REYNARD CLICKS SWITCHES above his head on the canopy controls to complete his pre-flight check. “Some of these controls aren’t placed for efficient reach if you’re Osirian.”

“It’s a universal design designated by UCP regulations,” Chelsie defends.

Scott’s voice crackles over the comm, “Regulation placed by people never seeing combat.”

Reynard tugs at his shoulder harness. “Open bay doors.”

Blue haze covers the cargo bay hatch. The landing ramp drops away as the bomb bay door section lowers.

Reynard flicks the thrusters on before pulling the release.

Clamps click open, dropping the fighter into freefall from the Dragon.

Gravity drives Reynard into the padded seat. Once sensors indicate that the sleek fighter’s clear, he flexes his gun hand, pushing forward on the joystick controller and plummeting into a near ninety-degree dive.

As gravity increases its tug on the craft, it shimmies.

“Commander, I recommend you pull out of the dive and level your descent. As soon as you left the protection of the Dragon’s cloaking shields, Throgen fighters locked on,” Scott warns.

“I see nothing on the sensors.”

“You must turn on your Battle Analyst Computer manually. It prevents unnecessary drain on the power cells if not needed,” Chelsie’s voice crackles in his ear.

The Dragon spoils a pilot. “This trip isn’t going to be healthy.” He suppresses how the craft’s shimmy unnerves him. “How many fighters?”

“Tracking three.” Too long a silence hangs over the comm before Scott returns. “They don’t identify like anything we’ve seen.”

Reynard draws the joystick into his lap until it pivots no farther. The craft slows, angling from the dive and leveling parallel to the surface. Tipping the controls left, he rolls the craft.

Anyone monitoring his flight pattern will speculate he’s insane. No humanoid pilot would maneuver a craft in this manner.

His eyes sink into his skull as his thoughts swim. G-forces bring him to the brink of blacking out. Used to the inertial dampeners of the Dragon, Reynard must relearn to fly a less advanced craft. He slaps his left palm against a blank spot on the wall panel. Warmth engulfs his hand. The stimulation prevents him from obfuscating and passing out.

Never a fan of pharmaceutical stimulus, he accepts the necessity, as Osirians aren’t meant to withstand the physical demands of such flying. He must remember to have Chelsie add more dampers to prevent gravitational effects on the pilot.

Hardarens may also have more physical resistance to gravity than he does. All he knows about them is that their hoofed feet evolved due to a rocky terrain covering much of their home planet’s surface.

As he dips below the clouds, three elongated boxes hold a triangle formation.

The Throgen fighters are flying bricks. Nothing like any winged craft he’s ever encountered.

“Target lock.” His orders go unperformed.

Shit. Smerth. Must forget profanities from Earth. They lack the punch they used to even among Osirians. Smerth’n hell, focus. Reynard flicks on the weapons system with a finger. Too many damn manual systems for a pilot to utilize during combat, and letting go of the flight controls reduces maneuverability.

Lightning bolts stream past the cockpit. The electrical discharges miss by inches.

Reynard returns fire, releasing a barrage of red plasma.

Ineffective against the brick’s armor.

They crack open. Spidery arms with crab pincers for end tips reach to lock onto the fighter.

Reynard drops under the capture crafts. They resemble the fighters they witnessed when Ki-Ton tricked them to Delnes Prime. Unlike the Mokarran, the Throgen Empire desires prisoners, but for what ghoulish purpose—I don’t want to know.

“Reynard, should we transport you out of there?” Scott’s voice fills the commlink.

“I got this.”

Firing into the central core of the expanding bricks, the crafts unleash another burst of lightning beams. One blast splinters the end of the left wing, while a second smashes the central turbine chassis of the right thruster engine.

Overheating alarms beep. Automatized warnings systematically power down the engine.

The joystick fights to escape Reynard’s right hand. He compresses his left on top of the joystick to maintain flight.

Another lightning bolt smashes into the fighter.

Nothing left now for the ship to do but crash.

It falls away from the spider fighters before they adjust course and scoop him up.

The remaining engine flares to life, speeding the descent. Reynard accepts crashing over capture.

The fighter skips like a flat stone across the liquid surface, refusing to break apart.

Water engulfs the cockpit. Ocean’s current shifts the craft. Reynard kills the thrusters. He releases the joystick—he needs both hands free to escape. The commlink shorts.

Systems power down across the fighter.

The ship slips below the surface.

Reynard yanks with every ounce of strength on the ejection handle.

Nothing.

He fondles the components around the handle. While practicing Mecat piloting, he learned there had to be an independent system to power the ejection in case the vehicle lost all energy sources.

The surface light fades. He kicks at the hatch like a mule. It remains secure.

By far this may be the stupidest choice. He draws his magnum. Poking his left index finger in his right ear, he squeezes the trigger.

Withstanding the blast, the bullet ricochets off the clear canopy durasteel, imbedding itself in a dead control panel. The tow of an underwater current jerks the ship. Reynard’s vision fills with stars after his head impacts the control panel. Struggling to recall his location, he glances at the crackling sound resonating through the cockpit. Spidering across the durasteel panel where the bullet impact originated are fissures, allowing water to drip inside.

Ocean pressures turn the drips to a trickle. Before Reynard holsters his weapon, the trickles open into a spray, coating him in bitter salt water. The fighter shifts again, dunking himself in the water. He gags as he gasps for a breath. He pounds on the glass as he sucks in the last of the breathable air. His lungs burn. His mind informs him he must release the poison air in order to draw in fresh. Reynard knows there is no air, but his automatic circulation system runs on its preprogrammed design. He forces his mouth to stay shut.

His body betrays him. He must take a breath even if it’s icy green salt. It fills his mouth. The valve at the top of his esophagus seals. With the epiglottis closed, he suffocates.