Chapter 14 - Let Me Show You How I Fly

  One Month Later

  A planet for every man. He’d told his mother that once. Hell, even the Governor of his world had said that if he could pull it off, they’d build him a damn statue.

  Henryk stood with his arms crossed, his back straight, gaze fixed on the Sons of Mars' main transport ship. Bea had done a hell of a job fixing it up after the escape from Oceana. It was spaceworthy again, patched together with Martian ingenuity and sheer necessity.

  He told himself he could do this. Just one more battle. One more day. But he hadn’t been sleeping.

  “Good to see you,” Arthur’s voice cut through the stillness. He moved effortlessly in zero-G, propelling himself along the wall with practiced ease, drifting toward Henryk. They were in the hangar—a small, cramped space housing their mechs. Beyond that lay the engines and armory, and ahead, the cockpit and sleeping quarters.

  “It’s late,” Henryk said. “What are you guys doing up?”

  Arthur snorted, grabbing a railing to steady himself as he stared out at the endless sprawl of stars. “It’s different, seeing space like this. Strange.”

  Henryk studied him. “I’ve been on space travel missions before this, but I can’t imagine what it’s like for you.”

  Arthur was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled faintly. “Feels right. Feels like I finally understand what my father and brother lived for. Knights of Mars.” His voice carried a quiet reverence. “It’s our birthright. Yours too, now.”

  Henryk hesitated. “I—”

  Arthur clapped a hand on his shoulder, cutting him off. “Josephs has been educating me with old Earth films. From the 21st century.”

  Henryk smirked. “Yeah, I remember you mentioning that. You got a favorite yet?”

  “The Lord of the Rings,” Arthur said without hesitation.

  Henryk made a face. “That’s…not surprising.”

  Arthur raised a brow. “Should it be? It’s a tale of brotherhood and honor—everything we, as knights, are supposed to uphold.” His expression darkened. “Chivalry too. But you haven’t been properly schooled in the ways of Chivalry, have you, Squire Henryk?”

  Henryk shook his head.

  Arthur sighed. “There will come a time. But if you stick with us, it’s vital you learn. Senior members—Truebloods—have been patient with you and the other squires, but ignorance of our ways will only take you so far.” His eyes narrowed. “Abandoning who you once were, embracing a higher calling—that’s the path to absolution. Medieval life was brutal, but it forged warriors who could endure anything. You’re already strong for baseline stock. If you survive, if you prove yourself, one day you’ll bear the Spikes of Mars, like Kieren before you. But first, you must be knighted.”

  Henryk said nothing, but Arthur seemed content to let his words sink in. What unsettled Henryk the most wasn’t the talk of trials or knighthood. It was the word baseline.

  “Yo, guys.” A voice rang out from across the hangar. Isaac. He propelled himself toward them with a casual grace. “We’re meeting in the living quarters. Ed wants to brief everyone before he crashes for the night.”

  Henryk exhaled slowly. One more mission. One more battle.

  He could do this.

  Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

  Henryk and Arthur nodded in unison, propelling themselves forward in the zero-G hallway. Henryk’s gaze flicked toward his mech as he reached for the railings, using them to adjust his trajectory. He threw himself forward, gliding effortlessly through the dimly lit passage.

  Oceana 4… or was it 2? Hell, he could barely remember. The others would chew him out for that—military types never forgot details like that.

  His mech had once been a dull, weathered mix of blues, whites, and grays. Standard issue. But some of the others had started personalizing theirs. Arthur, ever the showman, had gone full war-paint—his machine now a bold crimson, the mark of the Red Templars. Foolish. Flashy. It’d make him a goddamn target.

  Henryk had gone the opposite direction. Practical. His machine was now a slate-gray ghost, camouflaged with dark patches of black paint. The legs had been overhauled, bulkier now, reinforced with extra thrusters—rocket engines, practically.

  His beam rifle still sat snug along one of the mech’s ridges, a magazine-fed rifle and spare clips secured across his back. But the beam blades? Gone. He’d traded raw aggression for speed, stripped down unnecessary weight, reinforced only the vital plates. He wanted to be fast. He wanted to fly. Bea had even theorized that on solid ground, he’d be quick enough to hover, skimming the earth like a specter.

  It had a new name now. Martian MP-02RP Type B—Rocket Powered. The 02 marked Bea’s custom modifications, lighter and sleeker than the standard MP-01s that Axel, Isaac, and Arthur still ran. Type B—built for movement. RP—for the engines strapped to its frame. It was his machine, his way of fighting.

  They reached the living quarters.

  Inside, Edward, Axel, Isaac, and—surprisingly—Kieren were already gathered. The room was tight, just enough space for the six of them. The MP-01 models had been distributed among their pilots, each with slight variations. Their ship wasn’t big enough to carry an entire battalion, and the rest of their forces had duties elsewhere.

  Isaac leaned forward, elbows on the metal table. “Alright, we’re past orbit. What the hell are we doing back at Oceana? That place is still crawling with GrimGar.”

  Henryk and Arthur settled in as all eyes turned to Ed.

  “That’s not what this mission is about,” Ed said, his voice measured. “Sure, there are scattered pockets of GrimGar left, but Oceana II is mostly dealing with the aftermath now.”

  Henryk exhaled sharply. “Looks like goddamn World War I down there.”

  “No kidding, countryman,” Arthur muttered before turning to Ed. “But Isaac’s got a point. Why all the secrecy?”

  Ed smirked. “Didn’t want to say anything until I was sure, but the Oceana sector is buzzing. Not about Mercury. Not even about Neptune.” His eyes swept across them. “It’s about Mars.”

  The room went dead quiet.

  Axel’s violet eyes widened. “Remnants?” His voice barely above a whisper. “Actual remnants?”

  Ed nodded. “Yeah. I had Bea track down a contractor—someone with connections. We have a way in.” He paused, tapping his fingers against the cold metal of the table.

