Of Ghosts and Spirits Walking by Night
Song and Dance
Tourmaline ghosts weave and sway through the blue-gray forest, devouring all who let themselves be caught by the faint wisps. Tears stream down from eyes raw from the snowing ashes. A bright droplet cuts a path through the dry flakes of blood sheathing the boy's cheeks. His wails are wordless, thoughtless, pure appeals for something to end this nightmare.
In the heavens, the angels' trumpets rend the firmament apart, splitting the rightful from the wrathful with thunderous magenta streaks. The trees reach up, supplicating the beings to cease their destruction, but no one hears them. All their leaves have been carbonized by the ghosts, no more can they whisper in the winds. Dead branches sheathed in deader bark are all they have left.
Beneath, the ashy dirt hides a root from the boy, tripping him treacherously. His knees strike the ground, but his arms catch the earth before it can meet his head. The fine white dust coats his even whiter hands. It's still painfully hot. This burning sensation pushes him to stand back more than any will he might still have. Everything is ash, now. Everything except this stupid little box.
The boy hated the box. He didn't know how or why, but that little box had killed everyone, and it was gonna kill him too. Despite that, it and its small blinking green light were his salvation. The boy did not understand this paradox, did not even acknowledge it. He just got back on his feet and kept running. They wouldn't be far behind him, despite his headstart. Their legs were much longer.
Another blinding mauve slash bisected the sky, hitting landside this time. The explosion's tremor made him stumble, and the echoing thunder that followed nearly knocked him back down, but he took the next step, and the next, and the next...
He never even saw them. An arm bigger than he was snatched him off the ground. One gauntlet held his torso with ease while the other carefully picked the box out of his trembling arms. The boy held onto it with all the strength he had, screaming and pulling, but the hulking figure shrouded in shadows pulled it from his hands as though he wasn't even there, a steel claw resisted by a boy made of cloud and vapor. Many more apparitions showed themselves and surrounded him.
It looked at the box for a few seconds before throwing him to the ground like some discarded toy. Then, without missing a beat, it raised a gun towards the boy. Looking down into the barrel of Death, the boy did not feel the peace and belonging his parents claimed should accompany the Good Death. He did not want to die. This impulse took over his entire existence, yet it froze him in place completely, as he stared into the lasgun's aperture.
This instant might have lasted half a second, or hours. Everything beside the weapon's shimmering lens went out of focus and joined the shadowy darkness.
Then, the soldier's head bloomed, as a red flower might. Scarlet petals unfolded from his half-white, half-black visor, delicately extending their crimson tendrils outwards. Ever so slowly, the lasgun turned its gaze elsewhere, suddenly losing interest in him. Finally, the boy looked upwards and saw it. An angel had come for him, taller than mother's house. More lillies blossomed in the azure forest, but the boy only cared about the angel of Death. Red-hot blood poured from a gaping hole in its chest, but that didn't matter. A pink halo encompassed its twinkling eyes, he was saved...
Awakening
"Ahem, Tuval? Station Kira 2 to Tuval, can you hear me?"
Tuval's dry eyes blinked a few times while his classmates chuckled quietly. Teach's voice was disapproving, albeit kind.
"Ah, looks like the sleepbeat is back with us, wonderful. As I said, Tuval, could you explain the concept of SIN depth and its operational implications as described in this lecture's requisite reading?" Implacable. The professor was staring at him, impassive. There was no wriggling himself out of this one.
Tuval took a look through the window before facing his fate. All was well in the station. The trees were green, not blue, and no fiery ghosts waltzed across the land. Up in the sky, there were no angels, just a clear line of sight to the other side of the cylinder-shaped orbital colony. His eyes were drawn to a green-roofed building about 60 degrees away from the school which he called his home. A map of the city being available simply by looking up was an unexpected advantage of these habitats. 'That was more vivid than usual...'
Put on the spot like this, he didn't have a chance to even skim the textbook. Better just dive in. "Ah, er, the SIN depth is, that's the skeletal inter... Interconnection? And that's what the pilots use to, um, to connect to the Daemon? It makes a connection between the skeletons of the two lifeforms? Right? And if the connection is too deep, this is dangerous for the pilot, because the mind of the Daemon... Damages the pilot's? And uh..."
