The milky, solid whiteness of the cloud grew hazier towards lower altitudes, until the planet abruptly appeared underneath, almost surprisingly close. The shadows of sleek planes fell in a spearhead formation on a gently undulating plain that was roughly rectangular in shape, surrounded by a ragged mountain range. Here and there the reddish ground was mottled with blue and green in a typically haphazard pattern.
In the distance the outline of a city could be seen, its lights glittering with the warmth that radiated from the surface heated by double suns. The planes ignored the city: they were headed towards a more distant beacon, homing devices locked on a signal they picked up from an as yet invisible source.
Pilot SC-077M of the Ziroshel Union heard a sigh in his earphones, then the quiet voice of his group mate SC-082F: "There is something along that line of mountains, 077. I cannot say for certain, but it looks like a group of outdated aircraft."
"I will check that, 082," 077 replied and zoomed his radar on the indicated area. Yes, they were aircraft. 077 alerted his group.
"They are approaching fast," said the hoarse voice of 079M.
"Procedure 23," 077 stated. "Take positions."
Like pieces in a clockwork, the planes shifted and changed formation.
"Blast it!" Osip corrected the mouthpiece of his comm. "They spotted us already. Keep an eye on them."
"What did you expect, O Illustrious Leader?" Right, one could always count on Wilson to provide the sarcasm. "Those guys have every piece of equipment you could ever hope for, and probably quite a lot of thingies that we can't even dream about..."
"Enough of the lecture," Fargey interrupted from ground control. "They're in attack formation but not speeding up yet."
"Distance ten-fifty-seven, closing in. Guys, this is our chance!" Osip announced. "Here goes!"
"Speed up now!" 077 barked. "A-wing to combat. C-wing standby. Fire at fifteen."
The beautiful formation of the Union planes split up.
"Get them!" shouted several voices in unison from the ground. "You're there just perfect!"
The excited murmur broke into a wild yell of delight when the enormous screen flashed with a bright red spark and the cold numbers read: "Unidentified; 1 destroyed."
"SC-082F destroyed," blinked the screen in front of 077. Immediately her place was taken by 069M so that the formation was not broken for more than a fraction of a second. "SC-070F destroyed… SC-069M destroyed… SC-079M seriously damaged."
"I simply don't believe it," Arria kept repeating as he stared at the screen with incredulous eyes. "We've already outnumbered them! And those are the new type, too."
"It's got to be the gravity," Lindell said. "You just said yourself that those beauties look unfamiliar, different even from the other new type planes we've seen before. Perhaps they aren't perfectly attuned to it, or something?"
"Couldn't it be that our guys, just for once, are simply better?" Arria asked wryly. "Good god Osip! Are you still there?"
"Yeah... but I'm coming home right now." The line wasn't quite steady. "My lady here got hit on the tail, though not too badly. I'll endanger the others if I stay here."
"I'll take the lead," Percy volunteered. "Hey, good shot! Here we go!"
He plunged towards the Union aircraft firing with gleeful abandon.
The incredible result of the battle became clearer by the moment. For once, foolhardy determination got the better of sheer cold logic, and the outcome was ultimately sealed by the Union pilots' apparent inability to understand what 'fleeing for one's life' meant. One by one their planes, shiny and usually so deadly weapons, were turned into lethal traps for their own pilots. They met Jainah's red soil in a blinding explosion, or rained down in a million tiny shards, or wobbled into a halt in flames and set the occasional thickets of grass in fire. But none of them retreated.
Pilot SC-077M saw the destruction of the fleet and felt something like remorse for having failed in the task assigned to him. He and his mates had failed the Union. Of course the masters would soon enough send other groups to complete the mission, but nevertheless the failure caused an unpleasant feeling inside him. Well, even if he were left all alone, he would still fulfil his purpose by destroying as many of the enemy as he could.
Before long he was alone.
"SC-077M, you are the sole survivor," the computer announced.
He knew it meant that now his destruction was only a matter of seconds, or perhaps minutes, since he was the most capable pilot in the fleet. He followed one of the enemy planes, leeched so close to it that he knew he was safe from hostile fire. It was such a strange notion, that the enemy would not harm each other, even when given little choice, but once again it was proven true: from that position he managed to shoot down another three planes without receiving a single scratch.
Then, all of a sudden, the plane he had been following dove down at such an unexpected angle that SC-077M was taken by surprise. Even his honed reflexes required a few ticks to take in the situation, and during those ticks his computer gave an alarm. The plane was hit. All power went out and everything turned black.
Arria gave a deep sigh and turned his back on the screen.
"It's over," he said closing his eyes.
"Not a minute too early," Osip growled and grimaced when he put some weight on his injured leg. "Is the ward very busy at the moment?"
"Not too busy to see you." Arria looked at his fellow Commander and shook his head. "You're too stubborn for your own good. Get there now, before I'll kick you! And don't worry about the trash patrols, I bet they're on their way even as we speak. They'll reach the scene long before any Union troops get there, should those guys go out of their way for once and actually show some interest in their lost property."