  The weight of his words settled over them.

  Mars.

  Something still remained.

  A figure flickered onto the screen. A bipedal humanoid, but unmistakably not human. Feminine in shape—curved at the bust and hips—but her skin was thick with fur, a pelt that covered her head to toe. Unlike Tyson, whose coat was dense and bristled, hers was finer, smoother, almost lupine. But it was the ears that drew the most attention, pointed and keen like a predator’s, twitching even through the static feed.

  “A mutant?” Isaac muttered, arms crossing, his expression hard. He gestured toward the screen, eyes narrowing. “We’re risking our asses for a mutant?”

  “Enough of that.” Ed’s voice snapped like a whip, cutting through the room. “That girl you’re calling a mutant? She’s the heir to the fucking throne.”

  “A woman?” Arthur scoffed, his lips curling into a smirk. He glanced around, his amusement spreading like a sickness. “We’re making women kings now?”

  Ed’s sneer was immediate, his jaw tightening, his knuckles going white where they gripped the edge of the table. A vein twitched in his forehead, like it was moments from bursting. “The nerve of you lot…” His voice dropped, low and sharp as a blade. “I don’t care if she’s a mutant. I don’t care if she’s a girl.” He glared at them all, daring them to speak. “What you will do is show up, keep your goddamn mouths shut, and show some fucking respect. This is the first real Martian contact in years, and I won’t let you idiots screw it up.”

  “Alright, alright.” Axel lifted a hand, his tone easy. “I get it, Ed. This girl—she’s important. But what’s the actual mission?”

  Ed exhaled through his nose, shaking his head before tapping the table again. The image shifted—jungle terrain, dense and green, swallowing the landscape in layers of mist and shadow. At the heart of it all sat a structure, massive and boxlike, a fortress carved into the wild.

  “This is their hideout,” Ed said. “We’re making planetfall and linking up with them.” He let the words hang, let them settle. “The Oceana sector—Mercurians and Neptunians have been fighting over the scraps, but it’s Neptune that’s got the upper hand now. They’ve declared war on the GrimGar and any bandits.” His eyes flicked over them, one by one. “And when they say ‘bandits,’ what they really mean is anyone who stands against them.”

  The realization hit, slow but heavy.

  Ed continued, his voice lighter now, almost amused. “Lucky for us, we’ve got freelancer passes to get into Neptune. One of the few perks of not being tied to a guild back at the Academy.” He let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. “All the loopholes of a mercenary without the stability of a paycheck? Sign me the fuck up.”

  Kieren raised a hand. “Should we expect resistance? If we’re just meeting this girl and we’ve got entry passes, can’t we just… walk in?”

  “Theoretically,” Ed allowed, shrugging. “But Neptune and Mars? Let’s just say they’ve never exactly been friends. And the Mercurians? They’ve still got a presence there.”

  “I thought they got pushed out?” Axel asked, frowning.

  “Yeah, so did a lot of people.” Ed leaned back. “But they’re still hanging around the planet. Probably some political bullshit. Too much blood spilled, too many dead kids—no way they’re giving up those planets without a fight.”

  Henryk rubbed his jaw. “How long till we reach the planet?”

  “Two, maybe three days,” Ed said. Then, smirking, “Which means we’ve got time for training. Both physical and Warcasket drills.” He clapped his hands together, eyes gleaming. “Hope you gents are ready for a workout.”

  Piper

  Piper cradled a cup of coffee, staring blankly at the command dash in front of her. She exhaled, the steam curling up into her face. Routine patrol duty. This is my punishment? She scoffed under her breath.

  "Ensign Piper, why the hell are your lips moving?" barked Sergeant Jesus Gomez, his voice cutting through the hum of the bridge like a whip crack. His dark eyes swept the room, pinning her in place. "I run a tight shift. If you aren’t speaking, I demand silence. And you know why..."

  Piper clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to facepalm. Under Lucas’s command, things had been different. Relaxed. She could wear whatever the hell she wanted. She’d gotten used to her pilot suit—lived in it, really. A t-shirt underneath, ready to throw on a helmet at a moment’s notice. Efficient. Practical.

  Now? She was suffocating in full ceremonial dress. Tight skirt, pressed blouse, stiff black shoes that pinched her feet. Hair pulled into a strict bun beneath her beret. If she hadn't done it herself, they would’ve just chopped it off.

  She really did miss Lucas.

  "You’ve got a lot of nerve." Gomez sneered, his voice curling with contempt. "You’re damn lucky you weren’t kicked out of your placement. Many would’ve killed for an ace role." His lip curled. "You’re just a product of fucking nepotism—all you rejects here are."

  Piper sucked in a breath through her nose, biting back a retort. She was an ace. Even if Zephyr didn’t like her.

  Her gaze flicked toward the viewport, catching a streak of movement. A ship, cutting toward Oceana, its trajectory fast and unsteady. She squinted. Something felt off.

  “Sir, we’re receiving a distress signal,” one of the officers announced from the front of the bridge.

  Piper straightened, fingers flying over the console as she expanded the feed. A holographic sphere flickered to life, enlarging the visual. The breath in the room thickened.

  “Holy shit,” someone muttered.

  Even Gomez had gone silent, his hand gripping the thick mane of black hair atop his head. His voice, when it finally came, was measured. “What colors are they flying?”

  Piper’s stomach turned. “House Mars,” she said.

  The room shifted, voices rising in murmurs and hushed curses. The shamed house.

  "What the hell are they doing here?" someone asked.

  Yet, it was unmistakable. Their transport shuttle, flames streaking along its hull, descending in a desperate arc toward the atmosphere. Below, Neptune’s forces were waiting. A net of warships curled along Oceana Prime’s orbit, like vultures circling carrion.

  And then, movement.