Tuval stared at the teacher while his brain tried and failed to generate the next sentence of bullshit. Only knowing what he did not know was a painful realization.
The pedagogue let a beat pass before sighing dramatically. "Please do try to pay better attention, Tuval. You could use it."
Oh, how he'd have loved to be someone who could laugh this off, uncaring, sitting back down with a smirk while whispering a jab at the prof to his neighbour. But Tuval simply wasn't. All he wanted was to become invisible to the other students' eyes as he sunk to his seat silently.
Mercifully, the sleepy grogginess reclaimed her rightful place almost instantly... Until a voice sharp as a monowire cut through the fog and drew his eye.
Her. Of course, she'd volunteer after this poor display of his. They exchanged a look, or perhaps a glare. Mockery flashed on her perfect face, for just a moment.
She got on with it right away, didn't even need to clear her throat. "The SIN Depth, short for Skeletal Interface Network Depth, is a Daemon operational setting of the utmost importance. It determines the degree to which the Interfacing Pilot and the Daemon's nervous system are intertwined. Most Daemons have a SIN Depth of 0, meaning that the two nervous systems are fully air-gapped. Wireless communication protocols exist for niche uses, but the limited bandwidth, lag, vulnerability to remote access, and requirement for increased cybernetic intervention on the pilot make this an inferior option for most use-cases." Her enunciation was perfect, overly formal if anything. She'd been taught Morijin at home; it was her father's tongue, after all.
Ciqui pushed a strand of pale pink hair behind her ear. It had been a warm straw blonde shade upon her arrival in the Shindus system, three months back. But she'd taken to Morinium exposure easily. Only a few bangs retained the golden colour now, with the rest adopting a vibrant rose hue. "From SIN Depth 1 onwards, a physical nervous connection must be established. This is accomplished through one or more spinal cybernetic surgeries which implant quick-disconnect nerve-nerve ports. Entry level implants will be inserted in the skull, behind the ear, for minimal communication lag and intrusiveness." Her fingertips lingered near one such implant near the nape of her neck as she nestled the hair in place.
These were a fairly common sight here; this was a military base's school. Some of the kids got a basic implant to get started racking up cockpit hours on the full-immersion simulators. Ciqui was some pampered princess though, Tuval hadn't ever seen her at the ops training center. He would have bet his left ball that she'd only gotten it as a status symbol. Damn near stolen valor.
She continued, without missing a beat. "To increase motor neuron engagement, more advanced neural interfaces will completely replace the spinous processes of the vertebrae to provide a direct, shielded connection to the vertebral foremen, granting access to the spinal cord and meninges. C1 to C3 receive this treatment most often, though implantation of ports on all vertebrae, cervical, thoracic and lumbar, is possible. If all vertebrae are treated, such a platform is known as a 'Complete Spinous Interfacilization' and is highly intrusive and thus uncommon, but provides the fastest and most complete pilot control of the Daemon, as their entire motor nervous system can be recruited for mech operations, bypassing the brain at times. This type of connection is required for the relatively safe use of SIN Depths above 49." The girl allowed herself a controlled breath, while Teach paced across the front of the class, nodding approvingly and jotting down key concepts on the bio-screen. 'Air-gap' 'nerve-nerve ports' 'motor neuron recruitment' 'implant'
"Described in relatable terms, low SIN Depth is a new sense of sorts, like feeling a rarely-used muscle for the first time. Most Deamon functions will be activated by using existing muscles, correlating for example digit muscle activation to the mecha's movements. At greater depths, above 15, the feeling is closer to an entire new limb, which can be both overwhelming and painful, akin to a reverse phantom pain. Extreme depths are perceived as out-of-body experiences, or rather, new body experiences. When synchronization between the interfacing pilot and the Daemon is optimal, the consciousness of the pilot actually finds itself shared among both nervous systems, and vice-versa with the machine's, which can have long term effects that are still under academic investigation." The words echoed in Tuval's brain for a second. 'Long term effects'. He felt cold.
