Star Mandala Will Be an Ace Mecha Pilot


     A rocket whizzed past the head of the large military mech Morningstar Mandala was strapped into, and the power station behind her exploded. She had to suppress the urge to panic. That had been covered in training, but practical applications of theoretical ideas, like math, physics, or dealing with your feelings productively, was one of her weaknesses. She puffed her way through a box breathing technique. The way she did it, it was a box with some sides missing.
     Her flight officer and co-pilot Cazallar was herself frantic in the cockpit underneath. They could hear each other through the grated metal floor separating them, if they shouted. “Star, a few more close calls like that and our luck will run out!” she said. “I’m deploying drone countermeasures at the next sensor ping.”
     “God dammit,” Star said. “I need to get closer. I can beat these things.” She looked at her proximity map display, marked with estimated enemy positions. The dots kept going in and out as the computer’s estimate of their positions changed.
      Cazallar manipulated multiple levers, using both her hands and her feet, as she looked for targets that she could firmly direct Star’s ample armaments toward. “I know you can. We can,” she said.
      Sweat pooled around Star’s neck and down the back of her uniform. “Okay. Going east-southeast, 30 meters, to cover. It’s a bank, which means a vault, which means protection… If I have to hide in the fucking basement, I will. And we’ll get a bead on these fuckers, we’ll kill them, and we’ll win,” Star said. She flipped a few switches on her left control console and then slapped a red button to pop loose one of her mecha’s twin guns. She moved her hand, all five fingers strapped into a motion control rig, and the mecha’s hand followed, grabbing the gun out of the air. The movements were smooth and even, her neuro-implant connection working perfectly.
     Star squeezed the button on her joystick and fired off in the direction of the enemy. Some of it even hit.
     “Shit!” she said, realizing how long she’d held down the trigger, pumping out round after round and wasting most of it. She glanced at the displays and realized she’d just used most of a clip in just a few seconds.
     It took pure willpower not to panic. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! I knew it would be hard, but—“
     “Focus!” Caz said. “We can’t afford to lose sight. I’ll take over manual control if I need—“
     “No, no! I’ve got it. I can do it. I just wasted so much fucking ammo…” Star said, her eyes stinging. She bumped the back of her head against the cockpit seat.
     “Radar update?”
     “We still have three enemy bogies. Indigo is in pursuit of one, I think that’s going to take everything she’s got. We have to fight the last two,” Caz said. “I’m tracking them to the best of my ability, but—“
     “I know. Okay. We’re going to the bank vault. I want to shoot one of them point blank, if we can get close enough. And then… we have what, two missiles?” Star said.
     “Two of six remaining, and a beam rifle. Fry ‘em first and cut ‘em down,” Caz said.
     “Since when does Lt. Comm. Cazallar say things like ‘fry ‘em’?” Star said, a flash of humor.
     “Since we’re in this and I want to win,” Caz said.
     “Me too. Ready?” Star said.
     “Ready,” Caz said.
     “At least one of us is,” Star said. “How the fuck did I get here?”

* * *

      Star’s taxi let her out at the entrance to the Cornelia Kalu Memorial Space Center & Air Division Base. All that surrounded it were empty roads. Here, being in the middle of nowhere was an asset, not a liability. This was where the Euro-African Space Union trained some of their best recruits, plus some rogue elements, like Star. The base was a few dozen miles down the Niger River from the Kainji Dam, the hydroelectric plant that powered the entire country, and a host of other internationally-funded, city-sized megaprojects. The space center was one of the more recent, being built just eighty years ago, following the ignoble end of the Second Ascendancy War.
      At the gate, Star didn’t see a pedestrian entrance, and awkwardly walked up.
      “Lt. Morningstar Mandala, reporting for duty. I just got reassigned,” she said, glumly. She carried one heavy duty duffel bag, with all her worldly possessions.
      “Mandala, Mandala,” said the gate agent, repeating it as he scanned his screens. She could already tell he was thinking, “as in Admiral Mandala?” and was dreading the conversation. It didn’t come now, but it would.
      “Commander Kang would like to see you in his office,” the gate agent said. He printed out a temporary paper ID and handed it over. Star affixed it to the breast pocket on her fatigues.
      “Where’s his—“ Star started to say, and the gate agent just pointed down the path.
      As she walked, Star studied the monuments in the otherwise empty courtyard that lead to the main building. It was a sculpture garden, with memorials and tributes to newer events sprouting up as you got closer to the main complex. She didn’t have time to linger, but she looked at each one as she passed.
      The first was a sort of stylized metal cube in gunmetal gray. Inscribed on the bottom in a serious, clean font was:

JULY 7TH, 2289 — For All We Lost, and All We Gained

     Along the bottom was a bas relief in two layers. On top were the old North American flags, commemorating the countries mostly destroyed in the disaster, and other national symbols. On the bottom was an almost hieroglyphic series of images. On the left were cats, dogs, reptiles, and other animals. On the right, upright-standing bipedal figures with animal features.
     The crash of the alien supership was the worst disaster in human history, from one point of view. From another, it was the arrival of what was still called “the Lifebringer,” which had deposited exotic alien technology on Earth. Included in that were the prototypes of the very mecha Star was here to pilot. More relevant for most people were the genetics laboratories that unleashed mutations and changes in wildlife both near and far. The same ship that killed hundreds of millions of homo sapiens and other animals had birthed a thousand new species, and thousands of new, genetically-engineered animals who could walk, talk, and mate with each other, and with humans.
      The technology from the ship redefined life on Earth just as much as the emergence of the new species. They were sometimes called “sermosapiens” — talkers — and sometimes Thorii, the collective name that had emerged from their languages, but most often, they were simply called “animal people.” Not humans, but people. They now lived in every corner of the Earth, integrated into all but the most isolated communities. In many parts of the world, old-style humans were the minority.
      She kept walking past other monuments, to the First and Second Ascendancy Wars, to the Migration Crisis, and even one, nicely enough, commemorating something good: the Great Border Abolition, when a coalition of countries across the world agreed to form a sort of borderless “free zone” for movement, trade, and culture, about a hundred years ago. It was thanks to those efforts that the Euro-African Space Union formed. The last monument was to the conflict where they first made their reputation, the war Star’s mother had fought in so valiantly and so viciously: the Third Ascendancy War, between the Free Nations Alliance and the Ascendancy, the Thorii nation-state that had replaced Old America. Star was walking through history, passing by the events that, in the long term, led to her being here.
      With trepidation, she approached the main office building and followed some signs until she reached her destination. Commander Willoughby Kang’s name was written on his office door, which was open.
      “Hi, I’m Lt. Morningstar Mandala, I was just reassigned,” Star said.
      Kang looked up from his desk, pointed ears and whiskers twitching. “Lt. Mandala, it’s good to see you. At ease,” he said.
      “Sir, I just wanted to say how pleased I am to have this assignment, I promise I won’t disappoint—“
      “There’s no need for flattery,” Kang said, putting up a hand. His fingers had little pink paw pads and finely clipped claws, Star noticed. “You’re a competent pilot. More than competent. Some of your metrics need a little work… but if you put in the time, you’ll fit in around here. How did you like your previous assignment?”
      “It was fine, sir,” Star said. “It got a little repetitive, after a while.” And then I stayed there for another six years, she thought. She had worked at a government-run mecha manufacturing plant in the North Sea off the coast of England ever since her graduation from piloting school just prior to her eighteenth birthday. An offshore facility, it was all iron girders and hazy silver rain. Star spent her days in a work-mech, moving heavy things from one spot to another, testing out new equipment, and training others to do the same. There, as here, she was one of only a few old-style humans around. Mecha piloting was a specialty of animal people, so much so that advanced gene editing technology had prompted many humans to become more and more Thorii-like on purpose. Star just happened to be good at it.
      “It’s fine work, and you’ll do more here. I hope you appreciate the privileges you’ve been given,” Kang said.
      “You mean serving here, sir?”
      “I mean being in that chair at all. Not many get that chance, and even fewer are good enough at it to do it as much as you have.”
      “I’m grateful, sir. Piloting is all I’ve ever been good at. And sometimes, I’m not sure how good I am,” Star said.
      “Good enough that I approved your transfer before I realized who your mother is,” Kang said.
     “I’m going to take your word on that, sir,” Star said. “I don’t think nepotism is good for anyone.”
      “I met her once. Hong Kong, in the third war. I was a mech jockey like you then. She cleaned up our mess after the worst of the fighting. I wasn’t surprised when she made admiral,” he said.
      “She was quite the soldier, from what I understand of it,” Star said. Her mothering skills could use some work, though.
      Kang’s eyes went to the door. “Look who it is. Lt. Morningstar Mandala, meet Lt. Cmdr. Cazallar. Your roommate and hopefully, flight officer, assuming my attempt to play matchmaker doesn’t blow up in my face,” he said.
      Star looked and saw a nice-looking young woman around her own age, an ape. Her arms and neck were visibly furry, and she had round ears and a forward-set face. Star instantly noticed that she was only wearing slippers on her long-toed feet.
      “Mandala,” Cazallar said by way of greeting. They shook hands, and Star was impressed by the strength of her grip.
      “Cazallar,” Star said, parroting. This was the part of the process where we said each other’s names, she thought.
      “Well, Lt. Cazallar here is going to show you around the facilities and get you situated with everything you’ll need. Report for duty in the morning, we’ve got plenty of exercises to do. Dismissed,” Kang said. He didn’t even wait for them to leave before returning his attention to his desk. They began their tour.
     “You can call me ‘Caz’ if that’s okay. Uh, strictly when we’re off-duty, of course.”
      “Right. Off-duty, you can call me Star,” Star said.
      “You have a lovely name. Morningstar… like Venus, is that right?”
      “Oh, yeah…” Star said. She always forgot how to explain this. “My dad was an astronomer, and, uh, they used to take these walks at night, and he’d show her with his telescope, um… you know, I don’t really know what it was all about?” Suddenly, she felt stupid. She had never been good with facts, figures, numbers, or math. Anything that took time to observe and report made her too frustrated to stay put. She had spent so much time with mom and dad in front of a telescope, waiting for something to happen.
      “Venus is often visible to the naked eye before sunrise,” said a voice from behind them. “Besides the sun and the moon, it’s the brightest object in the sky.”
      “Oh. Yeah, that’s it. I guess my dad would show her Venus. Their guiding star. Who are you?” Star said, turning around. She saw a striking youngish woman with a flat, upturned, diamond-shaped nose, and long pointed ears like radar dishes. She had two large, sharp teeth (fangs?) that stuck out over her lips. Her slicked-back hair was jet black, and her skin was covered with a fine layer of fuzzy fur, like flocking. Star couldn’t tell if personal appearance regulations were looser around here, or if her eyelids and lips were naturally a dark, glittering blue. She had on the same nondescript uniform as everyone else.
      “Commander Indigo Midnight, lieutenant,” she said. Star straightened up, realizing she was talking to a ranking officer.
      “Lt. Star Mandala, sir! I was just reassigned to the base—“
      “At ease,” Indigo said with a wave of her hand. “I’m familiar with your assignment. I’m looking forward to seeing you in the hot seat. Maybe we’ll go through some maneuvers tomorrow with the whole division.”
      “Yes, sir! I’m not averse to showing off,” Star said.
      “As long as you have something to show off,” Indigo said.
      Star felt a strange pull on her heart, like what she said next could push her down a path she might not be able to stray from. “I… do, sir,” she said, plainly. That would be enough.
      “Very good. Have you met the rest of the team? I was on my way to the hangar, if you’d like to join. I think Misters Field and Tangonelli are deep in maintenance hell,” Indigo said.
      Star turned to Caz, who nodded with one of those kind and gentle smiles that seemed to come easy to her.

