Something drifted in space within Sol's orbit, a massive structure of metal shaped into a vaguely cylindrical fortress of technology and humanity, an orbital fortress called Shooting Star.
And one resident called it home. In the wide compartment, the workshop made of a sleep angles and all function, no form. The walls were filled with graffiti of mech parts and concept art. Racked mech parts. The floor littered with scrap metal and servos, the tables mote cluttered with trash, someone made it a point to make sure it looked like someone was here.
A man clung to the back of a Rhino Mech as he pried open the thick, dented hatch to access the vulnerable components inside. The mech, still very much operational, boomed in a grating robotic voice,
[C O N T R O L . H A T C H. E X P O S E...]
The man grunted as he pulled out the power cell.
He'd been working non-stop on this mech for a week now, a habit he picked up is making himself a hermit trying to fix wrecks like this one used to be.
"Yeah, I know you bucket of scraps. Now let's get you right as rain again," he muttered to himself. He hopped off the mech, unhooked the safety harness, and tossed the heavy power cell onto the table.
The doors slid open with a ping as a man in a blue and green striped pilot jumpsuit strode in. "Hey, I'm here. How's she looking, Bo? She gonna live?" He eyed the dark green, scratched-up mech with familiarity, his voice laced with sarcasm.
"Next time she comes for repairs with me, she's mine after that." Bo lifted the new power cell and met him halfway, bumping his chest with a free fist.
"Fat chance, I ain't letting go of a beaut like her." He reached out to help hold the power cell as they walked back to the mech. "She's been in the family for ages; not one pilot has died using her."
Bo climbed with effort to the top of the mech and slotted the power cell in. It began to hum. Restoring power, the mech announced its revival:
[P O W E R. O N.]
"I missed you too, Tinkerbell."
"I updated her systems enough so she's not too outdated. Try her out, Wince," Bo said, jumping off and slowly descending beside him.
"Those who serve Lune."
[S E R V E S. A L L. H U M A N I T Y.]
The cockpit's face, carved to resemble a man's head, split open to reveal the interior.
Wince looked at Bo with gratitude he hadn't expected for fixing a rust bucket. "Thanks, mate. I owe you for this."
"You owe me a thousand times for fixing this old thing," Bo retorted with a sneer.
"Trust me, it may be old, but it has one thing all the other mechs don't: luck."
The one thing this mech had going for it was personality. Other than that, it was held together by hopes and dreams, Bo thought. But before he could say anything, the room plunged into red as the siren blared.
"What the hell is that for?!" Bo asked, confusion washing over him as he activated his neurochip, sifting through the incoming tide of data.
Wince activazed the mechanism that assembled his helmet around his head, "You don't know?!" Wince slapped Bo's back, heading back before entering the cockpit. "The Rising! They broke through the SSBAWDS sphere a few days ago!" The cockpit sealed with a hiss as the mech connected to Bo's magnetized cables, lifting him up into the hatch in the roof and transporting him away.
The Rising? This close to Gaia and Lune? They couldn't get near even the nearest solar system to Sol, so why now? The Sol Solar Ballistic Defence Anti-Warp Drive System was a sphere of interlinking drones capable of shooting down any threat with an overwhelming barrage of 60 micro ballistic hydrogen missiles per second. That wasn't the only defense; the Outer Guard ripwing fleet and Duster flagships patrolled the moons of the outer planets to take down threats before they could reach the asteroid belt.
Just beyond that asteroid belt was the Shooting Star orbital fortress. To get so far into contested space meant the Rising came in numbers or with sheer power. Either way, Bo knew he needed to do his part as a combat engineer and sprinted for his room.
His small space covered the bare necessities to be considered a room. He quickly stripped off his clothes and pulled out his armor, which he had taken off a year ago to become an engineer. However, something told him he was going to need it again. He wasn't going to hold back; he would crush the Rising where they stood.
He donned his armor as quickly as possible, taking his Mars SMG, automatic pistol, and Riptide assault rifle. He slipped them each into magnetic holsters on his armor and set off for the repair bay, eating up the distance with ease. He slipped on his helmet, the display flickering on to show his surroundings in high-resolution as he entered the repair bay.
A mech already flew in, prepped and stitched together before being sent out the bulwark hatch, spilling into space. Bo immediately pulled up the feed of Wince in his Rhino suit orbiting the Shooting Star.
He used his neurochip to hack into their comms. "Wince."
"What the— Hello?" Wince's voice crackled in.
"Wince, it's me, Bo."
"It says you're 'Avian-42.'"
"Status report, man." Bo snapped.
"Well, reports say the Rising are launching a massive operation—4 dreadnoughts and a bunch of interceptor drones. Like, a lot. It's gonna be tough, I think," Wince replied.
"Got it." Bo cut the comms on his side but kept a small display of his camera, catching himself up on what was going on and preparing for first contact. It didn't take long; comms around him indicated that the Rising dreadnoughts were going full throttle while burning through their energy reserves. Not even a nuclear reactor could keep up with the strain they must be under.