Ciqui put a slender finger against her lips for a second, as though she was wondering whether she'd forgotten some detail. That was only an act; Ciqui's orations never had anything missing.
Satisfied with her summary of the reading, the girl put her hands together on the low of her back, and stood at attention.
With the bio-screen now displaying the upcoming topics of the lecture, Teach turned and thanked Ciqui for her thorough summary. Tuval's intellectual fumble was well forgotten now. That was what he wanted. But now, he was just irritated at this rich teacher's pet radiating self-importance at his expense.
On the bright side, he wasn't sleepy anymore.
Insertion
"And I'm tellin' ye, you've already gone and done your hours for the month and it ain't my damned fault we're only a wee two cycles in, shoulda paced yerself better." That cantankerous, bone-headed old sapbeat. Tuval had quite liked Ol' Root Ailbhe when he was the head mechanic of the station's hangar. A few years back, he'd let Tuval roam around the garage and climb onto the Kalma's carapaces. The techs called him the "shop's rat"; he even let him slip into one of the cockpits, once.
One of the colony's dozen maintenance mechs rested in the cavernous space, holding itself in place in the weightless room with two robust handles. The motionless hangar was auxiliary to the main cylinder, attached to the main axle which jutted out from the two extremities of the rotating colony. The Kalma's optics were shuttered, and its limbs swayed ever so slightly in the still air; it was asleep.
"Awright then ye wee bawbag, ain nothin' tae be 'fraid of! Cam 'ere". His accent had been even thicker back then; Ailbhe and a few hundred saplings had recently arrived to the station, refugees from what was left of the Plaiduaine Space Hive following one of the many terrible raids of the Rapture Wars. Perhaps Tuval also being a newcomer to the installations had carved a soft spot for him in Ailbhe's woody heart.
Tuval wasn't too used to 0-G back then, he could barely step across the flooring with his little magboots, never mind do any acrobatics. The mechanic's thin, long arms grabbed him by the waist and raised him up. His fingers weren't quite bark-like yet, more like a very dry callus. "Open up Oh-Four, that 'ere youngun wants tae take a swatch at yer innards". One triangular piece of the shell on the lower part of its thorax lifted itself to reveal a pair of mandibles, which moved aside with a sigh to open a narrow hole.
"Just reach up ladee, it won't hurt ye." Being faced with the creature's gullet, some reservations crawled into the back of Tuval's young mind. Despite its appearance, it was quite odorless, with only the faintest hint of iodine wafting from the entrance. Inside, the white flesh looked soft, but dry; this wasn't a wet-running cockpit, like the... Other one.
A line of bioluminescent sacs traced a curved line into the interior, putting the seat out of sight. He gulped for courage and reached up. A white tendril, perhaps an inch thick snaked out and wrapped itself around his arm and hand, firm but not crushing. Its "skin" was cool, but not slimy, which he was thankful for.
"Just get on and grab Oh-Four's feeler there, so he knows you're good to go. It goan be awright, he's a wee softie." Ailbhe let go of Tuval's waist, letting him float, only tethered to the Daemon.
Tuval steeled himself and grasped the tentacle in his small hand.
Which he regretted almost immediately.
He was pulled up into the tunnel, not quite brusquely, but almost. He instinctively flinched when he hit the side of the wall, but the material seemed to respond to his impact, cushioning him perfectly to let him slide toward the cockpit, which he reached in barely a second.
The throat closed as soon as he was thrown into the seat. Three hooked tendrils coiled around Tuval, these ones hard and flat, and secured him in place by knotting one another over his midsection.
"Oy bairn, is the accommodations to yer liking? Bonnie comfy, innit? Like a cradle." He couldn't see the sapling, but he heard him loud and clear. The voice did not reach Tuval inside the Daemon, it was being re-broadcast inside the cockpit so as to come from the correct direction.
