Blasting a jet of fire from Andromeda's chest, I forced Boötes back—his Constellation Knight tumbling into the arms of his own allies.
"Well then! You're a tough one, aren't you?" the pilot laughed over the open frequency, his voice crackling through the comms. "Never seen your kind of Knight model before, traitor. The fact that its armour could block my scythe means it must be—hey, why are you running?!"
I didn't answer. Andromeda shot toward Duradel-VXI's exosphere at breakneck speed, the body of a fallen insurgent Knight dragging in one metal hand like a grotesque heat shield.
[Good decision, Pilot—but they are still in pursuit.]
A quick glance at the rear sensors confirmed it: Boötes was gaining. Fast. Dangerous. But not fast enough.
"Get back here!" the pilot snarled. "As if I'd let you run after teasing me like that!"
The descent grew hotter. Flames licked across Andromeda's hull, friction building like a furnace. The dead Knight's frame took the brunt of the inferno—but Boötes still followed.
"If he doesn't pull up soon, he's going to burn alive on entry. Andy, do we have anything that can knock him back without killing him?"
[Negative. Calculating solutions... negative. CK-37 Boötes will burn through the atmosphere and crash if he does not turn around in: 7 seconds.]
I launched a missile from Andromeda's back, hoping the blast might scatter him—but he sliced through it in one brutal swing, twisting through the delayed explosion, using it like a slingshot to accelerate.
[It is too late for him to escape gravity. The orbital cannons will kill the pilot if the fall does not. Searching for effective solutions.]
I cursed under my breath. The altimeter screamed. We dropped through the thermosphere, then the mesosphere, plunging fast.
And then—I saw the answer.
Activating Andromeda's magnetic shield, I locked Boötes in a vice grip, pulling him close. Across the external speakers, I barked, "Turn off your signal-ID if you want to live!"
"What—why are you saving me?"
"Just do it, you suicidal idiot! Mine will mask you—if you stay close!"
I pinned him against the scorched corpse clutched in Andromeda's other hand. Flames consumed everything. The world blurred into heat and screaming descent.
[Pilot, we will not have enough thrust to save Boötes and his pilot. We will be dragged down with them.]
"We're too heavy and too fast," I muttered, scanning the land below.
[We are falling at 1,000 feet per second.]
"Show me the altimeter. Count every 10,000."
[70,000.]
Mountains. Snow-draped ridges cutting through the clouds—steep enough to break momentum. If we lived.
I slammed the thrusters, adjusting trajectory toward the slope.
[60,000.]
"Plot a path down that mountain. Now."
Andromeda traced one instantly.
[50,000... 40,000... 30,000. We've entered the troposphere.]
The flames vanished—replaced by a shrieking wall of wind. Cold. Violent. And still not enough to slow us down.
"Wrist and elbow thrusters—full blast!"
Jets roared. The snow-capped peaks rushed toward us, jagged teeth ready to shred us whole.
[20,000.]
[Pilot, you must eject Boötes and the dead Knight.]
"Just a little longer—!"
[Protocol-3: Protect the Pilot. Assuming control.]
"No—Andy, don't! I had it—!"
Andromeda kicked them both away.
Then he angled downward, bracing for impact.
"Slide into it!"
Feet-first, we hit the slope.
An explosion of snow and thunder. The shock jolted through my spine—too much, too fast—and we skidded at a deadly tilt. Clawed feet scraped rock, thrusters screaming in resistance.
Trees shattered. Ice cracked. Boulders split apart.
Boötes tumbled behind us like a ragdoll, smashing through the forest in a chaotic blur of limbs and metal.
Andromeda hit a powder mound, went airborne. The last of our thrusters roared—one final burst.
We slammed into the ground with a deafening boom.
Then—silence.
Andromeda crouched in a steaming crater. Snow melted in a wide, fifteen-foot ring around us, vapor curling into the air like smoke from a war god's lungs.
[Pilot, are you alright?]
I sat panting in the cockpit, dizzy and half-conscious. My helmet had rattled so hard against the interior it felt like my brain had come loose. My stomach twisted.
But I was alive.
"...If we had auto-cannons, we could've used the recoil to slow us down even more," I mumbled.
[Diagnostics commencing. Stand by.]
Andromeda began scanning for internal damage. I popped my helmet loose, sucking in unfiltered air. The hatch cracked open with a mechanical hiss, and a sliver of icy wind slapped my face, clearing the fog in my head.
I let out a ragged breath. "I had it under control, Andy. You didn't need to steal piloting from me like that."
