piloting during deep-space warfare.

The rest of her crew arrived together in the Colony’s hangar, a tight metal box in the zero-G sector that was little bigger than her craft. They were a good team, sharp and dedicated. And it wasn’t that they were late; they were early. But Takara had always been earlier. Even as a cadet she’d been first to class and first to the drill field.

“Still the sky-eater, Captain,” her port-gunner greeted her the same way he always did.

“Still,” the copilot answered before Takara could.

“Always will be,” the starboard gunner agreed.

“And damned proud of it,” Takara finished their pre-flight ritual.

They all laughed and made fast work of inspecting the Stella. She was immaculate; no service crews in the air corps like the 160th Night Stalkers. Takara tried to imagine the long-ago crazies who had taken to the night in fragile rotary craft, flying at night by nav gear little better than a torch and a compass. She shuddered, glad to be living in this time despite the troubles.

At the end of their inspection, she rubbed Stella’s nose for good luck.

They were going to need it.

* * *

Intruder neutralization off.

Door open.

Recognize four boarding.

Seal and secure.

Input ready for mission profile.

Mission plan loaded.

Fuel = plan + 50%. Check.

Ammo = plan (0)[really?] + full charge COIL laser. Check.

Air = sufficient 4 crew 6 months or full load 1 week + regen. Check.

Plan was…Oh dear! Definitely not check.