"Y-yeah it's all good Ail." It was definitely comfortable, but the space was dark and claustrophobic. That other Daemon's cockpit had been much larger. This one also had a great many buttons, being designed for full manual control; some were hard bony protrusions, others were these soft bubbles. Three multiaxial pedals and two chitinous joysticks completed the inputs.
"Ye can play with the handles if ye like, Oh-Four knows he's not to move." Gingerly at first, Tuval tried to push the sticks around, then with their full range of motion. Tuval had thought he'd enjoy this more, but now that he was in the dim recess... He only felt trapped. It wasn't the same as back then.
He let go of the sticks. "Hey Ail, how do I get out?"
"Huh, awready? Ye barely got in there. Well, if ye want out you just gotta press where the belt feelers are all knotted together, 'round ye belly button." Tuval barely hesitated, and his fingers quickly fumbled to apply pressure to the biological buckle, as though he was rushing back to his nightlight while crossing a dark corridor.
Simultaneously, the belts slithered off his torso, the throat reopened, and the thicker tentacle came to rest on his shoulder.
Before he processed what was going on, he'd been pushed out of the Kalma and was back in Ailbhe's branches, just about hearing the sound of rushing air as the cockpit's entrance sealed itself back up. "Ey ladee, all good? Ye pale as a... Well, pale as usual, but ye don't look well." Ah, Ailbhe was so paternal and caring back then... His love had gotten tougher as Tuval got older.
Which brought them to the current point. Tuval knew Ol' Root only had the best intentions, but his stickling for the rules wouldn't do this time, he needed more time in the seat. The old sapling was standing between him and the simulator, it seems like he was going to have to use "that".
Infusion
Tuval scratched the back of his bald head, mustering every scrap of innocence he could muster. "Hey, come on Ailbhe, work with me here. I swear I'll pace myself next month, but I really wanna put some time in now, I came up with this flight pattern I wanna test out while it's still all fresh in my dome." That kind of excuse usually made Monroki budge, back when he was the sim center's manager. If the place was on the empty side, at least.
But the sapling wouldn't make it so easy. "Rules are simple, ladee. Ye get hours, ye use em, ye get more later. Ain't quite sure why ye keep snoopin 'round when you know that's how it is." So damn stubborn. He'd really become half a deadbeat since arriving on the station; his bark-like forearms were bleached white, more like driftwood than the deep oaken shade they once had.
The teen allowed himself a sigh, before pulling out his secret weapon; a small, shiny metallic canister. Its unmarked, silvery surface gave away no hints as to its contents. "Ailbhe, there's something I've been meaning to give you." Tuval began unscrewing the lid, stopping right as the seal was broken.
Standing from his seat to lean over the counter, the mossy man looked more closely at the object, curious. "Eh, a gift, for wee ol' me? Ye shouldn't 'ave, lessee it-". The sentence stopped in its tracks. Ailbhe's nose twitched a few times as a serious mask slid onto his face. "Lad... How'd ye get yer knuckles on that?"
Tuval managed to suppress a smile. "Not easily, I can tell you that much." He unscrewed the cap completely, revealing bright green dried tea leaves. Untracked Faunanite... It had taken some pulling of favors to smuggle it onto the station. It wasn't illegal per se, but any that came close to the station through legal channels got bought up by the SMT's* labs, with priority; their research was a matter of national security, after all.
Something shone in Ailbhe's eye. "Ye know, that could land ye in some troubles, lad. If one of them Vatesii** knew about this ye might be taken in for contraband. Ye needn't do this for me, lad." The old man took deep breaths of the tea's aroma, without noticing.
He put the lid back on the container. "I'm sorry to say, Ailbhe, but I didn't do this for you. I think we can... Help each other."
The old mechanic raised a mossy eyebrow. Two shiny droplets shimmered near his crow's feet. His expression did not bear any sadness, but his body had an instinctive response to the substance. "Sounds like ye've got some foolishness on yer mind, Tuval. Put it outta yer skull. Clean yer prints off of it and drop that can in one of the recyclers, the vitubium collectors goan pick it up, no one'll ever know you had a hand in it."