[The probability of surviving a Titan-Fall manoeuvre from that height was negligible. Had you remained in control, the landing impact alone would have thrown you forward in your seat, and I would have rolled uncontrollably down the mountain.]
A beat. Then—
[There was a 96.2% chance one of my limbs would be torn off, and a 78.9% chance cockpit shrapnel would have pierced your body.]
"That's only if I lurched forward on the controls," I muttered, glaring at nothing. "You saw I was strapped in—barely moving. Well... except my head."
I winced as I touched my scalp. My skull throbbed like a war drum. Vision still blurred. Nausea still twisting.
But I was alive.
[Then you succeeded in the 3.8% improbability, Pilot. Congratulations.] His voice was perfectly neutral. And it did absolutely nothing to make me feel better.
Andromeda's forcefully neutral tone did nothing to make me feel better.
[Diagnostic complete. Torso and arms: 100% intact. Legs: 31% damaged. Ankle rotating cogs: shattered. Leg stabilizers: cracked. Knee connectors: fractured. Overall leg maintenance: barely within functional parameters. Lower body movement will be slow without thruster assistance. Minor automatic repairs possible.]
I exhaled sharply. No point in dwelling on it. Andromeda could move, and that was all that mattered.
Then—crashing sounds.
Something was tumbling down the mountain, fast. Andromeda's chest hatch slammed shut as we snapped to high alert.
[Returning manual control to Pilot.]
The second I moved Andromeda upright, I felt the damage. The legs were functioning, but it was a chore to get them moving, each step a reminder that too much pressure could send them snapping apart.
With a final crash, a battered figure broke through a tree and tumbled into the snow—rolling to a stop just meters from where Andromeda stood.
Boötes.
His knight was in terrible shape, ragged cloth draped over dented armour, steaming from the sheer heat stress. Still clutched in Boötes' arms was the remains of a Freiheit knight—its crushed torso and arms wrapped around him, as if it had held on until its last moment.
He exhaled steam, his metal frame trembling under the weight of survival.
I didn't hesitate.
Andromeda stomped forward, platinum fist slamming into the ragged knight's chest, pinning him to the frozen ground.
"It's your fault my operation is off to such a bad start," I said coldly over the speakers. "If you had stayed with your men and not pursued me, neither of us would be in this situation, Pilot of CK-37 and Knight Boötes. Stay out of my way and wait for rescue."
Lifting Andromeda's fist, I turned and started dragging his damaged legs down the mountain, my focus shifting back to the actual mission. Our target was somewhere in this region—if Nicole and Jason could pinpoint the data stamp from orbit, it would save me the trouble of combing the wreckage myself.
"Thermite-1, Thermite-2, can either of you read me? This is Thermite-3. I've reached the surface, but hit a roadblock."
Static.
I adjusted the comms.
"Thermite team, do you copy?"
"Don't bother."
The voice came from behind.
Boötes.
Lifting himself from his wreckage, he shook off snow and debris as his young voice echoed out over the open frequency.
"The whole planet is surrounded by signal jammers. If you're not on Freiheit's frequency, you're not reaching anyone on this rock. Still, it's a surprise to learn you're not Freiheit, but Nymphas."
I scoffed. "If your knight—a fellow CK—had recognized Andromeda, we wouldn't be in this situation. Even further, if you had never pursued me, we wouldn't be here. Out of all the knights you could have targeted, you went after the one at the very rear, who wasn't even fighting your men. Why?"
"Blame Boötes," the boy shot back, irritated.
The ragged knight shifted, moving sluggishly as it attempted to get upright.
"The silent bastard's auto-targeting took me right to you! If you had just evaded like a normal coward instead of somehow blocking my scythe, I would've ignored you and moved on!"
I twisted Andromeda's frame just enough to glance back at him. What a child.
"Let's go, Andy."
"Are you just going to leave me here?!"
I heard a heavy step behind me—then a crash as Boötes collapsed back into the snow.
"This is Freiheit's territory!" he shouted. "If we don't work together, their patrols will run us down until we're both out of ammo! In this state, Boötes won't be able to activate his Constellation Drive!"
I ignored him.
Andromeda's heavy legs stomped onward, slow but steady. The kid was clearly unfit for war—his reckless pursuit, his childish complaints, the way he spoke so casually about the situation. He wasn't worth the effort.
Andromeda's automatic repair functions would work slowly, but they wouldn't be enough. If I wanted full movement back, I needed parts—which meant I needed a salvage yard.
"Andy, use the geo-scan from entry to find one. We'll fix your legs before engaging anything."
[One moment.]