  A squad—no, multiple squads—detached from the Neptunian fleet. Their mechs streaked toward the transport like blades through the sky, their blue exteriors shimmering under the distant sun. Utilitarian, bristling with spikes and energy weapons. Predators, closing in.

  A voice snarled through the comms, laced with venom.

  “Die, Martian!”

  Jesus sneered. “Ensign Piper, patch me in.”

  Piper didn’t hesitate. Her fingers slammed the console. “Gladly.”

  Static cracked before a voice answered, cool and dismissive. “This is Battalion 111th of the Neptunian Forces. What are you school kids doing out here patrolling? Steer clear of—”

  Jesus cut in, sharp as a blade. “You are not authorized to conduct military action in this sector. That transport’s papers have been cleared by the Mercurian government, and you are in direct violation of—”

  The Neptunian pilot’s voice came back, boiling with rage.

  “This is not your planet,” he spat. “Even when it bore Martian colors, it was the most coveted world in the sector. And you Mercurians? You will not hold its resources.”

  The comms cut.

  Silence stretched, taut as a tripwire.

  Jesus turned, his expression carved from stone. “Ensign,” he snapped. “Take out the prototype.” His gaze swept the room. “I want three more on Piper’s side. This is an excursion.”

  Piper’s smirk flickered to life. She knew who was on that vessel.

  And she was about to make damn sure they survived.

  Moments Before

  Henryk was asleep. Chest bare, head heavy, his mind dulled to a sluggish haze.

  The only way he could sleep now.

  Then came the bang.

  A single, thunderous detonation ripped through the ship’s belly. The impact sent a shockwave through the hull, rattling metal and bone alike. Henryk lurched awake, heart pounding, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

  It was supposed to be a seamless planetfall. A routine drop, slipping in on the Mercurian side without issue. But this—this wasn’t routine. This was reckless. Even with Mars’ reputation, they wouldn’t have pulled something this bold. Were they asking for war?

  Henryk gritted his teeth. Be the warrior, Mag had told him. Accept the knight. The Sons of Mars weren’t just soldiers—they were the evolution of what humanity could be. Stronger. Sharper. Superior.

  Pain was temporary. The Spikes of Mars made sure of that.

  Arthur had cauterized his own limbs like it was nothing. Henryk had seen it firsthand. And soon, if he survived long enough, he’d inherit that same power.

  But not yet.

  The second blast came sharper, more precise. A laser shell screamed through their shields, rending them like paper. Sparks spat across the cabin, some landing on Henryk’s face. His world lit up in agony.

  He howled, jerking to the side, clutching his face as fire tore through his vision. The scent of burnt flesh filled his nostrils.

  “Henryk! Henryk!”

  Isaac’s voice, sharp and panicked. Hands grabbed at him—Axel, maybe Kieren too. Someone was laughing under their breath. Henryk sneered through the pain, the taste of blood thick in his mouth. His vision swam, darkening at the edges.

  A medkit hit the floor near his feet. A flashlight flared, hot and blinding. Isaac crouched beside him, rolling a bandage over the wound, tightening it across his eye.

  “It doesn’t look that bad,” Isaac muttered, securing the wrap. “But you’re gonna be a pirate for a bit. We need to keep the wound clean, or you’ll be dealing with an infection and a scar.”

  Henryk ground his teeth, fist slamming against the deck. “T-this fucking hurts.”

  Isaac stayed by him, even as the others scrambled. “Back during the Fall of Mars, I fought on the surface with my dad. He was infantry—a real warrior. I took a hit just like this.” He pointed to a faded set of scars along his eye, barely visible under the dim lights. “Trust me, it’s not that bad.” He smirked. “Martian girls love scars.”

  A chuckle, warm and genuine. Then, just as fast, Isaac’s expression hardened.

  “Get up, Henryk.” His grip tightened on Henryk’s shoulder. “You’re one of us now. You want the Spikes? Earn them. Push through the pain.”

  And with that, he shoved Henryk forward.

  The ship rocked again, harder this time, throwing them all off balance.

  “Holy shit, my work!” Axel scrambled over the table, leaping clear just as another explosion rocked the vessel.

  “We need to get to the hangar!” Arthur shouted, his voice hoarse. “If we can return fire, get some people on the turrets, and—”

  “The ship is done,” Isaac snapped. “Power’s flickering, and I’m—”

  He stopped, head tilting, listening.

  Then his eyes widened.

  “Masks and helmets—NOW!”

  The others barely had time to react before a terrible groan echoed through the hull. Metal twisted, screamed, splitting apart with a sickening wrench. The air itself seemed to shudder.

  “To the armory!” Isaac barked.

  They sprinted, barreling down the corridor as the living area behind them—where they had just been—was ripped apart.

  A vacuumed howl filled the space where the walls had been, an abyss swallowing the remnants of the ship into the void. Gone. Just gone.

  Henryk skidded to a stop inside the armory, breath heaving. He turned, staring through the narrowing gap of the airlock.

  “Holy shit.” He swallowed hard. “You’ve got some damn good reflexes.”

  Isaac exhaled sharply, still catching his breath. “You fight on enough battlefields, you start reading things.”

  Kieren swept his gaze across the room. The armory was a mess—hardly an armory at all.

  “If this ship is getting blasted apart,” he said, “I hope you weren’t expecting decent gear.”

  Isaac snorted. “It’s rusty old Martian junk, scavenged from the dorms. Don’t romanticize it.” The ship swayed violently. “But it’s better than nothing.”

  Henryk threw himself at his locker, fingers flying over the keypad. The ship groaned around him, another tremor rattling through the hull, but he barely noticed.

  “It’s power armor,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the others. “Even the ones for their special infantry serfs—airtight, reinforced.” His pulse quickened as the lock clicked open. “And if I recall… Bea made the modifications I asked for.”

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  The doors hissed apart, revealing his armor. His armor.