Tuval shook his head. "But then you don't get the tea, Ail. How old is Alec now? Fourteen? Fifteen as of last week, I think. And still not a hint of moss, or a single sprouted leaf all over him. Right? Even though you've been doing all the rituals." Tears drew a line across Ailbhe's hard cheeks, though his eyes hardened into a glare.
"Ye're outta line, ladee. The change will come to me son when it does, when the Mother intends and wishes. There be nothin wrong with me lad." Tuval had to swallow the instinct to shrink back before his paternal figure's indignation. He was almost there.
"There's nothing wrong with Alec, Ail, but a Sapling needs his Mother's embrace. And you've been away from the cradle for too long now. I know you're still hopeful, but it's been ten years Ail, with still no clues, no hints. Wherever Plaiduaine is, it's beyond the reach of us mortals. You have to make do with what you have. And this might be able to help." Tuval's heart near shattered as he saw the effects of his words on the old man. The defiance melted from his stare, and it seemed like genuine tears joined those born from the exposure to the verdant leaves.
Tuval knew every word he said was true, but that was why they were so hurtful. What was lost, not be regained, that was a grief both men knew.
There was a long, silent pause. Tiny droplets of artificial rain began misting the windows of the building. "And all that smugglin', lad, ye'd do it for what, a few wee hours on one of those sims? Ye know those cockpit time limits are there for reasons, right?"
He nodded. "Yes, I do. That's why I know you wouldn't let me without some compensation. You care too much." They stared at one another for some time.
Ailbhe sighed. "I don't know what's gotten into ye, Tuval. Ye've got this demon in ye, and ye won't tell me anythin 'bout it." The Sapling tapped the desk with a ligneous finger a few times. "Leave the tea 'ere, walk on in. Ye've got six more hours before the squadron gets back and comes in to debrief. I'll give ye another twenty hours this month, no more 'an that. Only in the after hours, and no word to anyone."
The youngster walked forth and put a thankful hand on Ailbhe's shoulder. "Of course, Ailbhe. I'll be in more trouble than you if this gets out."
The old man scoffed. "Oh, ye're already in trouble, ladee. Can see it in yer eye, ye're walking right into it, with the confience of youth 'uns. Fauna preserve you."
He had no answer to that, it was an accurate assessment.
So, he strode forward, wordlessly, into the sim room.
*SMT: Shin Megami Tsukiyo, lit. the New Goddess' Moonlight
**Vatesii: SMT Operative, granted extrajudicial privileges by their divine mission
Inception
The cool air of the sim room felt good on Tuval's skin. His chest was still pounding; some regret at his coercion of his friend nipped at his heart. But this extra sim time was critical. The easygoing days were coming to an end.
Long steps took him past the first four rows of pods. Each was a full-fledged Daemon, though they didn't look it. The creatures lacked any complex limbs or features, with only eight vestigial black dots of eyes dotting the top of the blue-grey carapaces, and two large claws to close off the cockpit as they clasped one another. He came to a stop in front of his usual machine, Cabby. As usual, it recognized Tuval right away when his palm touched it, waving its claws with something that might be interpreted as cheerfulness. The pincers let go of one another and were raised up and to the sides, revealing a soft-looking white pilot seat.
Tendrils tipped with fluffy balls of nerves slid out of the seat and caressed points of his spine, looking for neural ports to interface with. Three found a mark, a nape port on the back of his skull and two more on his neck. He'd need to get the operation for the CSI* sooner rather than later, with only these ports it was already straining his system to interface with 85 MIQ Daemons.
"Anything new in your memories, Cabby?" Tuval felt more than heard of negative response from the mind he was now connected to. Despite their physical minimalism, Dreaming Daemons had some of the more complex cerebrums found in any Daemon, it occupied most of their body's volume. Nothing less was required to be able to simulate and generate the conditions and events encountered in a wide range of other machines.
"Alright, then boot up KGK-283017 "Operation Hammerhead". I've got a good feeling about today." He really didn't, but if he could convince Cabby, perhaps he could convince himself.
