Chapter 2

Major Rick Coralto,commander of the 160th’s Alpha Company, punched the fist of his combat suit against the center of Jess’ entry door. “Hey, buddy.”

“Hey, Rick,” the outer airlock door pulled in two centimeters then slid aside.

It always cracked him up that his Stinger sounded just like Rick’s favorite IA hero when Rick had been going through flight school. Jess Brock, Secret Agent—sappy as hell, but Jess always won, always had the best toys, and always got the hottest women. Not that Rick was complaining; unlike Jess’ toys, Rick’s Stinger was real. But the voice was so good that sometimes Rick wondered if Jess Brock was hiding somewhere aboard. It was just that laid back. The “I’m in perfect control of the situation” tone just slayed him.

Rick maneuvered his combat suit into the crew’s airlock, stepped it back into the charging cradle and waited for the rest of his crew to float in behind him.

Rick’s crew and the rest of 160th Night Stalkers Alpha Company were just finishing a training mission with the Brits out at the L2 Lagrange Point, sixty-thousand klicks beyond the Lunar Farside.

Good location choice to set up a nation, Rick had acknowledged. The massive O’Neill Colony habitat could hold a couple million citizens apiece. And L2 was the one place where no direct line of fire existed from the Earth. It was definitely a tactical sweet spot that he wished his people had grabbed first.

Last night, after the mock battles had been won (by the Night Stalkers of course), they’d been invited ashore for a big meal and a little bit of drinking that had turned into a lot of drinking and a little bit of meal…and almost a very cute British Leftenant, but that hadn’t worked out in the end. He still wasn’t sure why, he’d had on his Jess Brock blue-and-gold jumpsuit and been at his most charming. Maybe if he’d spotted her before he drank several of the Brits under the table.

He was feeling clearheaded, considering, but was glad that the SCS—Stinger Command System—knew more about flying than he’d ever be able to learn. Though control of the ships hadn’t been given to the computers since the International Law of Control had passed, they still had all of their computers intact. And on the SCS, that was a lot of computer.

He and his crew slid into their seats with a collective groan, they’d all enjoyed themselves last night. Then they began powering up the various systems; Rick thumbing in to convince the software that a human pilot was aboard.

The I-LoC had been one of the last things that the nations of the solar system had agreed on. Now even lowly cargo ships always had human pilots. Law of Control had meant there were a lot of idiots in space, but it had finally ended the Drone Downfall that had almost erased world commerce.

Rick’s granddad had flown as one of the first enforcer squads after the I-LoC passed, targeting any unpiloted aircraft. That’s back when pilots really flew; still amazing that Granddad had survived the Drone Wars. Finally gone were the days when a competitor would slam an untraceable drone into the engine of a cargo transport ship to up the value of their own goods. Murder by untraceable drone had moved from nation against nation to neighbor against neighbor during the DD. You slept with my wife? A personal drone moving at Mach 1 hammered into your car while it was driving you to work. You broke up with me, you bitch? Poof! Passed me over for promotion? Boom!

Everyone agreed that the DD had been bad and no one wanted to go back there. So, wars had shifted to more conventional forms of killing people and relative safety returned to the skies, at least outside of atmo. Inside atmo, Earth just kept getting weirder and weirder, which was why so many nations were heading up the grav well.

The French had been the first to jump when they’d bugged out twenty years ago. They’d flown out to the asteroid belt, taken over Ceres, and—once they’d hollowed it out—crawled inside and closed the door with barely a Bonne chance, Salope. You too, bitch.

“Okay, Jess,” he grabbed a food pack and tossing back a painkiller before holding the mission chip up against the reader. “Let’s see what fun we’re up to today.”

* * *

Seal and secure.

Mission plan loaded.

Fuel = plan + 50%. Check.

Ammo = plan (0) + full charge COIL laser.

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

All of Alpha Company. Check.

Shit! Earth. Going all of the way down to the surface? Ug-ly!