"Okay, okay, I'm going!" Osip leaned heavily on the doorjamb for a second, pulled himself up and gave Arria a reassuring smile over his shoulder. "There's just so much promising loot out there that even I am positively drooling..."
"Remember to wipe the floor." Arria's worried gaze followed Osip until the tall man disappeared into the corridor, then he turned to a comm. "Trash patrols, are you out yet?"
"Three units out, another two leaving in ten minutes." Fonzo's voice was tinny but cheerful. "We're ready to go as soon as Lancer ahh, there he comes now!"
"OK, comb it!" Arria grinned. "And remember, be on your guard. We'll keep close watch over the area and will report any suspicious activity."
"Roger that, Base!"
The battered trashwagon, looking distinctly like a self-satisfied wombat, seemed to be chuckling to itself as it inched its way teetering and swaying down the mountainside. Its five-man crew was almost as cheerful. Corinn concentrated on negotiating the bumps and ditches of the terrain and left the bargaining about their search sector to Fonzo.
The detectors hummed expectantly. This time the ground was literally littered with salvageable material, and promising spots seemed to be everywhere. If Lancer hadn't been wary of unnecessarily hitting his head on the ceiling, he would probably have been bouncing in Fonzo's lap. He never managed to leave the adrenaline rush of the battle inside the tiny control room of the AD gun, and was once again feeling almost hyperactive. It took a real effort to stay tolerably still inside the cramped space.
At last they reached their assigned area and, after a quick scan of the terrain, burst into howls of delight. A brief battle ended in Merez' defeat, and he was left to keep guard over the wagon while the others began scavenging. When one patch was clear, they moved the wagon a few hundred meters and continued stuffing the rapidly filling holds with loot.
"Flotsam and jetsam, scraps'n' bits'n' pieces..." Corinn expertly wielded a small sensor to make sure the pile of burnt metal in front of him did not radiate too badly, then proceeded to sieve valuables from it. "Whoa look! A real gun, and methinks it works."
"There's something real big in the middle of those trees," shouted Baris from inside the vehicle. "We'd better have a look."
Lancer abandoned the mass of torn metal sheets he'd been poking at, and ran to the vehicle. "Mark this spot, Baris, there's a lot of metal but it's too heavy for this one. Glynn and his guys have to come back with the grabber."
Despite the swaying vehicle, Baris managed to stay upright and hit the right keys on the handheld marking device until Corinn's wild yell nearly knocked him off his feet.
"Hey, it's an aircraft! And it looks whole!" Corinn stepped on the brakes and the wagon stuttered into a standstill. For a while they stared at the dully glimmering spectacle, then Merez cautiously pushed the hatch open. "Damn... the cockpit's intact."
"Yeah, and that means the pilot just might be intact, too." Fonzo frowned when Lancer stood up and checked his gun. "What're you up to?"
"I'll go check it." Lancer climbed out.
"Are you out of your mind?!" Baris grabbed his ankle. Lancer glared steel-green daggers at him.
"I'm the smallest, the hardest to spot, and the best shot."
"Can't say much to that."
Baris let go and held his breath with the others while Lancer slipped out and began a careful approach, gun ready. There was no sign of life, no movement even when he crept spider-like upwards along the smoothly curving, treacherously sleek side, slender limbs stretching for anything to grab. Finally he got a good foothold on one wing and glanced in, then turned towards his companions and waved.
"Dead?" Corinn asked hopefully.
"Probably…" Lancer struggled with the lock mechanism. "Doesn't look badly hurt but he seems to be out cold damn! What do you say to this?" He shot twice at the lock, then hit it hard, and the hood opened with a reluctant croak.
Lancer bent closer and his eyes widened. Incredulously he reached down to feel the pale neck and gasped.
"Holy smoke! He's alive!"
"Alive?" echoed the others. "Can't be!"
"Are you sure?" Merez asked doubtfully. "I mean, nobody's ever even seen the pilots of this type of aircraft. They're never taken alive!"
"Well, if he's not dead yet hadn't you better finish him off?" suggested Fonzo. "I've been looking at the plane, see. Look at the side aren't those the numbers they use? And if I read them correctly, they are 0-7-7."
"Yeah, what about that?" Corinn was sitting on top of the trashwagon, itching to join the others but dutifully staying by the vehicle.
"Well, isn't that the one that followed Maschani? The last one that Lancer shot down himself?"
"Oh yes, that devil! You'd better finish the job now, Lancer!"
Lancer sat on the side of the cockpit and peered down at the silent figure. Very slowly he lifted his gun, then swallowed down the surge of nausea and let the gun drop once more on his thigh. I'm no killer.
He shook his head. "No. We'll take him to the base."
"What? Are you nuts? What for? What do you think he'll do when he's back to his senses again? Isn't he one of those clones?"