Cabby purred a guttural agreement, and Tuval felt his consciousness sink deeper in to the seat. This transition was unpleasant, but at least it was gentler in a Dreaming Daemon. A new scene came into focus, the bioscreens of the cockpit dimmed and blurred. Tuval felt thin needles pushing `into his new flesh as feeling came into it.
As usual, the dream began with the Prote resting against a floating armor panel, slowly drifting away from a Lunaito wreck, the defunct SSN Candyfloss. Tuval was decades and lightyears away from the air-conditioned room of the station's sim center, now. This was 43 years ago, on the Tailward** edge of the Cluster, during the most intense part of the Colour Wars.
The stings spread from his torso to his limbs. He felt warm and strong; the simulation threw him right in the heat of the battle. He flexed the articulations in turn, the familiar arms and legs first, followed by the stranger claw-digit hands and feet. Then, he stretched the more unfamiliar members. Four wing stumps on his back stretched out, blasting puffs of white-blue fire, followed by two more on the back of the Prote's hips. In his first simulations in a Protean, controlling these felt like trying to move his ears with his temple muscles, but now they were almost like a set of left arms.
All he had to do was allow the Daemon into his mind, let its muscle memory and insight do the work. Showing such vulnerability to the alien intelligence did not come to one naturally, though. The pilot had to tear down psychological walls the brain raised instinctively; this was the only way gain control of the Daemon; some control over oneself had to be relinquished.
Cabby's familiarity made this easier. Soon, the needles were gone, and Tuval only felt his steely bones, the powerful muscles pumping nuclear fuel through his pressurized veins, and his shimmering nanite skin.
He let one of his peripherals optics peek beyond his cover. The memory kept the same general scenario with every attempt, but the dream was chaotic enough that he could never predict the exact layout of the situation he woke up into.
Five Lunaito powered suits, survivors from the Candyfloss' wreck. Three Pink Consortium retreating ships, a few thousands klicks away, prograde. In the other direction, a dozen Blue League vessels bearing down on the remnants, a bit closer. Fifteen enemy interceptors, in CQC range, Guranese void-swimmers. A single elite Usadan bomber mech, the architect of the Lunaito corvette's destruction.
Situation assessed. Tuval relayed the data of his bio-radar to the local allied network and opened his wings.
Seven million newtons of thermonuclear thrust shot the Prote out of the ruin towards his knightly allies, tracing a chaotic arabesque through the void. Since the Chumbuds flanked the outnumbered group, many attempts ended early with Tuval failing to support these precious few allies.
"Sir Mousse, form up under the SSN Candyfloss' left wing, put the reactor shielding between you and the Pekodam." These were Tuval's words, but the voice was not his own; it was Skull Captain Armada Kuzanaki's, Hero of the Colour Wars whose body this memory lodged him in. This battle was the one that had earned her the Diamond Skull&Scythe medal. Beneath her clear, trained tone, her words were echoed by the low rumble of the Protean.
Some of the Blue interceptors shifted their aim from the hiding Luknights to the Deadbeat suit, their laser weapons doing little to the nanite armor. Hits on target vaporized a few million living armor scales, but millions more rushed in to take their place, sealing up any growing breach in the plates. The Prote lifted his own weapon, firing his macron rifle at one of the slower void-swimmers, as he swirled to the side to minimize contact with one of the blue beams.
Center of mass hit! The Guranese mech glowed with the light of a star before turning into a shimmering blue nebula of superheated plasma, quietly blown to smithereens.
Near the ship, the Luknights had exploited this distraction to get under better cover, and were now firing back at the enemy.
He was in the thick of it, now. Tuval danced around the swimmers, putting pressure from above while the followers of the Heavenly Princess fired from their defensive position; soon, only half a dozen of the shrimpmen's mechs remained. But where was the Usadan? He always had a tendency to slip out of Tuval's sights, crawling along some piece of the Candyfloss to avoid detection, right until...