  Blazing red, just as it should be. But this time, complete. A helmet. An upgraded rifle. The changes stood out immediately—his laser rifle was no longer just some energy-cell junk; it was refined, proper. A rifle with a magazine, an ergonomic grip, M16-style iron sights straight out of the Vietnam era. Something real. Something built for war.

  And the helmet—his helmet. Old Martian in design, almost Germanic. A great helm, modified with jagged antlers jutting from the crown. A tabard draped his chest plate, emblazoned with the symbol of a stag. A sigil of endurance. Of dominion.

  Henryk’s smile was a slow, knowing thing.

  Jace had sent Jose after him. Logan wouldn’t stop. They were coming.

  Let them.

  They’d all get stronger. They’d all fight. They’d all clash for Sirine’s hand.

  But I’ll be the last man standing.

  The ship lurched violently as he pulled the armor on, each piece clicking into place. It wasn’t easy—the floor beneath him was shaking, the bulkheads groaning—but he managed. His rifle slung smoothly over his shoulder, his fingers slamming Gerald’s plasma pistol into its holster.

  The helmet locked in with a metallic hiss.

  Somewhere behind him, Kieren’s voice cut through the noise.

  “Ever been educated on the significance of a knight’s power armor?”

  Henryk turned. Isaac, Arthur, and Axel had gone still, staring. Not at him—at the armor. Or maybe at the Spikes along his back, protruding, grotesque and alien.

  Humanity’s closest thing to divinity. A forced symbiosis with the unnatural.

  Kieren grinned, stretching his arms wide. “Not Henryk’s type of armor, all grand and ceremonial. No, I mean a true knight’s armor. The kind passed down for generations. Family heirlooms, centuries old. People die in them. Give their lives to them.” His smile widened. “And then, someone else puts it on.”

  “Nope,” he added after a beat, still grinning. “Don’t know shit about that.”

  Arthur and the others exchanged a look.

  For a moment, they truly realized what they had brought into their ranks.

  Kieren didn’t understand them. Not the way they understood themselves. He didn’t see the history, the legacy, the weight of the Sons of Mars.

  He only saw power.

  Kieren stepped into his armor, piece by piece. The red glow of his helmet’s eye slits burned through the dim light as he flexed his fingers, testing the gauntlets. He exhaled, rolling his shoulders beneath the heavy pauldrons.

  “Fuck yeah,” he muttered. His grip tightened around the Nailer.

  He grinned.

  “Let’s kill some shit.”

  Edward

  Ed had been asleep in the cockpit, the ship on autopilot, the soft green blips of the console pulsing in the dark. His snores were deep, rattling through the cabin. A plate balanced precariously on his lap, scraps of honey-butter bread and bacon swimming in a mess of syrup.

  "Fucking dinner of champions," he mumbled in his sleep, a lazy chuckle escaping between snores. His boots were propped up on the command console, one heel dangerously close to the throttle.

  The Warcaskets universe had all manner of ships, from sleek interplanetary cruisers to clunky cargo freighters. But transport ships—Martian transports, specifically—were built to carry six Warcaskets. Two to four was the standard for other planets, but Mars prided itself on overwhelming force. Each transport was a steel behemoth, armored to hell, with four automated turrets mounted across its frame.

  The screen flashed red.

  A piercing alarm split the cabin.

  Ed jolted awake, plate clattering to the floor, syrup splattering his pants. "H-Huh!?" His blanket tumbled off as he scrambled for the console, slapping buttons, eyes darting over the scanners.

  A voice blared through the comm. "Identify yourself!"

  Ed smacked the mic. "This is Edward from The Academy, House Mars Presidential Designation," he said, his voice still thick with sleep. His eyes locked onto the scanner. Neptune. Of course. The bastards hated them, but this—

  "Die, Martian!"

  The transmission cut as blue Warcaskets ignited their thrusters, their silhouettes glowing against the void. A swarm of them, light to medium models, their bipedal frames trailing equivalent-blue fuel. Mass-produced Neptunian machines, armed to the teeth. Red streaks of laser fire carved through the black.

  "Shit!"

  Ed seized the controls, yanking the ship into a dive. His hands flew across the console, slamming the engine boosters. Fire burst from the thrusters as the ship rocketed toward Oceanena Prime, the hull screaming under the strain.

  "Our papers are green! They're green!" he barked into the comm.

  "You think we’re fools?" came the reply, snarled through static.

  A second voice joined in. "You're flying Mars red, boy. You really think we’re gonna let you land and aid those terrorist bastards?"

  The ship shook—an explosion ripped through the aft section. The vessel lurched sideways, metal screeching, a wheel snapping free from its housing.

  Ed shielded his face as sparks rained down. He threw himself to the side, fingers fumbling to secure his helmet. A hiss of pressurization sealed it in place just as the cockpit doors slammed open.

  The Sons of Mars funneled in, their armor clanking against the floor.

  "Ed, what the hell is going on?!" Isaac shouted over the alarms.

  "They just started shooting at us!" Ed snapped, wrestling with the controls. "It’s smart, honestly. They knew we were using a loophole to land. Just didn’t expect them to play dirty right back." He gritted his teeth. "But opening fire? That's a whole new low."

  Kieren snorted, crossing his arms. "Neptune's gonna pay for this one…"

  "Let them," Arthur said coldly. "We have bigger problems. Like how we’re going to make planetfall before this whole damn ship explodes."

  "Can’t we just breach the atmosphere in our Warcaskets?" Kieren asked.

  Silence.

  Then—Arthur scoffed. "Are you a fool?" He shook his head. "I come from a feudal world, and even I know metal suits burn in atmospheric entry. We’d be cooked inside 'em."

  Kieren frowned. "You're telling me no one’s figured out proper atmospheric entry for Warcaskets yet?"

  No one answered him.

  Ed’s eyes flicked over the crew. A new problem dawned on him, colder than the void outside.