A marker pinged onto my HUD.
I followed the coordinates—toward the bright east sky, where explosions still filled the upper atmosphere like distant, silent fireworks.
[Scans show a possible automaton graveyard approximately 7.6 miles southeast of our location.]
"Thank you. We'll keep a low profile."
Then—shouting.
I twisted Andromeda's head slightly, catching sight of Boötes' pilot—a slim figure, sprinting toward me, waving a cloth-covered beetle in his hand.
I sighed.
"Watch over me, Andy."
***
"General! General Rafellan!"
The heavy steel doors slammed open as an officer charged into the command deck, his breath ragged from running.
"I have an urgent battle report, sir!"
He snapped into a salute, waiting for permission to speak.
General Rafellan turned with a confused frown. The Freiheit bulwark warship had just gone up in flames, a colossal fireball visible even from orbit. Their forces were already pushing the enemy back. So what could possibly—
"You're from the knight platoon that just deployed?" he asked, irritation creeping into his voice.
The lieutenant hesitated, clearly distressed. "Yes, sir! But—it's Alex! The pilot of CK-37! He got dragged down into the planet's gravity by an enemy knight... a knight emitting a Freiheit signal-ID!"
He shoved a tablet forward, displaying grainy battlefield images—a ragged CK-37 clashing with an unfamiliar knight, its massive wrist armour deflecting Boötes' scythe.
Rafellan exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"That damned child... What the hell kind of trouble has he gotten himself into now?!"
If Alex had been pulled into the planet's gravity, then the orbital cannons would have ripped him apart by now. And if they hadn't, then the fall damn well should have.
"Shit! Prepare smoke and drop pods—I'm going down myself to secure Boötes' remains."
"Hang on a second."
A new voice chimed in, cutting through the tension. Rafellan turned to find two figures—mercenaries, if their dark armour and casual arrogance were any indication—leaning over the tablet's display.
The shorter of the two snorted.
"Trigatra's sake. We leave her for five seconds and she gets herself into trouble like this?" she turned to his companion. "You see this shit, Jason?"
Jason pursed his lips, arms crossed as he studied the image. He exhaled through his nose, looking almost tired.
"Unfortunately, I do, Nicole." He straightened and turned to the general. "My apologies, General, but the 'unknown knight' in that picture? That's actually our third squad member. CK-14, Andromeda. Piloted by Second-Lieutenant Firefly."
The weight of that statement settled over the room like a cold wave.
Rafellan's scowl deepened. The Rogue Ravens. Of course it had to be them.
He stared at the image again, his mind already racing. If what they said was true... then Firefly had likely survived the descent.
"What are the chances she managed to save that idiot?" he asked, unwilling to hope but unable to ignore the possibility.
The first mercenary smirked. "Pretty high if you ask me."
He leaned lazily against the console, voice almost too relaxed for the situation.
"Firefly loves flying around with Andromeda. She's kind of used to falling from high places. I'm sure she worked something out." He shrugged. "Can't promise the bastard who attacked her will still be in one piece afterward, though."
That should've been good news, but Rafellan couldn't push aside his unease. "I'll provide as much assistance as possible to mount a rescue then—"
"No, no, that's not what my colleague meant, General."
Jason's smooth interruption made the surrounding officers tense. He spoke as if this were a business negotiation, as if the general's authority was merely an inconvenience.
"Firefly will ensure your man survives. All we need to do now is locate her target and tell her where to go. Then she'll move to destroy the orbital defence cannons nearest to her position."
Rafellan's teeth ground together. 'These damn mercenaries—'
He breathed through his nose, his massive frame looming over the two men as his glare bore into them.
"Listen, you Rogue Raven trash—if your teammate fails to ensure my boy stays alive down there, it's your heads that'll be crushed under my boots." His voice dropped into a threatening growl. "There's nothing 'playboy' Tony, that drunkard Peter, or heartless Monica will be able to do or say to save you from the fault of killing Major Alex Cyonis. Are we clear?"
The smirking girl merely clapped a hand against Rafellan's broad chest with a cocky grin.
"Crystal, big man." Then she spun on his heel and swaggered off the command deck. "I'll be in communications, working around the jammers to contact Firefly. You focus on locating our target, Jason."
Jason—ever the more polite one—gave a curt salute. "We estimate Firefly will search for scrap to repair Andromeda and the other CK using fallen debris while waiting for us to locate the target. I'd give it four hours before she's good to move."
"I'll send a drone to deliver the target coordinates in four hours, then." The cocky girl glanced back as she walked. "Wonder if Firefly misses us already?"