Just before they could get fifty thousand kilometers of the Shooting Star, guided arc cannons and slag cannons had already calculated and fired energized supersonic molten metal through space, striking the dreadnought's kinetic shield and working to fry it before a barrage of missiles and low-grade hydrogen nukes homed in. For added measure, slap-round turrets opened fire in the silent void.
The dreadnought's engines sputtered, careening through sheer momentum. Their shields held against the initial arc cannons; the swarm of drones intercepted any shots that could compromise the integrity of the dreadnought.
Ten thousand kilometers now, and they decided to send out their own drones to combat the Rising's drone swarm. Jupiter approached in its orbital path, and looking through Wince's cameras made the Shooting Star and the dreadnought feel like ants. Its benevolent red eye barely seemed to notice them.
It was humbling, but it wasn't the time to think about that. The new variable was now in orbital; gravity would slightly pull rounds toward it. By now, the dreadnoughts had reached the five thousand kilometer mark, and the drones had worked effectively; a third of Rising drones had been destroyed.
Now, the Leach ships, raptor ships, what's left of the interceptors and attack drones, Legionnaire ships, and even Wince's Rhino Mech rocketed through space.
The dreadnoughts released their own fleet to meet theirs.
Bo knew very well that, to the command station, space warfare was a logistical nightmare served on a three-dimensional plate. To a soldier, it was a systematically chaotic hell where you were designed to die trying.
Wince's Rhino mech was slow; contact began ahead of him when the first few silent explosions destroyed ships and drones, and a hydrogen nuke exploded over several thousand kilometers overhead. The blinding ball of light dimmed automatically for the cameras as he entered the combat zone, gatling gun, shield, and drill arm at the ready. He locked onto a tiger mech already engaged with another mech in a spiraling dance of sparks and grinding steel. Both their shields had failed long ago; Wince's drill spun fast enough to glow red, and predicting their paths, he met the tiger mech halfway and punched a hole where the cockpit was supposed to be. Nothing remained of the pilot. His personal interceptor drones worked hard at protecting him as missiles finally registered on his sensors.
Wince wiped the sweat from his brow and continued the fight.
Meanwhile, the Rising drones and ships bypassed the combat zone en route to the Shooting Star. They shot kinetics that were easily absorbed or deflected, and the turrets went to work spraying in their general direction as the fleet maneuvered around the rounds.
Bo cleared his mini-displays to the side as droves of mechs came in for repairs. He quickly went to work, ignoring the stares at his suit. If anyone asked about it, he'd simply chide them and tell them to focus on repairs, fast. Leacher crafts couldn't breach hulls alone; they would simply burrow in and be met with a grenade thrown into the open deck. Mechs had to secure it.
A sudden cheer from Bo's crew startled him from his work. The first dreadnought had been destabilized and stopped dead in the water. They had likely hacked its thrusters. He checked his display with Wince.
"Status report," Bo asked briskly, readying the third mech for combat.
Wince crackled in with static. "Ahhhh... good good." He sounded lost in focus as he took another command from his squad leader to dodge an incoming slap-round. "Crap, crap! Bloody hell! Uhm... surviving!" [INTERCEPTOR DRONES DEPLETED] [WARNING: KINETICS GENERATOR OVERHEAT] [WARNING. WARNING.] [TARGET LOCKED] [CRITICAL DAMAGE TO—] "Over-and-out," he said quickly, closing the comms on his end.
Bo sighed nervously for the kid as he finished patching up the eighth mech. He called the pilot. "Looks like the Rhino unit is having a hard time out there. Do me a favor and make sure he's back for a retirement home."
The pilot let out a tight chuckle and promised before spilling out into space.
A tremor shook the bay, and reports came in about the eastern broadside hull being breached. Thankfully, there were no mechs or Leach crafts nearby, so it was just drones filling the halls. Poor, but not the worst. Checking the other feed, Bo saw the two remaining dreadnoughts powering up and going full throttle again, shields back to full.
We're winning, and they know it.
Finishing up patching what must be the 24th mech made Bo feel exhausted. He'd been lugging around slabs of metal, patching damages, rewiring, and dragging around replacement limbs that weighed hundreds as he welded breaches shut and fixed mechanical failings.
This work had kept him in peak physical condition. He was sure of that.
He checked his neurochip for any updates. The two dreadnoughts were now three thousand kilometers away, and speculation suggested they were heading for the Shooting Star.
It was a death wish. Command was also considering it as they lined up the turrets to stream continuous fire at the dreadnoughts. Their kinetic shields held as the dreadnoughts drew closer, close enough to hack into comms. A somber feminine voice filled the bay: "People of the Shooting Star orbital fortress, it is a shame that we won't be able to see our fellow men freed from the oppression the Lunes have over you. We all won't..." The alarms blared again as a crowd roared through the speakers, "FOR LIBERATION!" The news feed alerted them that an unknown nuke was headed their way: in, 3, 2, "FOR—"
Bo couldn't process the pain, the fear. A sinking dread led to... nothing. Consciousness pulled from the depths of his mind. He floated in a pit of darkness; his helmet activated, sensing his awakening, but the display flickering on the outside remained dark. Suspended in the air, it was safe to assume that gravity was offline.
