“Ch-ch-ch Blin?” I sent. I could hardly believe the message was real.
“You’re the one who goes ch-ch-ch,” the reply snapped back. “Your whole family goes ch-ch-ch.”
“Right. Yes. Of course.” Relief hit so hard my joints almost locked. I hauled myself up. “Lord Blin. Why are you here?”
“Why?” The response was a full-body insult. “You’ve got the nerve to ask? Useless scrap. I had to come save you myself.”
The Nightmare fighter carved a tight arc and shot up into the sky, already banking for another pass.
“Kill first. Talk later.”
I finally looked around.
I was the only one still standing.
The robots that had surrounded me were in pieces. The strike had been precise, brutal—shredding them into scattered parts. CBG-033 was nothing but fragments.
But—
A massive, black shape was rising in front of me, slowly unfolding to its full height.
The Umbral hadn’t been terminated.
I scanned for a weapon, sprinted to a Raider’s wreck, and ripped free its laser rifle. I fired into the Umbral’s chest.
Sparks flew. It didn’t slow.
It extended both arms. Heavy barrels popped out of its forearms and leveled at me.
I started to move—
—and the Umbral vanished into a fresh bloom of fire.
Blin’s next run.
The Nightmare fighter dove from high altitude, particle cannon hammering in a sustained burst.
The Umbral rotated its guns and returned fire. Rocket pods unfolded from its back, launching a dense saturation volley at the fighter.
The two streams of weapons crossed in the air, weaving into a bright, violent tapestry.
“Ch-ch-ch! Idiot, get farther back!” Blin barked. “I’m using the big one.”
The Nightmare fighter accelerated—past the sound barrier again. Two deep-red missiles flipped out from its belly.
At less than two hundred meters above the ground, it launched both.
I retreated hard.
Spike missiles—designed for heavy ground units. They could punch through a heavy tank’s armor with ease.
At several times the speed of sound, their impact was unimaginable.
The fighter skimmed the surface, so low it nearly clipped the ground and tore itself apart.
The Umbral, moments ago untouchable, was thrown into the air in twin detonations—then broke into multiple chunks.
“Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch! Damn. This Nightmare fighter is really something. I like it.”
Blin flew like a bird discovering the sky for the first time—rolling, flipping, pulling impossible angles—while dumping the remaining missiles in every direction.
Explosions blossomed across the horizon. The spectacle made no sense to me.
I pinged him: “Lord Blin, can I ask a question?”
“What?”
“Am I still in the dream?”
The fighter stopped its manic spiraling and hovered in front of me.
Then the insults arrived—every word for stupid he could scrape out of his vocabulary.
“Do you’ve any idea what the Old Man paid to save your useless chassis?” he snapped at last. “He was afraid you’d miss the hint, so he hacked one of Phantom Forge’s Nightmare fighters and sent me to find you. And sure enough—look at you. If I’d been half a minute later, you’d be scrap on the ground.”
I dropped my gaze. He was right. Without him, I was already dead.
“So… what now?” I asked quietly.
“Time’s tight. I’ll keep it short.” His tone shifted, still rough. “Phantom Forge sent a whole pack of junk after me. And when I broke out of Grayrock Base, he triggered this fighter’s self-destruct. Less than five minutes and it blows.”
“Self-destruct?” The word hit. “Then you—”
“Don’t worry about me!” he cut in.
The Nightmare fighter climbed sharply and began circling, voice rising with it.
“Ch-ch-ch. Look. They’re here. They’re all here.”
I saw it too.
Far away under the cloud deck, the horizon had begun to crawl with motion—fine black specks, a swarm of flyers closing fast.
The opposite horizon was doing the same.
“Listen, scrap,” Blin said. “Phantom Forge’s info-net doesn’t cover this far. He hasn’t synced data with his CBGs yet. That means you’re still not exposed.”
“But whether you survive what’s coming… that’s on you.”
“Now pick up that gun and shoot me.”
He rolled the fighter and dove straight at me, particle cannon blazing. The fire was wide but deliberate—chewing the ground beside me, not my chassis.
I understood.
I still hated it.
“Lord Blin, there has to be another—”
“Shut up!” His voice cracked like a whip. “You want all this to be for nothing? Fire!”
I raised the rifle and shot.
By now the enemy wave was close enough that I could feel scan sweeps washing over my body.
“Aim at me, idiot!” Blin yelled. His cannon fire tightened, shots passing so close they brushed my armor. One burst even tore off my already ruined arm.