  "Where’s Henryk?"

  They scanned the battlefield, their comms crackling with interference, but Ed’s ears caught the one voice that made his gut twist.

  "Henryk Brown—got to blast!"

  The words rang out, laced with the raw thrill of battle. Henryk’s pulse hammered as the adrenaline hit, filling his chest like fire. The ship had sealed its hangar doors, locking the void out, but he was already gone—out in the black, thrusters screaming as he launched.

  His Warcasket, painted in fresh boreal camouflage, carved an arc over the transport, red fumes trailing in his wake. A hunter’s silhouette against the abyss. He grinned as he drew his beam rifle, the thrusters on his calves and newly installed vanes giving him an edge in speed.

  "Can’t keep up, huh?" he muttered, eyes gleaming.

  Twenty mobile suits scrambled around him—some still gunning for the descending transport, others shifting focus to the lone rogue cutting through their formation.

  Henryk fired, bolts lancing through the dark, his shots lighting up shattered debris from past battles. He soared, weaving, his mind razor-sharp as five locked onto him.

  One charged, reckless.

  Henryk didn’t hesitate. He raised his rifle. Pulled the trigger.

  The pilot never had a chance. The enemy suit went up in a fireball, fragments scattering, and Henryk burst through the haze of the explosion, already drawing his father’s evisceration weapon.

  A pull of the trigger. The chainsaw blade roared to life, its diamond-tipped teeth hungry.

  He drove it forward.

  The blade found the cockpit, grinding deep. The man inside screamed—a raw, animal sound, his agony stretching until his comms cut to static. Henryk wrenched the weapon upward, his thrusters flaring as red laser fire streaked past him from the three still left.

  "Who the fuck is this kid?!"

  They weren’t the only ones watching. Out of the twenty-four Warcaskets, every single one had seen it.

  "You four, go after them!" their commander barked.

  Too late. The hangar was open.

  And the Sons of Mars poured out.

  Red plumes flared as Warcaskets rocketed into the void, weapons blazing.

  The Neptune commander had seconds to process it before his comms filled with a different voice.

  "Got you, motherfucker."

  Isaac’s smirk was the last thing the commander would ever see. He pulled the trigger on his dual tank cannons.

  The shells slammed into the Neptunian Warcasket—one striking the angular, irregular frame at the neck, the other tearing through the right thigh. The suit crumpled, sparks flaring, the pilot inside screaming as the cockpit ruptured. Two more suits fell with him, caught in the blast.

  "Attack! Attack! Slaughter them, Knights of Mars!" Arthur roared, his Warcasket charging forward, sword in hand.

  "A shame we don’t have true Martian Warcaskets," Isaac muttered into the radio, already reloading. He pulled the trigger again, the cannons spewing fire and death, leaving smoking wrecks in his wake.

  They all wore the same model, but Henryk’s was different—modified, faster, more refined. His thrusters, mounted along his body and legs, gave him movement nothing in their fleet could match. Even his armored skirts had been reinforced to protect the sheer power behind his speed.

  His enemies saw it now.

  "Why won’t you just die?!"

  The Neptunian pilot’s voice was thick with his own blood, but he still fired, his lasers cutting through the void.

  Henryk only laughed, dancing through the cosmos on high-speed engines, a specter in the dark.

  Henryk dipped beneath the incoming strike, his father’s blade halfway to its holster before that feeling hit him—cold and sharp in the marrow of his bones.

  A flicker on his side monitor. A warning beep.

  The enemy’s beam blade had scraped the side of his Warcasket’s head. Superficial damage, nothing more.

  "That’s all you’re gonna get!" Henryk snarled.

  He yanked his father’s sword free and caught the incoming strike in a vicious saber lock. Sparks flared, the cockpit shuddered with the force of the clash. His opponent pressed downward, but Henryk had already spotted the second attacker descending, rifle fire lancing toward him.

  His instincts took over. He kicked the beam blade user away, his body moving less on thought and more on something deeper—muscle memory, bloodline, ancestral connection.

  The moment his thrusters steadied, Henryk lifted his rifle.

  The red beam ripped through the enemy suit’s cockpit.

  A scream crackled through the comms. Then static. Then nothing.

  "This is life or death," Henryk muttered to himself, barely hearing his own voice.

  Another suit dropped in fast, its pilot abandoning precision for desperation, discarding his rifle in favor of a mounted machine gun. Bullets chewed through space, rattling Henryk’s cockpit.

  Henryk raised his laser rifle and fired. Again. Again. Again.

  His rifle screamed warnings, the barrel running hot, but he kept pulling the trigger.

  The enemy pilot jerked in his harness, his body punctured through the front. His Warcasket staggered, then went up in a bloom of fire.

  Henryk exhaled.

  "Our papers were green." His voice was quiet, but edged with something bitter, something that burned.

  "This was about hate."

  His grip tightened around the rifle.

  "If you had just let us go. If you had just respected the fragile laws of warfare… maybe, just maybe, you would’ve lived through this."

  His words hung in the air, unanswered.

  His mind drifted—Jose.

  Henryk clenched his teeth and shook the thought away. Why him? Why was he the one haunting him? He should be focusing on the fight, not on ghosts.

  No matter. Jose was a problem for later.

  For now, there was only the battlefield. Only the bodies.

  And the growing mountain of corpses he was building alongside Piper and the others.

  Who knew whose mountain would be taller by the time they graduated—

  —if they even lived that long?

  Piper

  "Ensign, slow down!"

  The warning came through the comms, clipped with urgency, but Piper barely heard it over the roar of her Warcasket’s engines. The moment she gripped the controls, she felt it—that raw, electrifying connection, like the machine was alive beneath her hands.

  Her Martian-built Warcasket had been reforged for speed, its massive blade replaced with a searing laser sword now mounted along her backpack. The mono-eye still glowed menacingly, but the frame had been altered—stub arms mounted along its spine, two extra shields fitted to each elbow. They whirred and adjusted in real-time, tracking her every movement, a living extension of her will.