He unholstered his auto pistol, one attachment being a flashlight, and he turned it on, scanning around him. He was floating among scrap and bodies—evidence of devastation caused by components flung at high velocity.
He warmed up his hip thrusters and slowly floated out of the bay area into the winding dark halls. His helmet alerted him that his oxygen was critically low; he had one hour left. Now he understood why others were dead. Activating his neurochip, he looked through the feeds. They were oddly quiet, but he still saw that his connection with Wince was still online.
He initiated the comms. "Wince?"
He jetted through the sea of bodies, gently pushing past them as he glided toward the command center.
"Wince!" he tried again.
Wince opened the comms and replied, "I'm busy."
"Status report. I think I got knocked out."
"The Rising used some kind of teleportation bomb. Knocked our systems out cold in the mothership. Fighting at low orbital, planet-side," he finally answered, his voice punctuated with crackles.
"Get the hell out there before Jupiter swallows you up," Bo chided.
"Negative, we're not in Jupiter's orbit. Some kind of exo-Earth. Looks habitable. Got some drop ships down there." [WARNING: FINAL POWER CELL DEPLETED, SHUTTING DOWN...]
"Ah, what?! No, no, no-" his feed cut out, and they disconnected.
"Wince? Wince. Wince!" Bo screamed, even though he already knew what had happened.
He checked his oxygen levels and saw he had 30 minutes left. He was about to hurry to the drop pod section, but what if that wing was empty? The orbital ship was massive, and moving from section to section wasn't feasible. He'd head to the command deck, switch on auxiliary power, and seal the bridge to allow backup air supply.
Using more of his jet power, he moved as little as possible, breathing as shallowly as he could manage. He turned a corner and floated through the door into the command room, pulling the lever for auxiliary shields, then power, and redirecting the flow of recycled air into the room. He sighed in relief as the oxygen levels in his helmet increased. He looked out at the damaged open bridge window; twin dreadnoughts stared back at him, a sea of dead drones littering open space. He spotted the body of the vice officer floating lifelessly and took it by the neck.
He opened the map of the ship. The consoles were fried but mostly intact. Bo scanned for available ships on deck and found none—only a few supply drop pods and even fewer drop ships were operational. He decided to shut down all bridge functions and prepared to resign himself to go planet-side and join the ongoing battle. He checked the planetary scan on the surrounding bodies of planets and found that someone had already done that.
There were four terrestrial bodies, three moons, which itself orbited a massivr gas giant estimated to be five to ten times the mass of Jupiter.
It would crush Bo if he attempted to land there. Thankfully, his target was the largest moon, which held 3x Earth gravity—habitable, according to the computer, with a human compatibility index of about 63%.
Common sense says otherwise, but the numbers told a different story.
Satisfied, he shut down all functions except for the auxiliary power and sent out a distress beacon for the people of Gaia to come for them. The Shooting Star was probably dead in the water as well, but surviving planet-side was another matter.
If there was one thing he was grateful for regarding Gaian tech heads, it was the built-in habit of implementing backup power sources into everything electrical. Lune forbid they have no lights if they can help it. He guided himself through pitch-black corridors, cutting past with a flashlight. Bo took a double take at a supply pod door, which opened at his thought, and he punched in the code for it to link in after his pod made landfall before moving on.
Finally making his way to his designated pod, he climbed into the open hatch and slotted himself into the narrow, padded interior—a dark coffin of black steel and dull ballistic glass lit by a small red LED strip. The hatch closed with a final hiss, and now oxygen filled the air. Taking off his helmet, he replaced it with a gag mask. The tube slid between his teeth down his throat, and Bo bit down hard on the guard.
Knowing himself, Bo understood he needed it.
He holstered his guns to storage behind his "seat," a term used loosely since he would have to stand against it for descent. Strapping himself into the seat, he was ready; the countdown began from a calm, feminine voice that did little to ease his nerves.
[10... 9... 8...]
He took deep breaths as the familiar claustrophobia crept in.
[5... 4... 3...]
Bo looked up at the hatch; he couldn't look down—not yet. He closed his eyes, hearing the machinery hum, whir, and click into place. Bo braced against his seat and—
[1... EJECT.]
The deep ink swallowed him whole—cold, dark, too vast to care, too vast to know he ever existed.
When Bo opened his eyes again, he looked out the framed ballistic window. Points of light pierced through the void, entering his vision. He saw the carcasses of floating drones, ships, and mechs drifting in space, alongside the somber shadow of the orbital fortress he was leaving behind.
The pod adjusted its thrusters, auto-calculating the angle for entry as it prepared to land among the other pods, settling to hit one of the continents in the lower hemisphere.
50,000 kilometers across and 30,000 kilometers tall, the ship shrank slowly in his descent.
Reluctantly looking down, he beheld the moon he was dropping toward a world of deep blue that surprised him. Continents, oceans, and clouds stretched below him. One particular continent was covered in a frozen grey ripple, resembling an impact crater. Where most pods and ships landed. He reeled in his expectations in; there was definitely a twist to this world, and whatever it was, he needed to be prepared.