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cannons. We'll shoot them down the old-fashioned way . "
    He spun up the Gatling cannon and could feel it shaking beneath his feat as it moved. He keyed for the rounds to use explosive charge, and led his trio around for a strafing run. A light keyed green as the rounds were chambered, and Vincent's finger slid down to the secondary trigger.
    Vincent teased the rudder and took up a position behind an enemy ship, its bulbous frame hiding the deadly munitions beneath. He kept his ship in a lazy spiral to avoid some of the tail gunners’ fire, and squeezed off a burst from his cannon, the chemical-filled rounds stitching a row of miniature blasts in front of the bomber as it continued onward. Its armor took the brunt of the damage, but Vincent could see atmosphere draining from some of the holes. The Duchess's rounds punched through its cockpit, and with a muted flash, the bomber continued its run without pilots. Vincent and his wingmates charged forward through the sand cloud and other bombers. They moved fast, and the sand blocked the bombers’ computer sensors from painting them with a target lock; the enemy gunners had to shoot them by sight.
    The bombers’ formation had pulled away from its floundering member and a well-disciplined gunner brought his lasers to bear on the Duchess. Before her armor could be overwhelmed, Vincent kicked his own ship sideways to take the fire on his port side. A quick flash of red bled into the green field of his HUD as the heat compensator protested, and Vincent diverted his starboard power to reinforce. The ablative armor could shrug off only so much before it slagged.
    Vincent's maneuver opened an opportunity for Zombie, who had been further back, and with a quick burst of his own guns, the bomber disappeared in a torrent of muted flame.
    "No man escapes the Reapers," Vincent intoned the squadron's motto. Duchess let out a whoop of exhilaration, and an undercurrent of gratitude and thanks poured openly through the bionet.
     Zombie called across the net.
    "Button up, Zombie," Vincent chuckled despite himself. The thrill was starting to overtake him; he was losing himself in the fight.
    Their chase had taken them further from the furball and remaining bombers, and with a flick of the rudder, Vincent corkscrewed and pushed back into the chaos.
    So far the dreaded alarm had stayed silent; no one in his squadron had been injured. For this, Vincent was grateful. Too often he lost good pilots to careless mistakes or chance. But today, he intended to congratulate eleven pilots in the debriefing room.

Chapter 7
    The Exile
     
    The pilots broke down completely when they saw the enemy bombers and their fighter escort. They were juveniles, and no amount of training could have steeled their nerves when they found themselves surrounded by the enemy. Exile's web couldn't break the hold of the fear that consumed them, not without it consuming her as well. She pulled her knife from its sheath once more, and stared down at the obsidian sphere nestled in the pommel. Her own blood would not be enough; she needed more power than she could pull from her own reserves. She needed a sacrifice.
    The Shadow within the dagger thrummed with excitement, connected as it was to her emotions. It knew what she was planning, and it hungered for the release. Was it worth giving into the creature to save herself? For what felt like an eternity, she considered re-sheathing the dagger and letting fate choose her path.
    Patience brings peace. The mantra came quickly to answer her silent question, and she felt the spear of pain from the ghost of her amputated arm. Her lack of faith was what forced her from the conclave, bonded her to the monster in her dagger, and stole her arm. She would never again allow fate to have sway.
    Exile approached the first man who had moved to attack her. She had difficulty discerning humans by their physical features,