* * *

      The 1st Division of the Euro-African Space Program Movable Frame Program weren’t a crew of misfits or daring pioneers. They were just the suckers foolhardy enough to sign up for an experimental weapons program that could be the future of space exploration and combat, or could be a pointless boondoggle that historians and comedians will be scoffing at for the next few decades.
      The movable frame technology was one of many salvaged from the wreck of the mysterious alien ship that crashed on Earth centuries earlier. New discoveries based on the recovered artifacts and data were still a regular occurrence. Movable frames were large, articulated machines, pilotable robots that could maneuver in nearly any terrain or environment, including the vacuum of space. They could be customized and altered, with variable weapons and accessories that easily attached.
      The technology was based on machinery found in the more-intact portions of the Lifebringer wreckage. To Earth scientists, they looked something like mechanical squids or jellyfish. They were piloted by a combination of a direct-brain interface and manual control, seemingly intended for creatures with many tentacle-like limbs. The key to the tech was machinery that resembled, as closely as possible, the arrangement of limbs on the pilot’s body.
      Piloting a movable frame required intense physical stamina, technical knowledge, responsiveness, decision-making, resource management, and skills across a dozen other disciplines. To truly master the art of mecha piloting would take years of research and intensive study before one even entered the cockpit. The pilots of the 1st Division had been training for about eight months, mostly in safety-oriented training modules, before they were ever assigned an actual mission.

* * *

      “The hangar” was a simple name for a remarkable building. A huge structure with a massive door on one end, tracks and rails embedded into the concrete, and four upright slots for mecha units. Each one had a scaffolding and a small repair bay, almost like a skeletal garage with built-in tools and equipment.
      As soon as they walked in, she could hear the distant sounds of two men talking. Caz had a whole spiel ready to go as well, but Star wasn’t listening. How could she, when she was in the presence of greatness? Four beautiful machines — well, three. The one closest to the entrance looked like it was undergoing longterm repairs after some catastrophe.
      The others, though, were marvels. The kind of machines Star had spent the last seven years piloting had a rough-hewn, utilitarian charm, like an old truck. These were more like luxury performance cars, eighteen-wheelers, and bullet trains all in one. They were at least twice the size of anything Star had piloted before, with armaments, abilities, and equipment she’d only seen on video. She stopped at each one and got as close a look as she possibly could. At the broken one, Caz said in an apologetic tone, “That’s out of service for now, so we don’t have much information to give you on it.”
      That was just fine with Star. Right behind it was a gorgeous creation. Star wondered how it even stood upright, with thin, insect-like legs and a torso just barely big enough to fit a standard-sized cockpit. It was lithe and elegant, and all coated in a sensor-baffling reflective purple paint job. The limbs were long, articulated spindles that looked like robotic arms at a car factory crossed with knitting needles, with various attachments at the end. In addition to the four conventional limbs, there were two smaller arms with small clamps on the ends. Star had heard of mecha that could run on four limbs like a big cat, and she wondered if this was one of those.
      “That’s mine,” Indigo said, moving past Caz to talk to Star directly. “The Variable Form FR-775 Leda-class, Null Report. I got to name her.” She looked on like a proud… mother? Sister? Star couldn’t define it.
      “I’ve never piloted one like that. Just worker bees, and testing out the big brawlers,” Star said.
      “We’ve got one of those! I think it’s where you’ll be assigned… alongside me,” Caz said, shyly.
      “So that must be… this one,” Star said, walking a few feet in its direction. There was a beefy machine with boxy arms and legs in a silvery gray color. More than most mecha, it looked like a walking tank. A walking, shooting, wrestling tank that could plow through walls and survive heavy munitions with no damage except scorch marks. That was Star’s guess just based on how it looked.
      “What’s this one called?”
      “Well, it doesn’t have a name yet… the S-44-II Hercules-class Chromeliner, is the model name,” Caz said. “It was so called because it was originally designed to be separated into pieces that could be loaded onto a train and transported before being reconstructed. We haven’t found that to be particularly useful, although you can see, we still have the tracks.” She pointed to the ground. They didn’t look like they’d been maintained all that well, and the concrete, although strong, showed telltale signs of wear and tear. Star guessed they usually elected to walk it out.
      “We’ll have to come up with a name then, won’t we, Caz? That is, if I don’t break my arms and legs trying to move the thing around,” she said.
      “Based on your record, I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Indigo. “There’s plenty I am worried about, but the safety of your limbs isn’t one.”
      “Oh, thanks…” Star said, uneasy.
      “Shall we carry on? You’ll be interested in this next one, Star…” Caz said. A few further feet down, by the “elephant door” that was the hangar’s main exit, was a tall mech with a round, organic-smooth body and beautifully-integrated armor. Sticking out of the back were rod-like articulated arms with weapons and tools on the ends, like an unfolded Swiss Army knife.
      “Garuda-class?” Star said.
      “Very good eye. It’s an evolutionary descendent of old logging robots that were repurposed during the Second Ascendancy War! You can tell by the saws, of course. Here, we’ve also added… well, guns. That was—“ Caz said, before being interrupted.
      “One of my ideas!” said a voice from far up on the scaffolding. Suddenly, the figure up there zipped downward, attached to it by a bungee-style cord on his waist. Some Thorii features were subtle; in front of Star now stood the precise opposite. A body covered in green scales with a long, roundish snout and visible teeth revealed the reptilian origins of whomever was speaking.
      “Tangonelli,” he said, by way of introduction. “Angelo Tangonelli. You must be the new recruit. Welcome aboard!”
      “Star Mandala… thank you. You made these modifications yourself?”
      “The specs and the detail work are, but there’s a whole team of mechanics and technicians and engineers who work on the hard stuff…” Angelo said. “But those guns are my babies. I had to put in the work just to get my requests approved. The armaments on display here are the result of three years of work, mostly in the form of paperwork.”
      The sound of whipping air and thudding feet was repeated when the other figure wordlessly plunged on his elastic line from the top of the scaffolding. “Paperwork, badgering, begging, forcing me to put a respectable face on his tech obsessions…” said his companion, another undeniable Thorii face. It was considered rude to speculate or assign specific species to people, but Star could already tell that she was speaking to a wolf. He had pristine, snow-white fur, sharp teeth and claws, and beautiful eyes.
      “Star, this is Burn—“
      “Burning Flag Hoist Above a Battlefield, Lieutenant,” he said. “You may call me Burn.” He spoke in an unplaceable Slavic accent. Star noticed his uniform patch just said “Field.”
      “Hi. A portrait name?”
      “I like her,” Burn said as an aside to Angelo. “My parents chose it because I was born after a particularly unpleasant battle during the… one of the wars. Most wolves have one. The abbreviated version suits me just fine for practical and professional purposes, though.”
      “So, let me guess, you two are the chief knuckle draggers around here. Uh, sorry, that’s an old term for—” Star said, excited to talk more about mecha and less about names.
      “Mechanics. I know. That’s about the size of it. Every machine on this base has known the touch of these fingers,” Burn said, flashing his palms. Angelo did the same, almost like they’d practiced.
      “It’s the only thing that keeps me sane,” Angelo said.
      “‘Keeps’ implies you were sane to begin with,” Burn said. They grinned at each other like they were flirting.
      “Who’s this old girl?” Star said, gesturing to the Swiss Army knife mecha again.
      “This is the Hi-6S Winter’s Moon. We’ve been working on her for about a year, trying to get her mission-ready. She’s already been cleared for spacewalk after all our modifications. Have you been up starside?” Angelo said.
      “Ah, no, not in a piloting capacity… I’m looking forward to it. I never thought space exploration would be the avenue for me to finally be able to pilot a machine of my own, though,” she said.
      “It’s a brilliant thing, though! Our space colonies are being expanded every day. In theory, mecha could be the backbone of settling dead, desolate planets… or even those planets yet unknown, teeming with natural wildlife that might need to be pacified…” Burn said.
      Star could tell that it was a scenario he’d fantasized about more than once. A little strange, maybe, but it was less disturbing than fantasizing about another war. She’d known a few men — they were always men — like that when she lived in England, who were furious that peace had settled in over two decades, and they'd never had a chance to fight Ascendancy soldiers.
      “Whatever the mission is… if I get to be in that chair,” she said, pointing back to the Chromeliner, “I’ll feel blessed.”
     “Amen,” Angelo said.