  She clicked the neural link into place, and the world expanded.

  The battle blazed in the distance, red and blue streaks flashing like falling stars. Thrusters hummed, engines ignited, and a wild grin spread across her face.

  "This is Ensign Piper, ready for takeoff!"

  She punched the throttle.

  The Warcasket launched, tearing free of the hangar with such force that her restraints strained against her suit. Behind her, the squadron followed, their own thrusters igniting, but they were already lagging. She was too fast.

  The twin propellant tanks strapped to her Warcasket’s back burned bright, spewing raw acceleration. Additional boosters flared across her armor, sending her into a rapid spiral through the void. Her shields were more than defensive—they were weapons, each one mounted with high-powered laser rifles. But the real monsters were in her hands: two rocket launchers, primed and ready, loaded to tear through anything in her path.

  Asteroids loomed ahead, an uncharted minefield of jagged rock and shattered debris from past battles. Piper dove headlong into it.

  "Five minutes, Ensign," Jesus’s voice crackled through the comms.

  "Trust me. I know."

  She shut off the radio. The chatter was just noise.

  One asteroid spun toward her, massive as a warship. She twisted her Warcasket’s frame, kicking the thrusters into an angled dive. The machine responded instantly, flipping belly-up as she rocketed along the asteroid’s underbelly, barely skimming past its surface. A gap barely wider than her Warcasket’s shoulders loomed ahead—she tilted sideways, cutting through it at a breakneck pace.

  Behind her, the squadron scrambled to keep up.

  "Ensign Piper, you're breaking formation—this is a prototype, you can’t—"

  "That’s what we get for following an ace," another pilot muttered, voice half in awe, half in frustration.

  Piper just grinned wider.

  A final burst of acceleration sent her blazing into open space, straight toward the battlefield.

  The fight was already unfolding ahead—Henryk and his brethren locked in vicious combat, the chaos of laser fire and thruster burns painting the void in streaks of red and gold.

  And Piper was about to drop into the thick of it.

  Henryk

  “Fall back, you guys are doing enough!” Ed’s voice crackled through the comms, sharp and urgent. Henryk could hear it, feel it deep in his gut, the sweat trickling down his back. There wasn’t time to respond.

  His monitor buzzed, and three Neptunian war machines barreled toward him. “Shit…” Henryk muttered under his breath, clenching his jaw tight enough to taste metal.

  Then came that laugh. That mocking laugh.

  “Can’t handle yourself, hick?” Kieren’s voice sliced through the static like a blade. Henryk’s eyes narrowed, a fire burning within him. The audacity.

  His teeth ground together, hard enough to draw blood. As Kieren lay bleeding out on that table, Henryk’s thoughts were a whirlwind. Arthur didn’t care, but it was he and the others who had fought with humanity’s last shred of decency. Yet Kieren? He was still a dick. Always would be.

  “These warcaskets are awesome!” Kieren shouted over the comm, his voice buzzing with enthusiasm as he zipped through the chaos, machine gun crackling in the air.

  Arthur’s voice came through, steady and commanding, like it always did. “Hold fast and steady, Squire Kieren.” His beam rifle cut through the air, rending and splitting Neptunian armor, sending the pieces scattering into the void. “Damn, for women, they really know how to cook up some firepower, don’t they?” He grinned, bloodlust painting his voice.

  “Women... men,” Isaac sneered, his gaze flicking over to Henryk. “Trust me, Arthur. There are far more worlds stuck in the 21st century than you realize. Women are inhabiting the battlefield more and more, whether it’s through warcaskets or... like the witches of Jupiter. Arcane means.” His eyes glinted with something Henryk couldn’t quite place.

  “Everyone, get on!” Ed shouted, his voice pulling Henryk from the moment.

  The others started to fall back, retreating to the transport. As Axel’s warcasket was hoisted up by crane-like appendages, he shouted, “Where the hell is Henryk?” The question hung in the air, unanswered.

  Arthur looked stunned. The realization hit them at once.

  Outside, Henryk fought, pushing his warcasket against the tide. His aim was shaky, heart pounding in his chest, but the feeling… it zapped him, sharp, like an electric current running straight through his brain. He hit the thrusters, trying to escape, but then—Crash!

  His face slammed into the console. If he hadn’t been in his knight gear, the glass would’ve shattered all over him. It would’ve gone straight into his eyes, and that could’ve been the end. But the Sons of Mars had thought of that too. Power armor. He smiled through the pain as he rammed his elbow into the Neptunian warcasket gripping him, denting and crushing the metal.

  “I will not be denied my fief!” he shouted, his voice echoing with the weight of a thousand knights who had fought before him. The words weren’t just his—they were theirs too.

  But then—

  “You fools!” he roared, his voice wild, filled with fury.

  Laughter crackled over the comms, shrill and unrepentant.

  “You’ve got nearly all of us!” a voice shouted. Henryk could hear the rage in their words, the madness, the bloodlust. Some of them had lost limbs, but they still held their beam rifles steady, pointing at him from a distance, while the other mobile suits desperately clawed at him. He was stuck. Couldn’t reach the transport. Couldn’t escape.

  “Damn, this is bad…” Henryk muttered to himself, barely enough breath in his lungs.

  Then, his eyes widened.

  Red afterburners ripped through the darkness, brighter and faster than anything he had ever seen. It wasn’t just movement—it was a force of nature. A comet blazing through the void. And then... it bloomed. Like a flower, opening to reveal its deadly intent.

  Henryk’s enhanced senses flared, picking up every nuance, every shift in the air. The mobile suit was strange—almost alien—its design unlike anything he had ever seen. A mono-eye, zipping and darting around like a predator. The suit was bipedal, but it had three stubby arms, each one balancing shields at the elbows and spine. But what caught Henryk’s attention were the weapons—two massive laser cannons, concealed under the shields. The vents on the cannons glowed, heated up as the barrels pulsed with scorching energy.

