The FMG-4500X moved on two massive triangular treads, able to walk or drive like a vehicle. Its two arms weren’t even symmetrical: one ended in a wheel-shaped bucket excavator that could chew through an entire mountainside; the other was a huge mechanical claw used for hauling ore, strong enough to crush a fighter-sized object into scrap with a casual squeeze.
It bulldozed through the fighters in its way and charged straight for us, the row of high-powered spotlights on its head locking onto us like a firing solution.
“I’ll handle that monster. You fly the assault craft!” I snapped, sliding my half-helmet targeting rig back over my optics.
“Got it!” Dorian-2 shouted.
The engines howled. The assault craft slid toward the central lane.
I swung the rotary cannons onto the mechanical behemoth and, despite the savage incoming fire, concentrated on its head. Spotlights shattered one after another. The stupid, blunt skull sparked under the impacts. That only enraged it. It raised an arm to shield its head, snatched up a Razorwhale fighter, and hurled it at us.
The assault craft hit the turn at the perfect moment and barely slipped past. Seconds later the thrown fighter detonated. The blast didn’t hurt us, but the smoke spilled across the bay and made the attacks from behind far messier.
We kept accelerating down the central lane. By the time the FMG-4500X emerged from the haze, we were already thirty meters away.
Phantom Forge caught on. Fighters ahead of us began converging toward the middle.
“They’re trying to block us!” Dorian-2 yelled, panicked.
“More speed,” I said. “Punch through!”
The assault craft’s sword-like prow was built for ramming. Dorian-2 kept pushing. All four engines flared at once, the craft skimming the deck, nose lifting as it plowed into the fighter cluster.
Metal screamed. We were too low; we ran over the tops of fighters like a battering ram. Then we hit something we never saw. The craft bucked upward, slammed the ceiling, and bounced back to the deck.
Sparks sprayed everywhere. We kept colliding, our speed bleeding off under the sheer mass of bodies in our way. The only reason we didn’t get trapped was the wedge-nose and the raw brutality of our engines.
The FMG-4500X used the slowdown to close the gap again. Its bucket-wheel spun up, whirling as it ran. Fighters that got caught in the scoops vanished instantly; when they came out the other side they were nothing but mangled clumps of metal.
As our speed dropped, the bucket-wheel crept closer. I rotated the cannons and hammered it, but the rounds did nothing. Then I spotted loosened armor at the arm joint and shifted fire.
The bullets drew two steady lines of flame right into that seam. Armor tore away. The stream punched into its hydraulics. But the bucket-wheel was already kissing our exhaust plumes.
It didn’t care. It was trying to rip us apart before its arm failed. The monster extended the arm and kept accelerating.
Three meters.
Two.
One.
At half a meter, my fire finally won. The joint gave.
BANG!
The bucket-wheel tore free and crashed onto the deck with a thunderous impact, momentum driving it deep into the steel plating. The FMG-4500X couldn’t brake in time; it tripped over its own tool and went down hard.
The entire hangar shuddered. Fighters jumped on their landing gear. The machine still refused to accept reality. It stretched out its claw-arm toward us, but it was too late. This time it didn’t even touch our exhaust.
It fought to rise, but the bucket-wheel arm had jammed into its treads. It was stuck, forced to watch us escape.
“We should’ve taken that thing over,” Dorian-2 said, still rattled. “The mission would be way easier.”
“Yeah. If I could hijack it, I’d just dismantle the Hope,” I said, swiveling the cannons forward. “Eyes up. We’re taking the turn.”
The Hope’s hangar-and-catapult system spread out like a perfectly manicured canopy. The “trunk” was the catapult lane leading out into space; the “branches” were the hangars feeding into it. The hangar we’d stolen from was only one of many.
A carrier setup like this could house around two thousand fighters. And the Hope had two mirrored systems, port and starboard. That told you everything about the scale of the ship.
We were close to the end now. The hangar terminated in a forty-five-degree bend. Past that bend was the EM catapult bay.
The fighters ahead were still converging and firing. A last, stubborn attempt to hold us. It wasn’t organized anymore. I returned fire while Dorian-2 drove like a lunatic, and we broke through by sheer violence.
At last we burst into the catapult bay, dragging several light fighters along with us. We hit the far bulkhead at speed, blowing a huge fan of sparks across the tunnel.
The catapult bay was a broad conduit: four straight launch rails running to the outer doors. Ahead of us there was nothing left but a single gate at the far end.
“Is this how you always fight?” Dorian-2 blurted, half terrified, half thrilled. “I’ve never been through anything like this! Lord Wyatt, I’m starting to believe it. I think we can actually pull this off.”
“We’ve to,” I said. “Don’t relax. The real show’s just starting. Now -”
The alarms cut me off.
Dorian-2’s voice went sharp. “We’re missile-locked! A lot of them! How is that possible – we’re still inside the catapult bay!”
I flipped my view through the holographic rig and looked back. The space behind us was pure darkness. I switched modes.
Two neat rows of Nightmare fighters were hiding in the black. Their concealed missile racks were already open, aimed directly down the bay at us.
“Phantom Forge’s done pretending collateral matters,” I said.
“What do we do?” Dorian-2 cried. “We don’t have decoys!”
“Same answer as before. You keep punching out. I’ll handle the rest.”
I tore off the holographic rig and sprinted into the crew bay.
“Okay!” Dorian-2 shouted.
The assault craft surged forward.
The next instant the alarm changed pitch – faster, uglier.
“Missiles away!” Dorian-2 screamed.
“Full speed – get us out!” I screamed back.
I snatched up the electromagnetic pulse launcher I’d collected earlier, flipped open the top hatch, leaned out, and fired a single EMP round.
A blue sphere webbed with arcing electricity bloomed behind us, swallowing the incoming missiles. Every missile carried electronics. They all shorted out at once. Without guidance they stopped correcting and started tumbling off into bad trajectories.
We were too close. The EMP’s backwash hit me as well. I clenched down on the chaos in my head and roared at Dorian-2.
“Go. Go. GO!”
One hit would still mean termination.
BOOM!
A missile must have struck the deck or the ceiling.
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM -!
The secondary blasts chained together, and the catapult bay disappeared inside a wall of fire.
Including us.