* * *

     They broke for the afternoon shortly thereafter. The excitement of seeing those machines up close gave Star a high she could ride all day. She did her best to pay attention as Caz showed her the barracks, where the five 1st Division officers were packed into one little boxy house. Burn and Angelo were on the first floor, Caz and Star on the second, and Indigo on the third. Having her own bedroom was a plus, even if it was closet-sized.
      The base was nice, the assignment was nice, the people were nice, but Star couldn’t shake the feeling that there was another shoe that had to drop. She wondered if she really deserved her dream assignment, especially in peacetime where she was taking up space in favor of someone more qualified. She also wondered how long this whole program would last — mecha applications for space travel weren’t non-existent, but they seemed far too limited to justify devoting an entire division and all its resources to it. Maybe her mother had pulled some strings to get her here, knowing the money would run out in a year, and Star would be back in a mechyard, test-piloting new model freight loaders for Astari Products or Orlando Mechanique.
      For a while, Star’s days were normal. She did experimental time in a simulator, and in a training mecha called a Sparring Frame. They ran drills and exercises and challenged each other to various contests of one-ups-manship, only sometimes with Commander Kang’s approval. The rhythm of it wasn’t particularly exciting to her, but at least twice a week she had a chance to sit in the Chromeliner, and usually, to take it out for a spin.
      The weapons were of course inactive, instead usually hooked up to a signal array to study your statistics afterward. You could see a readout and know exactly how many times you fired (with haptically-simulated recoil, no less) in a given period, where you were aiming, and so on. Star truly had not realized how much of this work was resource management: numbers, spreadsheets, math. Even more surprising was that she could tolerate it. The math and theory would never be her strong suit, but Star realized as long as she could orient it around piloting in her mind, she could handle it.

* * *

     It was a rainy gray morning during Star’s third month on the base when all five pilots gathered in the hangar to hear a “highest priority mission briefing,” as the communique that came across their devices last night had called it. Angelo looked like he was barely awake, Caz was scribbling in her notebook, and Burn calmly sipped a cup of coffee. Indigo sat well apart from the rest of them, as usual. Star wondered if Indigo’s distance from the group was her fault. Had she upset the dynamic somehow? No time to worry about that. Star just stared at the floor and tapped her foot against the concrete at an alarming pace.
      The sound of the rain outside had created a blanket of white noise that gave everyone an excuse to not talk. No one acknowledged the fear and uncertainty they all felt. When Commander Kang came out to speak to them, he had a collection of attendants trailing behind that Star had never seen before. He approached the five of them and spoke seriously.
      “Good morning. Today’s briefing is of vital importance, so I don’t intend to waste your time, people,” he said. “Last night, Arctic Pact Coalition Air and Space Defense ran a mission in lunar airspace. They were attempting to destroy an illegal colony’s industrial base. These particular colonists are aligned with the Novorussian Separatists.”
      A few mutters under the breath at that name. The Novorussians were an odd coalition of far-right freaks, mad scientists, and extreme isolationists. Somehow they had cobbled together a society, a “free colony” that circled Earth at a Lagrange point. So far, so fine, but when they declared themselves legally independent of Earth, things got sticky. The various Earth governments were quickly picking sides in a tinderbox. The moon was the ultimate battleground for control, for practical and psychological reasons.
      One of Commander Kang’s hangers-on passed out information packets with lots of stamps and stickers to remind you it was all extremely classified. Inside were pictures of the colony in question, out in the wilds and hidden, early on, by building from the bottom of a crater outward.
      “They were attempting to destroy their factories. They failed. A squad of four jets, wiped out,” Kang said. He left a somber pause. “The Coalition believes it was done by a Novorussian mech unit. In your packet, you’ll see all the information we have, including a photo.”
      It was a grainy, staticky photo, obviously taken by a drone of some kind that stored photos on a physical medium so they couldn’t be digitally tampered with. To Star, it looked like a walking industrial refrigerator. A massive square “head” seemed to be the cockpit, rather than a sensor port as it was on most mechs she had piloted. It’s possible the head could detach and be re-assigned to a new unit, much like the modular weapons and accessories that were common among mecha.
      “Admiral Lau used this moment to push for a combat mech program that could work immediately to make this strike. Not only to destroy the factory, but to deliver a crushing blow to this movement before it gains a foothold on the moon,” Commander Kang said.
      “The determination was made that the 1st Division of the Movable Frame Program was the group best-suited for this mission profile. So, yes, things will be changing around here. Our focus is shifting from training and exploration, to combat.”
      Star’s foot made contact with the floor and stuck there as if nailed down. She looked Cmdr. Kang dead in the eyes.
      “CentComm estimates that if the separatists are left unchecked, they could hold up to fifty percent of lunar real estate in just two years. But they won’t be unchecked, will they? They use mechs because they’re fast, strong, and can maneuver in any environment, across any terrain. That’s the exact reason the brass want to send you all in to stop them. We have two to three months to train in advanced combat, and it will be our first and only priority,” Cmdr. Kang said. He let the moment sit, and watched his pilots exchange weighted looks at each other.
      “You know basic combat. But what you’re being called on to do is direct, mech-to-mech combat. There are very few instructors qualified to teach that, including myself. That’s why I’ve brought in someone who is. Pilots, meet Captain N’Gozi Kobo.”
      A fiftysomething man in a beat-up brown leather jacket over his fatigues emerged from outside. He walked with a cane and though handsome, looked as if he’d just gone through a washer and dryer that morning. He had visible scars on his face, silver threads of damaged flesh intersecting his very dark skin. He had unusually prominent sideburns that complimented his beautiful textured hair. Star thought he looked like an actor she saw in one of the kid’s karate shows from her youth.
      “I’m sure most of you know your history,” Kang said, facing the pilots. “But I’ll tell you anyway: The man you’re looking at is one of the most highly-decorated mecha pilots in history. He fought the Ascendency for almost a decade in some of the toughest workhorse machines ever built. Listen to what he tells you, work your asses off, and you might come back from the moon in one piece to share some war stories of your own.”
      “And, you might come back looking like me,” Kobo said. He patted his cane firm into the ground to make a point. “I don’t do this lightly. My time in these machines mangled my leg, scarred my face, poisoned my organs, and killed my friends. And I’m asking you to take on all those same risks anyway. I need all of you to make it worth it.”
      Kang spoke up. “We understand you need some time to process these changes, so there’ll be no exercises today. You’ll get research and reading materials by mid-day and we start drills tomorrow. And…”
      He hesitated and then spoke in a softer, more intimate tone. “I know that these changes may not be suitable for everyone. It is my fiercest desire to keep this team together. If I get any transfer requests I will fight tooth and claw to keep you here. But I will listen, our counselors will listen, anyone who you need to hear you about what you’re feeling, will listen. Understood?”
      “Understood, sir,” said the group of officers in unison.
      “Dismissed,” Kang said. The 1st Division officers got up and left, quietly and orderly, knowing they were about to spend hours talking to each other.
      As they filed out, Capt. Kobo shared a silent look with Cmdr. Kang.
      “Nice to see you again, Mystic,” Kobo said, and shook the other man’s hand.
      “Same to you, Eagle,” Kang said in return. They smiled at each other, and felt a respite from the rain.

* * *

      Star and Caz were in their living quarters, one floor of a small boxy building tucked into a corner of the base. An open window let in the sounds and smells of a warm summer night. Star was suspended from a door-frame in gravity boots, working on her core. On the floor a few feet away, Caz was surrounded by papers and screens.
      “I don’t understand how you can be so calm about all this,” Caz said, watching her roommate and flight officer slowly curl her entire body upward.
      “What’s there to be worried about? It’s a change in parameters. Who knows if we actually even do anything,” Star said.
      “Star. You need to read this stuff. They’re not changing this arbitrarily. If we do this, we could be starting a war,” Caz said.
      “We’d be fighting in a war. They started it.”
      “What’s the difference? I’m talking about—“
      “Yeah, combat! So what? Do you think they were making machines loaded with guns and rockets for their health? Or just on the off-chance we end up a thousand light years from home on a dinosaur planet? What did you think would happen?” Star said.
      “That’s not the point I’m making… I’m saying they’re changing their orientation on this. They don’t have to send us in first, but they are,” Caz said. “I think it’s a test.”
      “Of what?” Star said.
      “The whole mecha program. If it’s a good investment, if we can be trained to do what they need us to do. If we do well, they’ll pour money into it. We’re a test case. At least… that’s my theory,” Caz said.
      Star folded her arms and breathed, trying to stay still despite being in a stress position. “What difference does it make?” she said.
      “What?”
      “What difference does it make? Are you going to request a transfer?”
      “No,” Caz said. “I couldn’t. I’ve studied so much for this. And you, I mean…”
      “You think I’d get popped without you there?” Star said.
      “I didn’t say that.”
      “I mean, it seems more likely than not. So, it makes no difference. This is the job now. I want to do my job, and live, so do you, that’s all we have to do. Succeed,” Star said.
      “I can’t just will my way through it. I have to learn it. Top to bottom,” Caz said.
      “That’s why they put us together, I’m pretty sure,” Star said.
      “Trust me, I know,” Caz said, and returned to her work. “Do you know anything about the… Dalgran Model-05? That’s this boxy thing in our information packet.”
      “It doesn’t sound familiar,” Star said.
      “It was a construction model at one point. A colony builder. They packed the parts in an unmanned rocket and assembled them in an orbital factory. Supposedly, with ten, you could build a city in a few months,” she said.
      “So we’re going to face off against a bunch of backhoes? No wonder they’re sending us in,” Star said, huffing and puffing as sweat dripped off her forehead and onto the mat beneath her.
      “They’ve been extensively modified. Sometimes crudely, but sometimes, with a lot of precision. They have a substantial mechanical corps for working on this. Makes sense, if they intend to live autonomously in space,” Caz said.
      “You ever think we should just let ‘em?”
      “Mmm… I think they have the right to self-determination, but their leadership is explicit in wanting to encircle Earth. They deserve their rights, but so do we. Plus, a lot of them are racist.”
      “Seriously? That’s so stupid. I hate that!” Star said.
      “Star, if I didn’t know you were being completely sincere right now, I’d think you were a complete imbecile,” Caz said.
      Star just beamed, smiling at her friend and preparing to unhook herself from the ceiling. She unlatched the boots one at a time and slowly slid down the doorframe.
      “It was my dream for a long time. Not just to pilot a mecha, but to fight in one. To fight for something good,” she said. “These are bad guys. It’s a clean mission. War is ugly, sure, but… I’ve been training for this since I was a teenager. If there is such a thing as destiny, this is it, for me.”
      Caz’s voice dropped into a scratchy-voiced impression. “‘Don’t go looking for it, Taylor. You may not like what you find,’” she said.
      “What?” Star said.
      “It’s from a… never mind,” Caz said, and sighed. “I think only ape families still watch those old movies nowadays. The point is, you may think you want to know something, but knowing might be worse.”
      “Then at least I’ll know it’s worse,” Star said. They each took a moment.
      Brightly, Star moved on. “Okay, okay! My body is worn out, and your brain is exhausted. I prescribe some mindless entertainment as a healing measure,” she said.
      “Star—“
      “I’m gonna go clean up and then we can. Forty-five minutes and then bed, it’s fine! It’s enough time for an episode of Dakota: A Cowboy at College! Let’s call it pilot and flight officer bonding!” she said. She marched off in triumph and didn’t look back.

