Archer 887 Preview
Enjoy this preview of Archer 887! I’m hard at work on the sequel, Vanguard. Let me know what you think.
\Your name is Arsaces Jankovic-Wood. You were a pilot. You are severely injured and are in stasis-recovery incubation aboard the CIN Santos. You are incapable of voluntary movement at this time. Do not panic.\
\Wake up.\
\Your name is Arsaces Jankovic-Wood. You were a pilot. You are severely injured and are in stasis-recovery incubation aboard the CIN Santos. You are incapable of voluntary movement at this time. Do not panic.\
\Hurry, Arsaces.\
Well, which was it? Panic or not? Wake up or not? She needed to make up her mind.
\You must wake up.\
The air was hot, not the cool pressure of that slimy tank filth. He would never forget the feel of that in his mouth and lungs, endless drowning.
\There is no time!\
Arsaces groaned. Something was in front of his face. He tried to move it aside.
\Your helmet.\
But, he could move? Hadn’t she said—
\Wake up, Airman!\
He groped for something to hold on to, trying to find his balance.
\Free-fall.\
He blinked against the blurriness of his vision, fingers skimming over the tight space around him. Shapes he knew.
This was a fighter. She was wrong. He hadn’t crashed. His Archer was intact.
The screen was active. Stars tumbled overhead. He reflexively fired the maneuvering boosters, star-sick as he hadn’t been in years.
The controls were wrong.
Not an Archer.
\Your name is Arsaces Jankovic-Wood. Focus. Remember!\
Not his Archer. A Heming. Westerland. The flight deck.
Evi.
\Find her!\
Where was she? Where was he?
The Heming chirped at him. He looked at the readout, squeezing his eyes shut in case he had suddenly gone insane.
But it read the same when he looked again. Location: Unknown.
He twisted, trying to find Volgar. There was a star, but it was wrong. Wrong color, wrong size. His helmet tinted to block out its garish orange glare.
Not his Archer, not his sun. And gleaming in its light—
Arsaces lunged forward and killed the Heming’s power, pleading with his ancestors as he hadn’t since his shunning that he hadn’t been noticed.
Dozens of alien ships crossed through the space behind him. They made no move for him as he drifted toward the unfamiliar stars.
“What have I done?” he whispered.
There was no answer.
He tore at the locks on his helmet, panting with fear, with the panic she always chided him to control. He couldn’t control it, not as he sucked in a lungful of hot, dense air. His helmet drifted to bump against the ceiling of the cockpit, a dull clunk as the glasses met.
He pressed his hands to his ears, trying to stop the sound of nothingness, of his own harsh breaths, the pounding of his foreign heart.
Nothing.
No one.
Alone.
\The queen!\
He shoved the panic away, back into the raw, gaping void where Westerland should have been. He had known this would happen. He had known the instant he locked the cockpit what he would have to do.
Where had that ship gone?
Arsaces relocked his helmet in place. A few careful pushes of the boosters spun him back toward the ring. He counted seven ships, with debris sparkling around them. Spent missiles? Bullets? Had they not noticed him as the other ship came through?
As he watched, the ring came to life again. Something crossed over, a glinting speck against the darkness. He turned to watch as it swung wide and landed next to—
He adjusted his perspective. A tiny ship, landing on the extended decks of an enormous structure, a space station looming over him. Against the stars, it was impossible to see the true size of things. The ring was dwarfed by it.
Rings. A half circle of them, maybe eight. This had to be a command center of some kind, a colony.
The sparkling flashes must be small ships, fighters, individual craft. He had been carried further than he thought. Could he get closer? Would they notice him among the traffic?
He cautiously rebooted the Heming and fired the engines. He didn’t need the navigation nor the weapons. Just a few short bursts of plasma. It cost him time, but hopefully they would see him as a piece of debris.
Ships passed over and under him he moved into the thick of them. Shadows pressed down on him. He let the Heming spin lazily, like he was DIW. No one came to investigate.
The station was massive, bulky and inelegant. Rows of small windows glowed, showing deck after deck. Was this their home? A forward base?
Where was the queen?
Was she still in one of the ships swarming? Not swarming; moving in holding patterns until they could land. Jutting structures like piers stuck out from the station. Mechanized landing gear caught hold of the ships and pulled them inside. There must be a way for them to break pressure safely inside, a series of locks like Westerland’s.
Arsaces waited until the last moment, then gave the boosters a gentle nudge. The hull of the station was a dull gray with copper undertones, hopefully with enough iron to hold his magnets. The Heming touched down with a soft bump.
He activated the magnetism. He tried the boosters again, and the fighter held fast to the plating. He checked his Suit seals and let the atmosphere release. There was a long, low hiss that faded to nothing.
The heavy glass of the cockpit floated up. He climbed out, gripping the edge of the fighter so tightly his hand cramped. He swung himself down. His boots, reacting to the low power in his Suit, snapped to the metal.
Horribly exposed, he dug out the fighter’s emergency medical kit, the same kind which had so recently been attached to his chest. His tanks were full and his scrubber was working normally. This would give him days of air, but if the queen was inside the station, he would have to abandon it. It would give him away at once.
Grimacing, he checked the med-kit had its immune boosters sealed inside before he slung it on his back and cinched the strap over his chest.
He had the kit, his field tools, and the Heming. He had his mech-gun, holstered inside his Suit. He was alone, but he was not helpless.
He would get her back.
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