  A Neptunian warcasket came barreling toward him, thrusters flaring, a death charge aimed straight for Henryk.

  “Die!” the pilot screamed over the comm, but before Henryk could react, the laser cannons fired.

  Four beams tore through the Neptunian warcasket, disintegrating it in an instant. A second later, it was nothing but slag.

  “Clarkson!” Henryk could hear the voice crackle through the comm, a mix of shock and anger.

  “You’re dead!” Another voice shouted, but they were already retreating. The tide was turning.

  Henryk’s heart was still racing, but the danger wasn’t over. As the others advanced toward the Martian transport, he flung his elbow out again, trying to clear the path. But the Neptunian soldiers were relentless, and he drifted further away from the safety of the ship.

  Edward

  “Henryk, report,” Edward’s voice came through the comm, firm, authoritative, but there was an edge of something deeper—concern. His features tightened, brow furrowed. “Henryk Brown, report!” he barked, a vein twitching in his temple as his eyes flicked to the side. The damage to the transport was substantial, but that could be handled. What mattered now was clearing the landing. That was the priority.

  “Where’s the countryman?” Arthur asked, his voice low, eyes narrowing as he and the Sons of Mars breached the door that separated the hangar from the main pilot bay.

  Ed’s gaze swept over them. Kieren was unnervingly quiet, brooding, but it was Isaac, Arthur, and Axel who seemed to carry the weight of the moment, their faces unreadable yet intense.

  “Are we gonna be able to grab him?” Axel’s voice broke through the silence, anxious and tense.

  Ed kept his eyes forward, focused. He pressed the rockets harder, maneuvering in a tight arc. “If we keep veering like this, we’re gonna get ripped apart in the atmosphere…” His voice trailed off, the words a grim warning.

  “What’s got him like this?” Axel pressed, frustration lacing his voice.

  “Maybe battle lust?” Arthur suggested, his tone more casual than the situation warranted. He chuckled darkly. “He’s sure got the manner of a Martian to him.”

  Isaac sneered, his lips curling in disgust. “Enough fooling around!” he snapped. “That Warcasket’s got Henryk in a death grip!”

  The words hung in the air like a death sentence. All eyes turned to the screen. Ed enlarged the image, the view pulling them into the cold expanse of space. There, Henryk’s Warcasket was thrashing, struggling against the Neptunian Warcasket that was locked onto it with deadly intent.

  Henryk swung his evisceration weapon, trying to shake the Neptunian off, but the maneuver did little. The Neptunian pilot activated their back thrusters, slamming them both forward, their trajectory bending toward the atmosphere.

  “Fuck…” Isaac cursed, his eyes wide in disbelief. “Holy shit, is he really gonna kill Henryk with himself?”

  “Damn suicidal bastard,” Arthur muttered, his voice thick with disdain. “Didn’t even know the Neptunians had it in them. My father thought they were all cowards.”

  Ed’s lips curled into a bitter sneer. “A lot’s changed since the fall of Mars…”

  Axel’s face twisted with determination, eyes blazing with anger and something darker. “I’m going out there,” he declared, his voice hard, resolute.

  Ed snapped his head toward him, voice sharp as a whip. “Don’t,” he warned.

  Axel’s expression darkened, his fists clenching at his sides. “What the hell are you talking about? That’s Henryk out there!” His voice surged, frantic, filled with a desperation that grabbed hold of everyone in the room. “It’s one thing to die in battle, but Henryk’s gonna burn to death… like that!” He pointed violently to the enlarged image on the screen, his voice cracking with the weight of it.

  Axel’s gaze followed the screen, eyes locked onto Henryk’s Warcasket as it struggled against its foe. His mind flashed with images—fires, screams, the voices of his uncles and aunts. It was too much, and he shook his head, trying to shake off the weight of it. But Ed’s yell cut through his thoughts like a blade.

  “Axel, don’t!” Ed’s voice cracked through the air, raw with emotion, forcing all eyes to turn toward him. The room fell silent.

  Ed stood rigid, every ounce of his being focused on the words he was about to say. “Henryk is going to burn out there. You go out now, your Warcasket is gonna get swallowed up by reentry. You’ll die trying to save him. Henryk’s already doomed.”

  The room was still, each man frozen in place, his breath hanging heavy in the air. The tension was thick, suffocating.

  “So, that’s it?” Arthur’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “We’re just gonna…”

  “Fuck that!” Isaac spat, his voice like thunder, cracking the silence. His gaze locked onto Ed, fire in his eyes. “I won’t lose a man, not on this mission, not like this!” His hands trembled at his sides, barely contained rage.

  Ed’s face went cold, his expression hardening. “Isaac, out of everyone… I am Henryk’s friend, and—”

  “If you were truly his friend, you wouldn’t be stopping us,” Axel shot back, his words sharp as daggers. “There’s still time. There’s still time…” His voice was frantic now, pleading, laced with the cold sweat of fear and urgency.

  Henryk

  "Fuck… fuck," Henryk's breath came in ragged gasps, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. The world outside his cockpit was a blur, flames licking at the edges of his view. The Neptunian Warcasket had wrapped its limbs around his like a vice, its thrusters roaring as the two suits plummeted toward the atmosphere in a freefall that seemed to stretch forever.

  The cockpit hissed and groaned as pressure mounted, the entire machine screeching in protest as if it too felt the inevitability of the descent. Henryk’s eyes darted to his fuel gauge—nearly empty. His stomach twisted. He was running on fumes.

  "Damn you!" Henryk roared, the words a guttural promise as his hands slammed down on the controls. He ignited the rockets—full blast.