* * *

      The following morning, all five pilots assembled to meet Capt. Kobo again. The sound of his cane stamping the ground echoed across the training ground before he arrived in earnest.
      “At ease, pilots. I may technically be your superior officer, but you should all realize that’s bullshit,” Kobo said. He rubbed his face. “Excuse the language. My point is that rank does not define my role today. What we have here is practice. You are a team. I am the coach. And we are training for the big one.”
      Star glanced at Burn, who looked stoic and determined, his usual on-duty persona. She drew some strength from that.
      “I like metaphors like that not because what we’re doing here is frivolous, but because it is important. When I was a kid, winning a football match could be the most important thing in the universe. And I would devote myself to the cause. I would watch games. Study technique, practice handling, kicking, every element. I would perfect it. I wanted to hone my body into a machine,” he said.
      “Now, we sit inside the machines and we fight our wars with them. That is your new job,” Kobo said. “Enough metaphors. Let’s begin.”
      Their training would be broken down into four components: martial arts, physics and theory, instruments and resource management, and finally combat. For the first, the officers, including the two non-pilots, sparred on a gym mat, no mecha involved. It felt oddly unfamiliar to a crew of experienced pilots.
      “Your implant is your greatest weapon and ally in this fight. The more your body is used to making these movements, the faster you will be able to fight, the more effective an instrument of combat you will be. On the battlefield, you will run out of ammunition, your weapons will be destroyed. What you’ll have left is four limbs and every move you can think of,” Kobo said.
      With the entire division laid out in front of him in their athletic clothes, the Captain held a paper notebook in his hand. “Lt. Mandala and Lt. Cmdr. Midnight, I’d like you to begin.”
      “Just, uh. Like, fight?” Star said, still confused.
      “According to your file, you have training in karate, judo, pencak silat—“
      “Yes, yes, but Indigo doesn’t— We haven’t ever—“
      “Don’t do anything you couldn’t do when you’re piloting. And don’t mangle each other. Demonstrate to me how you’d take down an opponent,” he said. He gestured limply with his hand to show that in his mind, the fight had now begun.
      Star looked cluelessly from the Captain to Indigo, who was headed towards her. She suddenly popped into the air and her two feet collided with Star’s stomach and sent her backwards. Star managed to clumsily get to her feet and grit her teeth.
      “Go again, but keep your feet on the ground this time. Most mecha combat is fought on the ground with two feet planted. Lt. Mandala, I want to see that judo training,” Kobo said.
      Star slapped her palms against both cheeks at once and let out an excitable puppy howl. “Happy to, sir!” Star said. She had a long history of disappointing senior officers with her performance, but making strides in attitude. Sheer stubbornness was an asset in certain operations. The second time around, since the captain mentioned it, Star stuck her hands out ready for a judo hold. She met Indigo head-on and flipped her over her shoulder, using Indigo’s weight against her.
      “Again,” Kobo said.
      “Sir, with all due—“ before Star could finish, Indigo wrapped two arms under Star’s armpits and held her.
      “Does this count as a pin?” Indigo said. “I’m asking you, short stuff.” She spoke directly into Star’s ear. Star wriggled against the hold, and unable to shift her arms or shoulders, she went for another tactic.
      With one mighty thrust of her hips, Star hoisted Indigo onto her back and waddled forward like a hermit crab. Tall and willowy Indigo made for an awkward backpack for the shorter and stockier Star, and eventually, Indigo slipped forward and onto the ground.
      “Asked and answered,” Star said, as the two of them struggled to get disentangled. Indigo didn’t wait for a signal and tackled Star again as soon as they were loose.
The two of them rolled onto the ground like they were in a Greco-Roman wrestling match.       “You know, I thought about getting into competitive fighting,” Star said. “But mecha piloting is just so much cooler, you know?”
      “Cool? I’m not cool. I don’t think I’ll ever be ‘cool’,” Indigo said. The comment struck Star as strangely vulnerable.
      “Really? I think you’re cool,” Star said, and momentarily, her grip loosened. Indigo immediately shifted her weight and ended up on top of Star, pinning her to the mat.
      Captain Kobo looked down at them, and Star squirmed. An eternal second later, he slammed his cane down again.
      “Break,” he said. “Field and Tangonelli, you’re up.” As Star got herself together, she saw the two boys grinning at each other like they were about to play in a sandbox.

* * *

     The fights went on all morning. By the end of it, every pilot had knocked down every other, and been knocked down many times themselves. It was a grueling, exhausting physical contest that left everyone feeling inadequate, beaten down, and wobbly.
      On a day like today, the commissary, or even the entire base, could seem small. Only a few other officers and enlisted were eating their meals, and the pilots’ table was the only place you could see an entire group clustered together.
      Star plopped into her usual seat. The tray in front of her was some attempt at fusion cuisine — Nigerian asaro with fried plantains covered in turkey gravy and served with cranberry sauce. Star had no idea which items on the plate corresponded to which of those words. She was content to just spoon it into her mouth using the least energy possible.
      “They have to come up with a menu for people from all over the world with diverse dietary needs, restrictions, and tastes, and the solution is to make everything mediocre. Have you noticed that?” Star said.
      To her left, Lt. Cmdr. Cazallar spoke up. “Mine is perfectly fine,” she said. “They get live grubs instead of frozen, or dried grub meal cakes…” She picked up one of the specimens in question with two of her long flexible fingers and bit down with a wet crunch.
      “They look good,” Star said. “I know it’ll make me sick, but I wanna eat one.” Caz just rolled her eyes, having had this conversation before.
      “You’ve said the same thing about mine, and we both know why that was a bad idea,” Burn said. He bit down on the red raw meat on his fork, long tongue lapping up blood from his thin dark lips and sharp yellow teeth. He wiped his snout down after he was done chewing.
      “Do you think they got Captain Kobo to come train us because he lives nearby in Nigeria? I heard he was semi-retired,” Caz said. She couldn’t go long without shop talk.
      “I’m sure it helped,” Indigo said. “Star, didn’t you say you have family around here? Maybe you should visit, before our mission.”
      “Maybe,” Star said.
      “Star, if you’ll permit me to ask, what is your family like? You rarely speak of them,” Burn said.
      She wasn’t eager to talk about it. She’d spent a childhood being too much or not enough. She had the darkest or lightest skin in any given family photo. Even around direct relatives, her features looked exotic, her accent unfamiliar. Her personality did the remaining work of shoving her from the center of any conversation. At least she could take full credit for that.
      “Uhhh,” Star said, lost in memories. She had to actively work to even process the question. “Um, uh. Uh. My family? Well, my grandmother was from China, and my other grandmother was from India. And on the other side, my mom… no wait! My dad, um. He’s actually from, uh, here. Nigeria, I mean. His dad, my grandpa, was a movie producer, actually…
      “Anyway, my mom met my dad because she was assigned around there during her… during her EASU service,” Star said. She felt a little awkward even bringing it up, even though all her companions knew that her mother was a high-ranking officer in the same organization they were enlisted in. It wasn’t the only reason Star had gotten this assignment, but it was one of them.
      Burn spoke up. “I will not hector you about visiting them, but I agree with Indigo. Family is of vital importance. Wolves have developed a strong family structure despite our often-independent nature. Legacy, dynasty, matters a great deal to my people. Have I ever told you how I’m descended from the nuclear superwolves of the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone?”
      “So many times,” Angelo said. Burn playfully growled at his friend.
      “It’s weird to end up back here. When I was young, we never settled down. I saw half the habitable aligned countries before I was ten,” Star said.
      “I’m sure it had downsides, but it sounds wonderful to me to travel all over and see so much of the world. Until I joined the EASU, I lived in Berlin my whole life. My family are academics… my childhood was rainy days and books,” Caz said.
      “A long way from mecha combat on the moon,” said Indigo.
      “Maybe not as much as you think… there was a monument to the Bellerophon near my high school,” Caz said. “The mecha of one of Captain Kobo’s old squadmates. It had a big… well, it looked like a power drill. It could carve open other mecha or tanks and pull the pilots out. On the statue, it was pointed in such a way that on a clear day, the sun would glint off it and you might get blinded if you weren’t careful.” The group took that information in.
      “I’d like to see that someday. Uh, in person,” Star said. Caz smiled warmly.
      “Indigo. Do you think it will work?” Burn said. She knew he meant the mecha combat program and their role in it.
      “I think we impressed the captain today, actually. But we have a long way to go before we’re ready, and real combat is always going to be different,” she said. Of all the officers, only she and Angelo had been in an actual combat situation during their careers. Indigo had a confirmed aerial kill from her days in the Experimental Air Combat Division, a precursor to the movable frame program.
      “I get it. We have skills, what we need is discipline, precision, will,” Angelo said. He was eating enormous jalapeño peppers stuffed with snail meat, and rubbing hot chili oil on his gums. Supposedly, it helped him maintain a healthy body temperature. Star wondered if it was just an endurance test, the way kids suck on painfully sour candy.
      Caz picked at her food, not hungry. “Even if I understand it, you’ll have to forgive me for not wanting to be beaten up. I took this job to use machines, not get into street fights,” she said.
      Burn cleared his throat. “Well, you see, even as a flight officer—“
      “I know! Don’t explain my job to me again, Burn,” Caz snapped. She looked instantly embarrassed. “Sorry… I—“
      “No, I am sorry. You are right,” Burn said. He looked down, snout facing the floor.
      “This is the part I’m supposed to be good at,” Star said. “The fighting, the willpower… that’s my strength, supposedly. And my ass has already been kicked today. Doing instruments and piloting will be like Mount Rushmore. Was that the hard one?”
      “That was a big sculpture,” Burn said. “To the old regime. You’re thinking of Mount Everest.”
      “Really? Didn’t they have a big fight there back in the day?” Star said, straining her brain to remember a single thing ever said in history class.
      “Captain Kobo fought in that battle,” Caz said. “It was in his briefing material. Well, the supplements to it I requested…”
      “Seriously? I can’t remember where all this stuff happened. There’s too many place names,” Star said. She continued to eat, without much unnecessary movement.
      “A battle with the Ascendancy where a whole platoon of their soldiers defected to fight alongside human brethren. We might not be here if not for their courage,” Burn said, solemnly.
      “Literally, brother,” said Angelo. “My great-uncle was in that platoon. He got his whole family over after the war… you know why he did it? He found the Lord.” Angelo pulled a silver cross necklace out from his uniform and softly bit down on it, as a gesture.
      “I don’t want to get into a religious debate, I just find it hard to understand,” Indigo said. “Catholic theology had never before accounted for alligator people, correct? I feel they should have seen that coming, were it all true.”
      “Yeah, well, plenty of Catholics don’t like us either,” Angelo said. “But Pope Thomasina gave us her blessing, what else do I need?”
      Indigo looked like she had something to say to that, but she kept quiet.
      “Didn’t someone once say ‘praise the lord and pass the ammunition’… seems like your philosophy, Angelo,” Caz said. Angelo looked a little embarrassed, but he nodded.
      “I may not share Angelo’s particular faith, but I admire his commitment. We must continue. This is our purpose, the mission we have been given,” Burn said. “We can question it, interrogate it, grapple with it. But make every choice with all your might behind it. Today, I choose to continue. Join me?”
      Burn raised his little wax-covered pouch of ice-cold mineral water in the air. “To our future,” he said. A chorus of mumbled agreements and a surge of weak, wobbly arms marked the moment.

