CHAPTER TWO
Skyfire Over Mars
The first blast tore past my starboard wing like a comet made of hell.
I threw the Javelin into a corkscrew dive, rolling under the incoming fire, then let loose a burst of plasma rounds. One struck home—clean hit—sending the alien fighter spinning into a bloom of blue flame.
Two more were still on us. Hunting.
Flynn looped wide on my left, dropping a flare barrage to draw their aim.
"I've got two locked on me," he called out, voice sharp through the comms. "Where's your fancy tech now, Mil?"
I grit my teeth. "Right here."
Missiles locked. Fired. Twin spears of light arced through the Martian stratosphere and slammed into one of the pursuers. Its hull cracked, stuttered, then erupted into silence and flame.
"One down," I said.
"I still have company!"
The remaining fighter was fast—too fast. It matched Flynn's every move with inhuman precision, banking and pivoting like it could read him before he acted.
Their tech wasn't just advanced. It was adaptive. Alive.
Flynn dove, skimming the upper edge of Mars' atmosphere. "I'm gonna try a hard drop!"
"No, Flynn—wait—"
But he was already in freefall.
The thin Martian sky dragged at his frame as the alien fighter gave chase, charging another burst of energy.
I dove after him, engines screaming.
"Come on, hold together..."
His ship caught a glancing blow. A flash of light, and the left wing vaporized. Systems sparked, sputtered. He was falling fast, spiraling toward the red dust.
"Flynn, eject! Now!"
Nothing.
No response.
No—not like this.
I pushed the Javelin past redline, the cockpit rattling, heat alarms shrieking. Just before Flynn's ship breached lower atmo, I caught up, inverted, and extended the tractor lock.
Lock acquired.
I pulled.
The strain screamed through my hull. But the bond held.
Flynn's wreck slowed, steadied, then burst apart as his emergency pod launched free. He was alive.
Barely.
I kept the pod tethered and swung the Javelin around in a hard arc, lining up a shot on the last alien fighter. It looped back, ready to strike.
I didn't miss.
One final burst of blue flame. Silence.
⸻
We made landfall outside Mars Base Alpha—what was left of it.
Scorched walls. Cratered defenses. Emergency crews scrambling to contain fires and patch breach points. The air smelled like melted steel and ionized death.
Flynn stumbled from the pod, smoke trailing off his flight suit. Singed, battered—but smiling.
"Still breathing," he said. "You're getting better."
I clapped his shoulder. "Next time you pull that stunt, try it somewhere that doesn't include gravity and planetary drag."
We ran for Command.
⸻
Commander Rafe stood in the center of the war room—silver hair, lean frame, presence like gravity. Holoscreens surrounded him: tactical overlays, fleet telemetry, real-time orbital data.
"You saw them?" he asked, no preamble.
Flynn nodded. "Did more than see them. We danced."
"They were scouts," I added.
Rafe's jaw clenched. "We suspected as much."
Then the alarm blared.
Red strobes. Sirens.
One of the analysts turned, pale. "Deep-space scan just hit! Sir—we've got incoming. A full armada."
The room went still.
"Visuals," Rafe snapped.
The main holoscreen flickered.
And the silence turned cold.
Hundreds of ships spilled across the void—sleek, dark silhouettes marked by pulsing blue cores. Interceptors. Carriers. Capital cruisers.
At the center: a behemoth.
A dreadnought so massive it occluded the stars behind it. Angular. Ancient. Wreathed in spires of weaponry the size of cities. It radiated power. Precision. Purpose.
Built to end civilizations.
Flynn exhaled, voice barely a whisper. "Oh my god."
"They'll reach Earth in forty-eight hours," the analyst said. "Less, if they use slipspace. Based on spread formation... this is a full invasion force."
Rafe turned to us. "The ships you fought? Recon units. Expendable. What's coming—isn't."
A weight dropped in my gut.
Earth wasn't ready.
Not alone.
"We need to get back," I said. "Help coordinate planetary defense. Moon bases, orbital rings—if they hit hard, those'll be the first to fall."
Rafe nodded. "I'll clear a jump window. You'll take the Griffin-class prototype. Fast, armed, stealth-capable."
Flynn gave me a look. "Even with both of us, Mil—we'll need more."
He was right.
We needed her.
I opened a secure channel.
My fingers hovered for a second over the console.
Then I keyed in the name: Elara Vale.
Earth's best pilot. Black-ops commander. Vanished five years ago after a classified mission on Europa went dark.
No one had heard from her since.
I didn't know if she'd even answer.
But if she did—
We'd have a fighting chance.