  The air around them exploded into a sea of fire as the Neptunian suit writhed in agony, thrusters spitting molten fuel, the pilot’s frantic screams swallowed by the chaos of the moment. Henryk’s Warcasket bucked and shuddered as it surged forward, propelling both suits into a violent, scorching tailspin toward the planet below.

  The Neptunian’s arms locked tighter around him, the crushing weight threatening to break him in two. But Henryk wasn’t going down like this—not today.

  His fingers went white on the controls. He hit the thrusters again. The fire from the rockets surged outward like a firestorm, scorching the Neptunian’s cockpit, turning the suit’s metal into a molten mess. But the bastard wouldn’t let go.

  "Die!" the Neptunian pilot screamed, voice distorted and alien as his Warcasket clawed at Henryk, thrusters firing wildly as they crashed into the atmosphere. The air screamed like a banshee, buffeting them, tearing at the suits as they fought to hold on.

  Henryk snarled, teeth gritted. “Not today…”

  With a deafening roar, Henryk flung his Warcasket into a rapid spin, wrenching free from the Neptunian’s grip. Heat and fire boiled up around him as the war machine twisted in a deadly dance, two titans in freefall. He brought his suit back to bear, face-to-face with the Neptunian, and pulled the trigger on his laser rifle.

  A violent burst of energy slammed into the Neptunian's chest, but it wasn’t enough. The suit kept coming, a machine possessed by rage.

  Without thinking, Henryk discarded the rifle, drawing his father’s evisceration weapon. The chains along its length rattled as he gripped it with both hands, the heavy blade crackling with power as it hummed to life.

  "Come forth and be… SLAUGHTERED!" His voice was an animal’s roar, primal and commanding. The words twisted in the air around him, charged with ancestral power. The war cries of a thousand warriors, their blood and fury coursing through his veins.

  The Neptunian pilot froze, the weapon’s intense energy coursing through the air like a storm as Henryk swung the blade with all his might.

  The blade collided with the Neptunian’s Warcasket with a thunderous crash. Sparks flew in all directions as the suit’s arm was cleaved clean off. It flung through the air, burning through the atmosphere as the body of the Neptunian suit spiraled into freefall.

  And Henryk? He wasn’t done.

  With a final scream of rage, he lunged, bringing the massive weapon down in a deadly arc. The blade cleaved through the Neptunian’s suit like butter, rending the machine in two. The explosion that followed lit up the atmosphere with blinding force. The Neptunian Warcasket collapsed in on itself, a fiery heap of scrap that scattered into the winds of the planet’s gravity.

  Henryk’s Warcasket plummeted downward, out of control, burning through the sky like a comet. His suit rattled, the air outside a thick, violent wave of heat and destruction. He looked at his fuel gauge one last time—it was empty.

  Then, a voice crackled over the comms, piercing the deafening roar around him.

  "I've got you, Henryk Brown!" Piper’s voice—strong, unwavering—cut through the chaos like a lifeline.

  “Piper…?” Henryk’s voice was hoarse, breathless. His warcasket spiraled in freefall, the molten glow of atmospheric descent licking at its hull. And then she came, roaring through the fire and debris like a red comet, her warcasket’s engines howling like banshees.

  “Take my hand, right now!” Piper’s voice cracked through the comms, sharp, commanding.

  She thrust out her warcasket’s arm, fingers extended, and Henryk forced his battered machine to comply. Their metal fingers locked, servos whining under the pressure.

  “Hop on my back!” she barked.

  Henryk ignited his remaining thrusters, swinging around as Piper’s warcasket shifted. The stub arms, once idle, snapped into motion—mechanized rivets twisting, transforming. Protective wings, concealed within the design, folded outward and began to wrap around him.

  “What the hell is this?” Henryk grunted, gripping his controls.

  Piper let out a breathless chuckle, the kind that carried more relief than humor. “Wasn’t expecting to see you guys so far out.”

  Henryk coughed a laugh. “Man, I am glad to see you, Piper, but what—”

  “Relax,” she cut him off, her voice steady despite the blood trickling from her nose. The strain of the maneuver, the sheer force of their speed, was already pushing her to the limit.

  Her fingers clenched a lever in her cockpit. A deep exhale. “A minute, huh…” she muttered under her breath. The machine around Henryk shifted again.

  “Grip the beam blades! They function as handlebars!”

  Henryk hesitated for only a second before locking onto the glowing hilts. The moment his hands secured them, Piper’s warcasket sealed him in. Arms and legs folded, shields raised—transforming. A protective exoshell formed around him as the rockets flared white-hot and screamed downward. The world blurred, fire and pressure wrapping around them as they tore into the atmosphere.

  Through the slits of his makeshift cocoon, Henryk could see nothing but orange—searing, consuming. Yet somehow, it reminded him of Piper’s hair, that untamed wildness.

  And then he heard her laughter, rich and unafraid, cutting through the static.

  He smiled. Actually smiled.

  “This warcasket is built for atmospheric reentry,” Piper declared.

  Henryk’s heart thudded. “You’re insane.”

  “Don’t worry, Henryk,” she shot back. “Let me show you how I fly.”

  The firestorm gave way to blackened clouds, the howling winds cooling into a downpour. Rain streaked across their warcaskets as they plummeted. The world opened beneath them, vast and chaotic.

  Then came the flashes. The orange of anti-air fire. The green glow of burning forests. Black smoke choking the horizon.

  Henryk’s stomach twisted. War was shifting, evolving into something else, something monstrous.

  And he was in the center of it all.

  Then—

  A chunk of debris, still burning from reentry, clipped his warcasket. The impact jolted him, hard enough to shake his grip. His father’s sword, strapped to his machine’s gauntlet, broke free.

  Henryk watched as it spun, end over end, glinting in the fading firelight, a fleeting piece of history tumbling toward the war-torn surface.

  Toward the falling Sons of Mars transport vessel below.