* * *

      Having taxed the body, Captain Kobo now sought to destroy minds. The afternoon’s training began the physics portion of their lessons. The basics about gravitational awareness, thrust versus weight, and three-dimensional movement were pretty well-known, so the captain threw out what sounded at first like a world problem from a textbook. It made Star’s head throb until she realized the examples weren’t arbitrary, but pulled from his own experiences. That helped. She could barely understand what he was asking, and certainly couldn’t do the math to give an informed answer, but she could picture the mecha that the Captain piloted in the 2370s, the good old days of mecha design.
      Specifically, Star could see the standout unit of the mecha corps, the RG-885-T. Only nerds thought of it that way; to most people, it was the Icarus. It was red, flashy, and built like a bruiser. The torso was shaped like a round metal drum, the arms were almost as massive and heavy as the legs, and the weapons included two heavy duty autocannons and two honest-to-goodness hammers, enormous pieces of smithed metal, outfitted with multiple vernier thrusterpoints to ensure their performance regardless of gravity or air pressure. To Star, it was perfect. A no-frills death-dealer that could fight in any situation, and appropriately, saw hundreds of battles. It got upgraded as it went, and was eventually replaced by new models with their own advantages, but it held a special place in the culture: seeing the Icarus in action was the first time regular people saw a mech and thought it looked like a hero. Star knew it wasn’t so simple, but in her heart, that dream was why she was here. She wanted to be a hero, an ace mecha pilot whose skills and daring would make her machine more famous than she was.
      In the meantime, she had to figure out how to fake it as much as possible. She looked over at Caz, hoping for a lifeline, but her roommate, flight officer, and usual savior in situations like this, was busy doing all the requisite calculations. It was obvious she could get the correct, or at least a correct, answer to all of these questions.
      “Lt. Mandala,” Capt. Kobo said sternly. “Want to take a stab at our current problem?”
      Star stared at the board, internal distress rising like a thermometer on a summer day. “Um. Well. When it comes to the physics of orbital re-entry and heat shielding, there are no second chances. The measurements are crucial. Can’t be faked. Space debris, while not reliable, can be used for additional insulation in certain emergency situations…” she said, rambling on and filling space with whatever knowledge she did have. She stumbled her way through some of the basic math and came out with an answer that the Captain seemed to accept.
      “Good improv, Lieutenant. But hit the books,” Kobo said. “We’ll be back at it on Wednesday.” Star’s knees felt like they would give out even while she was sitting down.

* * *

      “As a mecha pilot, you are responsible for more than just a machine. There is an entire system, complex and delicate, that undergirds your ability to pilot. Engineering, maintenance, repairs, resupply, communications, logistics, mission control. Without them, you’re basically just wearing a pair of stilts,” Captain Kobo said during the next morning’s training session.
      “You need to be aware at all times of your fuel level, your ammunition, the integrity of your armor, any number on any display, the level of any gauge, the readouts on any display. That is part of what we’re testing today,” he said. He gestured to a row of skeletal mecha with open cockpits.
      Star strapped herself into the Sparring Frame, a special mecha training machine. To Star, it looked like an aluminum ladder with arms and legs. It consisted of the bare minimum construction struts of a mecha with simulated weapons, sensors, and basic cockpit controls. It was compatible with Movable Frame implants like the kind each pilot had. Finally, some training that Star would excel in, she thought.
      In her memory, she could see the Chromeliner. She loved to be in the upper cockpit, feet locked into elliptical movers to walk, and hands plugged into the deceptively simple controls. Most of the movement and articulation was done via the implant, with the physical controls there just to ensure a tactile response. It was nearly impossible to “think” your fingers closed without also closing your actual fingers.
      She had to imagine most of that. Here, she was locked into a clunky, clumsy cage, a wire frame imitation of a beautiful piece of machinery, with paintball guns and infrared sensors in place of real weapons. They were slightly insulated, modular, easy to repair in case of accident, and most important, cheap.
      She stretched the finger joints on the hands of her Sparring Frame, flexing their full range of motion. It felt so good to be in control again. Some pilots found the sensation queasy, awkward, or uncomfortable. For Star, it was like she was finally where she was supposed to be. She had an often revisited but always-unshared thought that it was more real to be in the cockpit of a mecha than to be in her own body, “alone.”
      Star rocked back and forth on mechanical feet. Indigo was a natural pilot, but she was used to a fundamentally different type of machine. Her stealth-oriented mech was fleet-footed and lightweight. The Chromeliner, by contrast, was a muscular, brawling beast. Today, the two Sparring Frames were identical. Like a game of chess, they had a matching loadout, so the contest would be determined entirely by skill. Star took in a deep breath and grimaced as she looked down the airfield at Indigo. Captain Kobo fired a starter’s pistol to signal them to begin.
      Star didn’t waste any time. She hoisted up the left arm of her mech and squeezed off a few rounds of blue paint. A few hits, even at this range. Star refused to lose her situational awareness the way she had when she and Indigo fought “in person.” They strafed around each other in circles, looking like a couple waltzing at long distance. Without cover, basic tactics and resource management were what was really being tested here. Star took a chance and fired a sensor-replica of a microwave beam weapon. Most mecha had one, and if used correctly, it could fry and disable your opponent’s core systems. If used perfectly, it could disable their machine altogether, a nearly non-violent solution. But mecha were fragile things, and a weapon like this could easily cause a chain reaction that lead to an explosion or other catastrophic failure.
      The sensors on the Sparring Frames weren’t so detailed that it would simulate each possible outcome of a microwave beam hit, but it would be different depending on which of the seven body sensors picked it up. If she were a crack shot, she could end this fight in seconds. Star missed. She hissed under her breath, not that anyone could hear over the motorized whirring of her machine.
      Indigo took that chance and began firing her own paint pellets. She landed a few more hits than Star had. The real guns being simulated weren’t designed to disable an opponent, but to suppress their movements and do damage over time. Star was still learning to play the long game. They moved in circles still, getting closer and closer. Was it wrong, Star wondered, that she wanted to charge at her and grapple and squeeze Indigo — Indigo’s mecha — until she submitted? That wasn’t a particularly effective tactic in real combat, she knew. For one thing, your opponent might choose death over dishonor and self-destruct.
      She kept the microwave beam gun prepped and ready as they danced. The closer Indigo got, the less confidence she had that her hand-to-hand skills would be enough even if they did get face-to-face. She tipped her beam rifle in a flash like a quick-draw artist and fired. She thought she missed until she saw Indigo tip over, her left mecha foot disabled and inert. Shot in the foot, Star thought, and smiled.
      She immediately squeezed off her guns and charged forward on boosters. As she did so, she could tell that Indigo, instead of jet-boosting away, had managed to find her balance on one foot. How did this girl do it? Star kept firing on her approach, splattering Indigo’s Frame, and Indigo herself, with paint. The crash when two Sparring Frames collided with each other sounded to Star like a steel drum. We’re making beautiful music together, she thought.
      On pure instinct, Star grappled with her free hand and clung to Indigo’s Sparring Frame with her knees. Because of the open cockpit, the two were now close enough to make eye contact.
      “Should I make it quick and easy? Or make you work for it?” Star said. She lifted the microwave beam rifle up and pointed it at Indigo’s center of mass.
      “Don’t give away your tactics to the enemy,” Indigo purred, and roughly grabbed at the rifle just as Star fired it in a panic. The (simulated) beam fired off behind the head of Indigo’s mech. The two of them grappled with it for a moment before Star realized it was a feint. She grabbed Indigo’s own rifle, while it was still attached by wire to her Sparring Frame’s hip. Now it was just wrestling, she thought. Their hands were locked and neither wanted to let go. Indigo’s damaged foot finally gave way and their shared cage tipped backwards, Star on top.
      “I don’t think it would be effective training, but I want to smash my forehead into your face,” Star said.
      “You can’t settle for just spitting on me like an unhappy waiter?” Indigo said, and closed her eyes as if to invite it. Star didn’t have a comeback for that. The sound of grinding metal filled her ears as her hands started to cramp up. There was only so far you could push your body, even if the machine could keep going. She let go of her beam rifle, letting Indigo’s arm fall. Then she grabbed Indigo’s beam rifle, yanking with both hands and breaking the wire connector. She spun it around and aimed it directly at the center of Indigo’s Frame.
      Remembering her mistake from earlier, she just fired, no time for a clever quip. The sensors on the interior cockpit console lit up and made new, exciting noises. “Enemy Deactivated!” pinged across the small readout. Another shot from Captain Kobo’s starter’s pistol marked the end of the engagement. Wobbly, Star managed to stand her machine up and lift the arms in the air for a brief celebration. Her fellow pilots met her with a round of applause.
      Before they could even dislodge themselves from the cramped cockpits, Captain Kobo gave them feedback, mentioning Indigo’s reliance on repeated movement patterns and Star’s recklessness. He also said they both had fine combat instincts and fought clean and effectively, a compliment Star wore proudly.

