20 November 2510, Morning

  I got back to the air wing, took a shower, and lay down. The last few days replayed in my head like movie scenes. What is Cyril Vane thinking? The Draconian Imperium's Chief of Staff—how could he be the leader of the Freedom Front? The war between the Draconian Imperium and the Terran Commonwealth has been going on for almost a century, and this latest offensive from the Imperium is fiercer than anything before—nearly a full national mobilization. Is Cyril Vane the mastermind behind all this, or is there some other reason?

  Suppose General Carrick sends Jack to the Imperium's heartland to rescue Cyril Vane. Will the Draconian royal family fly into a rage and drag the Hegemony's allied states into a full assault on the Terran Commonwealth?

  I shook my head. Those politicians—every day they're either scheming somebody or being schemed against. And that fat one… he's like a steaming burger set in the center of a chessboard; everybody wants to take a bite. Only this meat is a little tricky—not exactly easy to chew.

  The corner of my mouth lifted on its own as I remembered that mad night in the tunnel. My face flushed hot. Forget it—sleep first.

  21 November, Early Morning

  I stood on the tarmac, sunlight glinting off a row of Nightshade fighters—metal shining with that unique, cold light. These are the aircraft of our 13th Independent Night Operations Wing: a razor in the sky. Nova painted the latest adaptive-camouflage nano-armor from Lab Seven onto their skins so they're almost invisible at night. Ever since that fat man showed up around Nova, the latest third-generation military experimentals were installed on that junker Thor.

  If I hadn't been flying a civilian fighter last time, I would have been captured for sure. But… if that had been the case, I wouldn't have met Jack—my ridiculous, lusting-over-everything fatty.

  I slid into the cockpit; the seat is so low it feels like you're lying down, and the 360° holo display leaves almost no blind spot. The 25° recline angle allows me to easily see the night sky.

  Whatever happens—whether Jack rescues Cyril or kills him—the mission is insanely dangerous for him. I stared at the nose-mounted particle beam; it's the only real lifeline I can give him.

  (Scrawled on the side of the fighter:)

  Nya — Blackjack Actual

  │ 13th Night Operations Wing   │

  │ ━━━━━ (each bar = 100 aircraft) │

  │ ━━━━━      │

  │ ━━━━━      │

  │ ━━━━━      │

  │★ (each star = 20 aircraft)   │

  │420 CONFIRMED KILLS    │

  │"The Night Witch"     │

  22 November, Night

  One of the team joked, "Captain, your lover's in that special unit too, right?"

  I smiled bitterly—yes, I won't deny it. I looked around at the sisters who've flown through mountains of corpses with me. "If any of you don't want to go, speak up. I'll approve it."

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  Silence. After a moment, my wingmate Macy grinned, showed a flash of white teeth, and shouted our unit motto:

  "Our hex is a target lock!"

  All the girls in the ops room yelled it with her. I laughed with them.

  Sixteen fighters took off from Garipalan. We'd rendezvous with the carrier Valkyrie mid-route to reach the Draconian homeworld. I've always been afraid of that planet; it's remote—and it has two suns.

  24 November, Night

  The Valkyrie reached a position near the Draconian homeworld. Altitude: 850 km. Orbital speed: 7.8 km/s.

  Through the viewport, I could see the giant carrier—a two-kilometer-long iron fortress floating in space. Our sixteen Nightshades launched like black bats from their belly.

  Cockpit readout:

  HUD: DE-ORBIT BURN CALCULATED

  ETA TO TARGET: 18 MINUTES

  REENTRY ANGLE: 32°

  "Blackjack-1, prepare. Everyone—we have 24 hours on the Valkyrie before switching to reentry mode."

  Altitude: 100 km (edge of the atmosphere)

  [I feel it]

  The cockpit shudders. External temperature spikes.

  HUD: HULL TEMP: 2,800°C

  SHIELD INTEGRITY: 87%

  The ship is wrapped in orange plasma flame—sixteen meteors falling fast.

  Navigation online; estimated three hours to the special-ops position.

  25 November, Morning

  As my fighter reached the coordinates of the special-ops unit, I saw Jack fighting a Kong, with a Wraith primed to sneak-attack from behind. My man was prey. At that moment, My APS read 30. Two high-velocity slugs fired from my fighter—BOOM! The Wraith, trying to ambush Jack, was pierced. "Loki, done. Roll out in two minutes."

  I met Jack at the temporary bivouac of the 16th Airborne. He jumped out of that patched-up Thor, soaked in sweat, wearing the dazed, ridiculous grin you only get when you survive something crazy. When he saw me, his eyes lit up; like a guilty kid, he raked a hand through his hair.

  I stepped up to him, and before I could speak, he beat me to it: "Hey, Nya! Those two shots of yours—dead on! You worried I'd die and leave you drinking alone?"

  Hearing that, the tight, taut string of worry in my chest finally loosened. But I didn't smile. "Jack," my voice was soft but serious, "that day in the office… when General Carrick issued the mission, I didn't know in advance. I wasn't part of their plan."

  I was afraid he'd think I'd helped send him down that near-suicidal route.

  The stupid grin on his face froze. He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw something soft in those mischievous, always-half-amused eyes.

  He didn't answer my question. Instead, he reached out and, with a thumb smeared with oil and sweat, gently wiped my cheek. "I know," he said. "You're not that kind of person."

  That one sentence made my eyes sting.

  "Hey, hey, don't cry!" Jack panicked and glanced at his ragged crew—his "rogue" squad—who were all curiously watching us, and a few female soldiers. Then he did something that made everyone gape.

  He hauled me into an embrace—big, thick, smelling of cordite and sweat—hugging me so tightly I could hardly breathe. Then he shouted at the top of his lungs for everyone to hear: "What're you looking at?! Haven't you ever seen a hero and his ace pilot girlfriend say goodbye?!"

  My face flushed so hot that it felt like it was going to fry an egg. Good-natured hoots and whistles burst from around us. I squirmed to pull away, but he held me tighter.

  "Alright, Jack," I muffled my voice into his chest. "I have to get back to the Valkyrie. You… take care of yourself."

  "Don't worry," he whispered in my ear, just for us, "when I get back, we'll finish that bottle of good liquor you hid."

  He let go, and I practically ran back to my Nightshade cockpit.

  The fighter climbed slowly. Through the holo, I watched Jack still standing there, head tipped back, sunlight on his round, chubby face. His eyes lingered on my face a beat longer—then that lusty, leering look flashed. Men.

  I stuck my tongue out and waggled it along my lips. Jack's drool glittered in the sunlight. If you looked closely, his trousers looked a bit tight.

  I laughed—genuinely. That flirtatious feeling was good.

  Then his gaze dropped. He seemed to notice the graffiti on my fuselage. The numbers. I saw his expression go slack. His mouth dropped even wider than before; his eyes bulged. He stared at that number for five full seconds.

  Then he looked up and met my eyes. In that instant, I wanted to explain. To tell him that the number isn't glory—it's a nightmare. To say to him that every confirmed kill makes my heart shiver, that I don't know the faces of those 420 pilots, but the images of their planes crashing haunt my dreams.

  But I said nothing.

  His face told me—he understood.

  Then he thumped both his thumbs up.

  The fighter climbed and cut through the clouds. I took one last look.

  There Jack stood, head tilted back like an idiot.

  A tightness settled in my chest.

  Whatever. When he returns, we'll finish that bottle.

  And then… I want to hold him and sleep—proper sleep. No dreams.