He felt it in every bone of his hulking body. Sensing incoming magic was a bit like feeling the warmth of the sun on your skin, but instead of one's skin, it was the Daemon's very soul. Not all were so attuned, but this Protean was. Down and to his right, a flower of orange rockets bloomed from the back of the blue and white war machine. The Usadan got the jump on him.
Within a fraction of a second, the Daemon put itself into motion, driven by pure trained reflex. Tiny muscles pulled the gun's aperture wide open, shining a broad cone of nuclear destruction in front of Tuval. The barrage of missiles turned into a field of fiery blue roses, backdropped by the faint azure swirls of the Nebula. Two survived the damage and reached the Daemon; both detonated with their proximity sensors, spraying the Prote's left side with the cyan Usadanite explosive slime.
The pain was immense. The magical deflagration had destroyed a chunk of his nanite armor, which was now struggling to regenerate, and the Daemon's left leg was a charred ruin below the knee. As a human, the agony would be insufferable. As Daemon, it focused Tuval's senses and killing instincts into a razor's point.
His enemy was in his gun's path, but at this range and with this firing mode, the damage was limited. A few glowing gouges on the bomber's plating are all he suffered.
Not for long. This Usadan mech has an advantage at a distance, so Tuval activated his afterburner to close the gap. His right arm kept the macron gun pointed and firing at the target, forcing it to evade the now focused beams of destruction, while his left hefted his chainsword from its mechanical scabbard.
He was within a few hundred meters of the Usadan, when the bomber's main weapon finally began glowing with an ethereal light. Tuval engaged in frenetic dodging maneuvers on his approach as every fiber of the Daemon reacted to the magical surge flooding into the Usadan pilot's Vitubic lance. The Prote prepared his slash, and...
Too slow. Much too slow. The Heavenly light filled his field of vision. He'd dodged the core of the beam, but even being within a few meters of it dealt tremendous damage. Right arm out of commission.
But his thrusters still worked. Daemon smashed into Pekodam, the curved black chainsword sliding across the Usadan's orange vibro-blade. Both giants matched strike for strike for half a minute, until Tuval attempted to block a kick with his own left leg... Which was only a source of phantom pain, destroyed as it was. The Pekodam's shin smashed into one of his hip thrusters, smashing it and sending the Daemon spinning. Before Tuval could re-establish his attitude, the orange snake struck out, loping off a head now almost depleted of nanite armor. A second slash deep through the chest destroyed the cockpit. Game Over.
"Sim over." Tuval was soaked in sweat, though the cockpit was still comfortably cool. His hand had instinctively reached for his heart, where the Usadan had just cut the life out of him. "Cabby, print out how Skull Captain Armanda completed this op, would you?" Tuval knew this story almost by heart, he'd read it many times before. But after this sort of unsuccessful attempt, he always had trouble believing she'd actually pulled it off.
Combined strikes from the PPS Nousaggedon and from Senior Officer Javier Bunnydo's Pekodam destroyed the SNN Candyfloss. SC Kuzanaki emerged from the wreck's hangar, her Daemon primed for battle, and engaged the Guranese squadron on the scene alongside the surviving Luknight units. After destroying most of this Blue group, she eliminated Officer Bunnydo's mecha before heading to the PPS Nousaggedon's strike group alongside the Luknights. After disabling a part of the vessel's point defense, creating a defensive deadzone, Kuzanaki opened a breach in the Nousaggedon's hull and fired her macron gun at point-blank range into it, destroying the Blue fleet's Catalog Gate inhibitor, and allowing Rear Admiral Plexus' fleet to jump into the area. The ambush that followed led to the destruction of the Blue League forces in the system.
'I still have a long way to go.' He'd only managed to defeat the Pekodam twice before, always taking too much damage to complete the assault on the Nousaggedon. Tuval checked the time. He still had a few hours before he'd be getting kicked out of the sim center by Ailbhe.
"Cabby, save the recording of the last dream to my file. And boot up the same memory again." He thought of lances of light shining among the stars overhead. He wasn't ready for it, for that. He had to work harder.
*Complete Spinous Interfacilization
**The longer and thinner part of the Vitubian Nebula's cloud is often valled its "Tail".