* * *

      The sun was setting, and combat practice was over. Star was glad she had gone first, rather than be forced to stew in her anxiety. Plus, she won. The rest of the pilots had fought and scrapped and felt fear in the pits of their own stomachs. They went over the matches in detail, worked through summaries of their own tactical pitfalls and triumphs, and traded thoughts and theories on the best way to move forward. Star reminded herself that a few minutes of mecha combat was only made possible by hours or days of training, planning, bureaucracy, repairs, and reports.
      When it was finally over, Star ambled out of the locker room to find Indigo standing there.
      “I’m supposed to wear sunglasses,” she said.
      “What?” Star said, confused.
      “During the day. I can see in daylight, but I’m supposed to protect my eyes. During piloting, especially.”
      Star’s eyes darted around, her brain working hard to figure out what this actually meant.
      “Is that your way of—“
      “No, your victory still counts. I lost fair and square,” she said. “Even if it was because of my eyes, I chose to forego the protection. What I was saying was that I like this time of day. I can start to see more clearly. And I like what I see when I look at you.”
      The two women just stared at each other, both wearing identical fatigues over undershirts. Indigo’s were tied around the waist. You could communicate so much without speaking.
      “You mean you can see my piloting potential,” Star said.
      “Yeah, I can,” Indigo said. She stretched her arms upward, and Star noticed the thin membrane of gliding wings that extended from her elbow down to her midsection. Star wondered if she ever flew on her own.
      “We’re not gonna be fighting each other, you know,” Star said.
      “Yeah. We’ll be comrades. Back to back,” Indigo said.
      “Arm in arm?” Star said.
      “Something like that,” Indigo said. She pulled something from her pocket. “Cigarette?”
      “Is it, uh, weed, or…” Star said, unsure.
      “Five percent weed, ninety-five percent botanicals,” Indigo said. “You might get a little buzz, but mostly you’ll just stink. It’s big for bats because it’s derived from these berries…”
      Star looked at the odd brown paper smokable being offered to her, then at Indigo’s face. Her eyes did seem brighter, more open, even bigger, as the sun set.
      “Yeah, I’ll try,” Star said. She had never really enjoyed drugs like this, preferring pint after pint of watery ale with her squaddies in England, but she wasn’t going to look at Indigo in a moment like this and turn her down.
      Indigo gently placed the cigarette in Star’s mouth and lit it. The strong, sweet smell reminded her of a trip to a summertime farmer’s market in Mumbai years ago, a cloud of fruit flies hanging over the place.
      “It smells better than mecha fuel,” she said. “Maybe I’ll have sweet dreams tonight.”
      “Yeah, you’ll remember when you kicked my ass,” Indigo said. “The best thing that ever happened to you.”
      “So far. Until I get a confirmed combat kill, I’ll cherish that moment. And the look on your face.”
      Indigo looked at Star with her mouth closed. “I’ll remember the look on yours.”
      The two of them smoked together in silence as the sun dipped past the horizon and the moon reported in for her night shift.

* * *

     It was early morning when the wall unit in Star and Cazallar’s barracks pinged and spat out sheet after sheet of paper. These were computers were wired into the base’s communication system for the exchange of emergency and high-priority information. Caz looked confused as she sifted through the documentation. Star groggily walked in, only in her underwear.
      “What the hell is—“
      “The mission. Um. Uh. We have a mission! We’re go for launch in thirty-two hours,” Caz said. “We’re going to—“
      “A real mission?” Star said.
      “Yes!” Caz said. She shoved a random fistful of the papers in Star’s direction. “Look!”
      Star scanned it quickly, just looking for important keywords. In less than two days they were going to ride a rocket to the moon and fight, in real mechs, the illegal colonists. Mission priority was to destroy the separatists’ modified mecha to give a window for air support to destroy the factory that they had failed to blow up months earlier.
      “We’re going in,” Star said. “I almost didn’t think it would really happen.”
      Caz clasped her own hands together in a prayer-like gesture. “Are we ready?”
      “We’re ready,” Star said. “We have to be!” She held up the paper in her hand and grinned like the cat who ate the canary.

* * *

     For Star, the next thirty-two hours went by in heartbeats. Besides a few mandated hours of rest, sleep, meals, and bathroom breaks, they were devoted to mission prep. The squad reviewed their drills, their tactics, and their loadouts. They double, triple, quadruple checked every joint, every seal, and every switch and button in their cockpits and on their spacesuits.
     The Chromeliner and the Null Report were transported to the launch pad via the rail system, delighting Star. Watching a train-car pull two giant robots to a rocket ship made her feel like a superhero and a little kid all at once. She wondered if Captain Kobo ever got to experience this emotion himself. He’d inspired it in hyperactive, overgrown kids for the past few decades, but did he ever feel it?
      The entire division was assembled, going through the stages in the hours before the launch. There was plenty to do, and plenty of time, too. Star was enjoying fresh air for the last time before the mission when Indigo emerged, displaying two brown cigarettes in her hand.
      “Wanna share? No mind-altering stuff in these, just… the taste. A little sense memory for you,” Indigo said.
      “What do you want me to remember?” Star said. She took one and waited for Indigo to light each one. The smell was strong, even more than the first, like honey in a warm saucepan.
      “Just remember that you’re alive. Whatever happens next, right now, you’re here, alive, free. Your body… your senses, your mind. It’s all working. ‘Morningstar Mandala was here’,” she said.
      “And Indigo Midnight? Is she here?” Star said.
      “Yeah, she’s here. And I’m gonna be up there with you, too,” she said. “They’ll have to carve me out and pull me away. I’ll hang on for dear life. By my teeth.” She flashed her sharp fangs and ran her tongue over the enamel.
      “When we get back, um. I wanna see you again,” Star said. She had something else to say, but it wasn’t the time. The time might never come.
      “Yeah,” Indigo said. “You pay for the cigarettes next time.”
      “Deal.”

* * *

     The launch was the element Star was least worried about. She’d been up to near-orbit and down a few dozen times, and been to a colony four or five times, mostly when she was a kid. Once, she took the Outer Chengdu Space Elevator all the way to the top, to visit LaGrange 4 Disneyland, but she took a spaceplane for the return trip. She’d never been to the moon, but knew it was one of the easier trips for shuttle jockeys.
     They waited in the prep area for a few hours. Mostly, they were silent, only occasionally talking quietly. Caz read, Angelo did a few prayers, Burn wrote in a journal. Indigo kept her eyes closed in silent meditation. Star, not sure how to stand it, plugged headphones into her ears and blasted the most intense music she could think of. Eventually, it was time to go.
     “This is Captain Kang at mission control. Is my team go for launch?” said the voice coming over their internal communication channel.
     “Team is prepped and ready, packages tightly secure, all systems are go, we are prepared for launch, mission control,” said Burn, in the pilot’s seat. Angelo was beside him. Indigo, Caz, and Star were sitting in the “back seat” of the EASU Tactical Spaceplane Mukai. Both mecha were attached firmly to the rocket, in front of the nuclear-powered thruster engine. The engine and the “package” could be detached at any time in case of emergencies. If everything went according to plan, the mecha would safely make their way to the lunar surface before the ship landed, engine intact and ready to return them to Earth.
     “Good luck up there. Remember, you trained for this. Captain Kobo is here, we’re all here rooting for you. The world is watching and I think they’re going to like what they see,” Captain Kang said.
     “We hear you, Mission Control. This is Kalu One aboard Mukai, go for launch,” Burn said. Once the countdown started, Star was already gone. She wasn’t thinking about anything but her mission, sun-vivid and lakewater-clear in her mind.
     The flight was mostly uneventful. Burn had done this two dozen times, apparently. Star once again recognized how many brilliant people were propping her up. She felt guilt and pride all at once. It took a little under three hours to get to moon orbit, where Star, Caz, and Indigo would disembark in a landing platform. The rest of the journey would happen while sealed inside their machines.
     Crawling into the Chromeliner’s double cockpits from a spiderweb of scaffolding, wearing a spacesuit in zero gravity, was trickier than a lot of what they’d done in training. They managed, with some effort. Indigo sailed right into the Null Report’s cockpit like it was easy. There’s no way I’ll ever be that cool, Star thought. That was her last trivial thought; for the trip down to the surface, even Star knew to be focused entirely on the dynamics of a smooth landing. They touched down in a skid, the platform skiing along and shooting up a silvery cloud of moon dust around them. After checks and re-checks, communication with the Mukai and Mission Control on Earth, there was only one task left.
     “The long walk, girls,” Indigo said on their internal comm. The Null Report was faster and more agile than the Chromeliner, and could glide down into the crater if need be. Indigo would do recon and get things started, with Star and Caz close behind to charge in and finish the job. There was no telling how this mission would go or what kind of resistance they’d face. It was up to the scrapheads from the 1st Division, three young women with plenty of baggage and bullshit, to do the work.
     “Someone’s gotta do it,” Star said to herself. She suddenly remembered everything she said was being recorded. “Uh, over.”