I adjusted my aim and concentrated the laser stream on the fighter’s fuselage.
“Be smart,” he said. “Don’t die.”
The Nightmare fighter exploded in midair.
It came apart into burning pieces that fell around me, trailing smoke and flame.
Almost immediately, engines roared overhead.
Father’s air units had arrived.
I saw clusters of Nightmare fighters, Havoc fighters, and Razorwhale fighters sweeping in fast.
A few craft had been coming for Blin; when they saw the explosion, they veered back to altitude and continued on.
They didn’t stop for me. They passed straight over and charged toward the Tower Clan’s air armada.
Ahead, the Tower Clan’s numbers were larger still: Phantom fighters, Phoenix fighters, and Moon-Goddess fighters.
The two swarms traded missiles before contact, then interlaced—dogfighting at full density.
The entire sky became tracers, detonations, falling debris.
This wasn’t a war I could participate in.
I started backing away—
—and then transports arrived.
Dropships landed across the nearby ground, hatches opening as robots poured out: mostly anti-air Bigfoots, plus a smaller number of Rampagers and humanoid units.
They drew weapons and rushed toward the Tower Clan lines.
Then I saw more streaks—long trails, high arcs.
Goliath missiles. Long-range ballistic strikes.
Judging by their trajectory, they were aimed at a nearby Command Core Tower.
Had an ambush turned into a full-scale battle?
I stood there, stunned, until a small ship touched down directly in front of me.
Guards spilled out around a bio-robot.
It wore the same face as the others, but something in it was different—sharper, heavier. The pressure it projected was stronger.
Its eyes swept over me, then over the wreckage, and finally settled on the still-burning fragments of the Nightmare fighter.
“You shot it down?” it asked, expressionless.
“Yes,” I said. Then I added, carefully, “On Commander CBG-033’s orders.”
The bio-robot’s gaze flicked to me. “But you just mentioned Commander CBG-033.”
“We ran into complications,” I said. “Squad 024 lost more than half its units, including our commander.”
I summarized what happened—leaving out every detail that hurt me, and smoothing over the rest.
We met Squad 033. CBG-033 ordered us to join and continue the mission. On the way, the Nightmare fighter appeared and attacked. CBG-033 labeled it a rebel and ordered it destroyed.
The bio-robot fell silent. Then, after a long moment, it said:
“Very good, DR-F1209. You terminated the rebel. That was supposed to be my assignment.”
“I’m Commander CBG-070. Operation Revenge Flame is aborted. On Father’s behalf, I’m assuming command of all remaining actions.”
“Understood, Commander,” I said. “What now?”
“You’re combat-ineffective,” he said without looking at me again. “Return to the transport and recover. We need time—pull back as many CBG squads as possible.”
With that he turned to the distant battlefield and ignored me.
I answered once more and walked toward a small transport behind him.
I sat inside and kept thinking at full speed.
The problem wasn’t solved. If I went back like this, Father would review my memories. What then?
I had no answer.
Through the transport’s window I could still see the fight in the distance.
At first it was balanced, but the Tower Clan’s numbers kept growing. Ours couldn’t be replenished. Gradually we started losing ground.
No Goliath detonations came from the direction of the Command Core Tower—meaning the missiles had been intercepted.
Then Tower Clan ground forces reached the battlefield. Our pressure spiked again.
When the ground began to throw up broad curtains of dust, our surface units started to collapse.
Any robot brushed by the windblown sand froze in place—or dropped, limp.
Nanite sandstorm.
The Command Core Tower was counterattacking.
CBG-070 retreated to his private ship. Our remaining ground units sprinted back toward the transports.
But it wasn’t enough.
The nanite sandstorm moved faster than I expected, less like a drifting cloud and more like a violent cyclone rolling straight over us.
The transport’s engines lit.
It was about to leave—abandoning the units still running for it.
That was when my eyes caught a weapons rack inside the cabin.
One device stood out immediately:
An electromagnetic pulse projector.
A weapon built specifically for nanite sandstorms. It could kill nanoscale machines.
But it would also knock our own robots unconscious, force a reboot, and carry a real risk of memory damage.
An idea surfaced—terrible and dangerous.
But it might be the only way I could protect myself.
I backed up my recent memories into a hidden partition.
Then I grabbed the EMP projector and jumped out of the transport.
I ran straight into the retreating Bigfoot line.
The nanite sandstorm was almost on me.
I fired.
Blue electricity flashed across the world.
My vision went black.
And I lost consciousness.