"Yes!" Lancer shouted, suddenly furious. "I know bloody well that our intelligence says this type of planes are labeled 'SC', and that they are known to be piloted by clones! But look here I'm really curious. So nobody's ever caught a clone, dead or alive, right? Well, now we have the chance to do just that! Isn't this the ideal opportunity? He can't do anything right now, he's easy to handle, he's harmless."
"You're right," Fonzo replied grudgingly. "But how are we going to transport him? And what if he wakes up on the way?"
"We could put him in the small hold and leave one half of the flap door open," Merez suggested.
"Yeah, and I'll stay by his side with a gun on his temple just in case he comes round too early." Lancer tugged his gun back into its holster and glanced appraisingly down at his booty. Corinn grinned.
"Let the kid have his way."
The cockpit was definitely designed for a single pilot only. Lancer squeezed his upper body in, fumbled the seatbelts open and removed the pilot's gun. He secured them and threw them down, to Fonzo's immense delight, then dove in again.
The pilot was not large, but pulling a completely limp body out of an anatomically shaped and rather too perfectly fitting seat proved very tricky. Millimeter by millimeter Lancer persuaded the slim limbs outwards, then hoisted himself to the side of the cockpit to gulp some air into his lungs.
"Give me a hand, someone," he panted. "He ain't heavy, but he's not lifting a finger to help, either."
"Coming, babe!" The twins joined him on top of the aircraft, and with three pairs of hands they finally succeeded in extracting the pilot.
"So this is supposed to be a clone, right?" Fonzo said as they carefully lowered the inert figure on the ground. "Looks like he's been fed only just enough to keep him alive or whatever."
"Believe me, I am grateful!" Lancer wiped sweat from his face and knelt down next to the clone. "Let's see if there's any visible damage."
The men stared as Lancer gently turned the dark-haired head. They were looking at a young man, maybe from eighteen to twenty years, with neatly clipped black-brown hair and fair skin. He looked like he was in deep sleep, dark eyelashes shadowing a pale cheek. His slender build and very trim, lean figure, together with the uniform made of some material with a metallic sheen, made him look slightly unnerving. The facial features were symmetrical, smooth, pleasant, regular scarily so.
"Holy shit," Merez sighed in awe. "He looks human, and yet somehow not."
"No, there's something unnatural about him," Baris agreed. "But I can understand you, Lancer. I mean, I couldn't just shoot him in the head like this... even though he looks so impersonal."
"But what a beauty he is." Fonzo slapped Lancer on the shoulder. "OK, Lancer baby, I can see why you didn't want to blast that head into oblivion!"
Lancer, to his own surprise and dismay, blushed heavily and for the umpteenth time had reason to curse his fair complexion. Baris laughed, eyes twinkling.
"Come on," he teased, "there's really nothing wrong in liking his looks. You'd better remember, though, that your pet's of the more dangerous kind. I don't think you'll have much of a chance with him!"
"Don't be stupid!" Lancer hissed in confusion. "Hey, shouldn't we leave this wreck to Glynn's crew and head back to base right now? There might even be a chance you'll make it fly again, if we don't start plundering it."
"Yeah, let's only plunder this pilot!" Fonzo laughed. "Corinn, will you get the wagon closer?"
"Yes sir!" Corinn maneuvered the vehicle next to the downed Union plane and then popped up from the hatch like a cork, grinning broadly. "But seriously, Fonzo, I'd advise you to keep your greedy hands off of this pretty boy. After all, he's Lancer's catch!"
"You want me to drop him now?" Fonzo glared up at his friend, the dark-haired clone scooped in his arms. "No? I thought so."
Gingerly he placed the pilot inside the hold and arranged tarpaulins around him to keep him from rolling around. Lancer crawled in, too, and squatted close to the clone's head, gun in hand.
"Are you sure you'll be OK there?" Corinn asked incredulously. "It's awfully cramped."
"I'll survive," Lancer assured. "And I'll keep my comm handy, just in case things get too bumpy or something."
The others nodded and climbed into the vehicle. Lancer made sure his gun was secured; he sure as hell didn't want it to accidentally go off inside the hold. Then he looked up through the partly open flap. He'd always never had any trouble being inside the vehicle, but the confined space and sparse air were another matter and he didn't want to start feeling sick now.
Resolutely he focused his gaze on the clone. Such a young man, not much more than a boy, maybe about the same age as Lancer himself. Yes, he was a little too symmetrical to look fully human and the extreme slimness only enhanced the impression. Lancer's grip of the gun tightened when the head turned a little, then he reached out to push the tarpaulin closer when the wagon tilted even more. Was the clone really alive? The skin was cool to touch but the pulse was steady and determined.
Lancer sighed and tried to find a more comfortable position. Even if his legs cramped, he'd be damned before using the comm for whining! They were really not that far from the base, he reasoned with himself. Not far at all. Only a few miles to go, uphill, in rocky and forested and generally tricky terrain. No problem. He could take it. He could.