* * *

     The lunar landscape was an endless desert of rock dust. It reminded Star of some of the quarries she’d lived and worked around during her mecha testing days in England. She remembered a deliriously fun week testing mining machines that basically amounted to blowing up and smashing rocks over and over. Today, the colors were the same, with a blanket of black starfield yarn knitted over the top. The reduced gravity made Star feel like she was gently hovering at the apex of each step.
     They were finally on the ridge above the target colony. The colonists had built a sustainable industrial base in a cave dug out from an impact crater, hidden from outside observation. There was a factory, their main target, and an uninhabited domed colony with a tunnel entrance. Indigo was already sending back data packets full of readings and information that Star could barely comprehend.
     “We’ve got readings… looks like mostly autonomous vehicles working construction now,” Caz said. “Launching observation pod.”
     When the visual data came back, at least Star could decipher it. They only needed to move a few feet to be in range enough to fire a volley of missiles — their only long-range weapons — directly at the target, then sweep in and take care of the rest up-close. It was a start.
     Indigo’s voice crackled over the comm. “I’m in position here. I’m not picking up any signs of direct human activity. They’re damn good at hiding it, though. Once we start making noise, they’ll be here.” Indigo’s position flashed on the minimap by Star’s head. Caz sent up a reading from her console to Star’s, showing the optimum position for the missiles and some possible arcs for how they would travel. If they fired too close to the center, the collapsing walls could trap Indigo in her position, rendering her vulnerable to enemy action. Worse, the structure coming down could collapse a cave wall and crush Indigo altogether.
     “I want to fire three on this side. Here, here, and here,” Star said, using a touchscreen to mark where she was hoping to fire. Caz quickly worked up the trajectories and proper targeting.
     “Looks good?” Caz said, sending more data to the upper cockpit console. Star looked down through the grate and flashed a smile.
     “You’re a lifesaver, babe! I think this might actually work,” Star said. She flipped to Indigo’s channel. “Caz is sending over our targeting data. If we draw them out, you think you can handle yourself? It’ll take us a few minutes to get down there safely to help.”
     “I can do it, but book it right after firing. I have no idea how many Frames they have. Once they know we’re here, we could be in for a tough fight. Even if it is one we can win,” Indigo said.
     “Got it,” Star said. “Caz, are we good? I don’t see any reason to wait. Every second we’re out here, we’re just closer to being spotted.”
     “I think so. Coordinates locked?”
     “Targeting locked. I’m moving.”
     Star took a breath as she clicked back into manual control. Her legs pumped on the elliptical leg braces she was strapped into. Haptics and the feedback from her own neuro-implant made each footfall feel real, even the subtle movements of shifting moon dust. Star adjusted the Chromeliner’s balance accordingly with the precise servos in its feet.
     Once they were in place, Star realized, there was no turning back. Once she fired, the mission — the battle, most likely — would begin. The goal was to destroy the enemy mecha that emerged, and whatever else they could manage. If they were especially ambitious, the entire factory installation could go.
     “We’re go for rockets. Null Report, acknowledge?” Star said.
     “Acknowledged. Rip it, sister,” Indigo said over the comm.
     “Target finalized. Initializing launch sequence. Missile pod one, two, three, engaged.” Star flipped the requisite three switches, encased in plastic covers to avoid any accidents. “Officer approval requested.”
     “Approval granted,” Caz said, going through the motions. The three blue switches on Star’s console glowed with internal light.
     “Officer approved, pilot authorized, target locked. Protocol underwrite. Noted?”
     “Noted,” Caz said, quietly. Her voice echoed slightly, and came in more clear over the back comm channel. Everything was recorded for posterity, and Star hoped when she heard these words again, she felt as confident as she did right now.
     “Firing. Missile pod one in three, two, one,” Star said. She depressed the blue switch and felt the rumble behind her. She repeated the process for the remaining two, wasting no time.
     Then, the flash. The visual display instantly darkened before a white light filled the dim video screen. You could see it before you felt it, Star had heard. And when you felt it, it was like a punch to the stomach. In this case, two punches.
     Two? Star thought.
      She checked the missile tracker. Two target hits and one— not a miss.
      “Missile three is shot down! I’m seeing a straight line of photonic residue — looks like laser defense!” Caz said. “Star, we’ve gotta move. They know we’re here.”
      Star pinched her eyes shut and then wrenched them open violently. “Shit! Okay, we’re on it! Null Report — anything you see, shoot it!”
      They moved. Star couldn’t take the time to adjust and feel the sand in her feet, she had to run. She tore off, almost drifting or sliding through the lunar dust. She tried to think of it like rolling down a snowy hill. The sensor display showed a scatterplot of weapons fire, including some from Indigo’s boltrifle.
      As they got closer, it was clear that even with the intercepted missile, they had done a significant amount of damage. The front of the factory was destroyed, parts of it just a smoking hole. Even the intact areas were looking taken care of. The missiles contained high-yield explosives and had done their job admirably. So had Caz, Star thought.
      “Enemy spotted! We have… three! No, four! I’m tagging them as best I can…” Caz said. On Star’s subscreen, she could see glowing splashes of light where Caz had thrown her indicators. It couldn’t track them perfectly, but it would have to be good enough.
      Star looked and thought. “Show them we mean business. Caz, I want to blow one of these guys away. Approval?”
      “Uhhh… which one?”
      She studied the monitor, fast. She picked the one that was least obscured by the debris and dust on her visual. “On the left. Target A114.”
      Caz looked. “Approved!”
      Star had barely flipped up the switch’s case when the light glowed, and she slammed down on it. Another rumble, another flash. The ground shook beneath them.
      “Target… destroyed!” Caz said, in near-disbelief.
      “You took out another big chunk of the factory, too, but now—“ Indigo’s comm voice was cut off. Fire, ballistics, plasma, and some forms of ordinance Star didn’t even recognize were incoming now like a monsoon season rain.
      “Hang back, I’m gonna move!” Indigo said. Star’s mind scrambled like an egg.
      “Caz? What do I do?” Star said, plaintive, honest, and desperate.
      “Push them,” Caz said. “Stop being on the defensive. Use the beam rifle.”
      Star looked down at the lower left side console and signaled to unsheathe the beam rifle. With a weapon in each hand, she had to rely on the instruments for aim. Even a crack shot would find it difficult to one-hand precision aim a weapon that weighed more than a car.
      Star fired just the beam rifle at first. It was effective at suppressing fire because pilots knew one errant shot could end them. Star made careful steps, firing in different directions in a triangular arc to clear her path, and then switching directions and doing the same. One step, two, three. Between the random fire, the dust, and the smoke, her visuals were a bowl of stew.
      A proximity sensor went off behind her, and Star realized they had backed into the future residential part of the colony. According to the intel, no one was living here yet; it was nothing but empty buildings, artificial grass and transplanted genmod trees. Star’s mind struggled to work, her jaw tight and firm.
      “We know the colony is empty. It’s an illegal settlement, anyway,” Star said. If they backed into the colony, they could use that as cover. She probably shouldn’t say now, or in her report, if she did it on purpose. If it happened accidentally, she could get away with it. “Let’s just park here. Wait for them to come out. And when we see them—“
      “Fry ‘em?” Caz said, cautiously.
      “Beam rifle, guns, missile with enough lead time. Indigo’s covering me. It could work if—“ A torrent of gunfire interrupted the thought, high caliber ammunition screaming across and violently puncturing parts of the colony’s outer dome. There were damage reports popping up all over the Chromeliner. Even a small burst of heavy rounds tore a few chunks out of her. Star grimaced as she dismissed the warnings from her screen. Nothing to be done about it now.
      “Fuck it, we’re going in!” Star said. She wasn’t waiting, and instead of finding a safer path just plowed through the colony’s outer wall and walked in. More damage reports started to pop up and they, too, were ignored. Star sheathed her minigun, struck a rugby pose and ran forward again, smashing through bulkheads and walls until they had wandered into an empty, mass-produced city, like something from a computer game. Buildings, trees, sidewalks, but no people, no cars. A train track, but no train.
      “Target! Target!” Star shouted, pleading with Caz to do something as she spun the Chromeliner on her heel. She couldn’t wait. “Firing missile! Approved! Do it!”
      Caz stumbled. “I don’t— fuck, request approved!” Button-slapping gave way to the soaring rumble as another missile soared into the distance, and after seconds of silence, cleanly connect with the far end of the interior cave wall.
      “Shit,” Star said, an empty balloon.
      “No time! Do something else!” Caz said.
      “Oh, that’s helpful!”
      “What else should I say?”
      Star just cursed, not sure of what she could possibly say that could make this situation make any sense at all. She fired a few more bursts from her beam rifle, waiting for the enemy mechs to be there any second, and dove behind one of the taller buildings for blessed temporary cover.
      Only now did she take a moment to muse on what a surreal place this was. A domed city, empty of people, with artificial sunlight around the rim that made it look like perpetual blue-purple twilight. Star and her opponents were overgrown kids skulking around in expensive toys on a spectacular playset.

* * *

      When the Chromeliner broke for the bank vault, Caz could detect signs of three enemy mecha. Indigo was on her way to cover their six o’clock. Until then, this was all there was. Two missiles, one beam rifle, two miniguns. Once momentarily secure, Star glanced at her ammunition stores. She popped the clip from one minigun and dropped the gun itself on the ground. It was just extra weight at this point. She had three full clips of ammunition and one partial in her remaining weapon.
      “Approaching?” Star said, to Caz.
      “They’re on us. Indigo?”
      “I can see… one is on top of you, two are looking elsewhere. Time it right and you’ll— now! Star, now!”
      The instincts kicked in and Star rose up and spun on the Chromeliner’s heel. Without hesitation, she fired the microwave beam rifle at the opponent she knew (or intuited?) was there. The visible part of the beam erupted like a jacuzzi jet, and the blocky enemy mecha in front of Star crackled, sparked, and fizzed. The joints went slack, the visible lights blinked off, and shards of metal and plastic started to pop like firecrackers. Star thought for a second and just shoved the now-dead machine backwards with the side of the Chromeliner’s arm. It tipped over and crashed into the ground, destroying a building that Star realized after a second was meant to someday be a restaurant. Star took a step back and then smashed in the left leg of the enemy machine with her foot, as if to say “don’t fuck with me and I’ll let you live.”
      “We’ve got their attention now! Watch out!” Caz said. More incomprehensible alerts and information flashed all over Star’s screen, and she just gritted her teeth.
      “Missile launch approved? On our right!”
      “Target acquired… good enough! Approved!” Caz said, her voice interrupted by a sputtering cough. They ran through it again and Star fired the fifth missile from the pod on her back. Only when it was in the air did either of them realize their target had done the exact same thing.
      The two missiles only clipped each other, rather than colliding, but it was enough. They both veered off course and promptly detonated. The debris that time included some statues and an enormous cross. What did you do at work today, sweetie? Well, mom, I accidentally blew up a church on the moon.
      There wasn’t time to reflect, so Star charged towards their enemy. The Chromeliner, although starting to fray, was strong enough to walk through. She aimed her beam rifle again, hoping to repeat the last maneuver. She was about to fire — on visual reference only — when the enemy mecha seemed to read her mind. It reached out and grabbed her beam rifle by the barrel, pointing it upward.
      “Fuck,” Star said. She remembered her fight with Indigo, and, without thinking, she dropped the minigun from the other mech hand and grabbed for her opponent’s beam rifle. It worked once, she thought. The two of them grappled, and more alerts bounced around Star’s ears.
      “Behind us— Star—“ Caz said. Indigo’s worried voice was on the other side too, and it became clear that large amounts of fire were tearing into the Chromeliner’s back. If they kept getting closer, at point blank range, there’d be nothing Star or Caz could do.
      “Oh God, Star, we’re taking heavy—“ Caz said. Her voice was interrupted by a guttural cry that Star knew represented actual pain. She finally looked down at the display, still pushing the arm and hand controls with all her strength.
     “We’re hit. I’m hit!” Caz said. “Star, we have to—“
     “Missile authorized?” Star said.
     “Are you fucking—“
     “Do it!”
     Caz didn’t even say anything, just slapped her button. Star hit hers and the last missile roared from the backpack, up into the air, and came straight back down. Star let go and slid backwards with retro rockets. She watched as the modified Dalgran Model-05 Special Tactics Type exploded in a shower of sparks and flame.
      “The other one is still—“ More damage alerts. The retro-rockets she had just used to make a quick exit from the blast radius were damaged or destroyed. They were out of missiles. She’d dropped the minigun on purpose, and the beam rifle was lost in the scuffle. Star’s heart fell, burning up in re-entry.
      She turned around dutifully and fired her every built-in weapon, mostly smaller-caliber guns in the head, shoulders, and torso. Star assumed a wrestling or judo stance, with open palms. She was about to lunge for the Dalgran’s beam rifle when it was blasted out of its hands.
      “Doing my best here, girls,” Indigo said over the comm. Star realized Caz wasn’t talking, and there was a smell like burning oil coming from the lower cockpit.
      Star grappled with the enemy before they could take out their own miniguns, and kept firing the built-in weapons. She was able to knock it over and get on top. The damage alerts now filled almost every screen, including some she hadn’t even used before now. Not knowing what else to do, Star just continued. She joined the two hands of the Chromeliner together, fingers interlinked, and brought it down like a steel-driving hammer into the chest cockpit of the Dalgran, again, and again, until there was a hole where a person had once been.
      She was able to stand up, not sure if her knees were wobbly because of the experience or the damage the Chromeliner had taken.
      “Star,” Caz finally said, sounding distinctly weakened. “Eject.”
      “What? No! Caz, we won. We’ll both get out even if—“
      “Eject. I can’t. It’s stuck. I already tried,” Caz said.
      “What? We weren’t—“
      “I don’t know how you did that. Protocol says to eject when the chance of survival is so low. But I couldn’t. The mechanism is damaged. I think you still can, but I won’t make it. Do it. Now.”
      “They’re all gone. We can just shut down and wait for—“
      “The coolant tank is leaking. The pulse reactor is going to overheat. So much is damaged that it’s going to spread through the other systems. Star, if you don’t eject, the Chromeliner is going to explode, and we’re both going to die. You should at least live,” Caz said. She was calm, professional, and devastated.
      “Caz, I—“
      “Star. Eject. If you wanna do something good, tell my family I saved your life,” Caz said. “You know where the handles are?”
      “I know,” Star said. She tried to find more words, and her built-for-action brain came up short. “Caz. I’m sorry.”
      “I know. I meant what I said. Tell my family. They’re nice people. You’ll like them. My sister loves to cook. And she’s cute,” Caz looked up with a smile, and only then did Star see how much she was bleeding. The ballistics from the Novorussian Dalgran hadn’t really affected her up here, but had cut through the bottom of the Chromeliner thoroughly. Caz had been hit by stray rounds, burnt by exploding equipment, and violently bounced around her tiny cockpit. Even if they could eject, she might not make it, Star realized.
      “She’s too cute for me, if she’s like you,” Star said. “Caz…” She thought for a moment, but her hands were already groping for the emergency release hatch handles. She started to pull and twist them into place and the “ejection imminent alarm” beeped. Finally, she had the last two in place, two red handles attached to long metal bars that slid out from the cockpit’s frame. Star was never good with words, and none were sufficient now.
      “Goodbye, Caz. I’m sorry,” she said, and she pulled on the two handles before Caz would even be able to respond.
      “Bye, Star,” Caz said anyway, unheard.
      The sudden pressure change was as traumatizing for Star as anything else today. Popping out the back of a huge walking war machine like a gachapon capsule was a violent experience. She felt an immense pain in her leg and slumped back into her seat. The adrenaline of the battle was wearing off, and she noticed blood pour into her boots. Her screens and displays mostly turned blue, with a black and green trajectory display one of the only functioning things. It showed her altitude, and when to activate the parachute. Star knew it was too soon, but she pulled it anyway. She unlatched the safety restraints and looked out the tiny port window of thick bulletproof plastic, leaning far too much on her badly injured leg. She darted her eyes around until the Chromeliner came into view.
      Almost as soon as she could see it, the Chromeliner exploded, a cotton ball of debris, smoke, and dust.
      “Indigo,” Star said, blank. “I pulled my chute too early. I don’t know where I’ll land. I’m over some trees…”
      “I’ll be there. Let’s go home,” Indigo said. Star just flicked her light signal to indicate that Indigo’s message had been received.
      Indigo glided down to the colony forest where Star’s pod landed. Indigo hitched the pod to her Frame with two heavy steel cables and wore it like a backpack. She bounded off back towards the Mukai.
      The return trip was shorter and easier than the launch had been. Star didn’t look out the window until they landed.

* * *

      Star laid in bed while a nurse calmly and efficiently rubbed her broken leg. In the 48 hours since she’d returned to Earth, she’d had briefings, surgery, and sleep. The few moments in between were dominated by a bank of coffee creamer fog. She had the radio on, listening to old medical dramas on a satellite band. She liked hearing about lives being saved, not taken, even if they were all fictional anyway. She spent the days, and especially the nights, just staring out the window onto the Kalu base grounds below.
      It was early afternoon when Captain Kobo came by. He’d seen her briefly before and advised her to rest. She was surprised, assuming he wouldn’t want to waste his time talking to someone unable to work.
      “Lieutenant Mandala,” he said. He was carrying a stack of books under his arm. “These are for you,” he said, as he placed them on the side table. She read the titles: Zero-G Combat in Theory and Practice. A Functional Guide to High Calibre Ammunition. Martial Arts for 24th Century Bodies. Grief in the Age of Modern Medicine.
      “That’s homework,” Captain Kobo said. “Just because you can’t pilot, doesn’t mean there’s nothing for you to do. Read these, write me some reports, tell me what you think.”
      Star looked blankly at the pile, especially the last book. The captain looked down at his young charge with a skeptical smile on his handsome face. He held two hands behind his back.
      “Twenty-five years ago, I was in St. Petersburg fighting the Snowcat Pirates. They’d taken over the whole city. We still thought it would be easy. Six of my companions died, gunned down by tank fire, or worse. I visited their families every year for… god, I barely remember. Tommy Silverfang’s parents told me to stop coming, ten years ago. They’d had enough.
      “There will never come a time when you’re immune to mistakes. But if you put the work in, you will, someday, forgive yourself for what happened,” he said. Star turned to look at him, without words, just bright eyes dulled by pain.
      “It’s either that, or give up and go home. Are you going to give up, Lieutenant?” Capt. Kobo said, striking a more serious tone.
      Star hoisted herself up on her elbows, and took several deep breaths. “No, sir. Not a chance,” she said. “Was that convincing?”
      “Not yet. Work on it,” Kobo said. “If you believe it, so will the rest of us.”
      When he left the room, Star collapsed back onto her bed. She spread out her floppy, damaged limbs to the extent she could, and the stiff hospital sheets crinkled like intercom static.

© Jess Umbra, 2026
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