Predictive

Kaihi

A piercing whine shatters the early morning quiet, startling birds and sending small creatures on the airstrip diving for cover. The big propellers pick up speed, the low hum rising into a slicing scream. The canopy slides shut. The outside world disappears into silence.

I check everything.

Then I check it again.

And again, one last time.

Satisfied, I connect my headset to the intercom.

“All right, everything’s good to go up here. You happy?”

Zyla’s voice crackles through, weaker than normal but still laced with enthusiasm.

“Yes!”

I ease off the brakes. Mazel rolls forward out of cover. I pivot her quickly onto the grass strip, bumping over weeds that have long since claimed the runway. At the end, I jam the right wheel brake - she spins around fast, barely missing a tree. I line her up. Bring her to a stop.

“Ready to go?”

“Always!”

I push the throttle forward. The whistle deepens into a lovely, resonant hum, and we rocket down the strip - then lift, light and graceful, like a petal tugged from a flower by the wind.

Airborne. Off on the final leg of our journey.

And easily the most dangerous.

We don’t climb for long. The nav rings flicker into view and I chase them, low and fast. My mind spins with worst-case scenarios. If we run into that carrier again, it’s over. No hope of evasion. No chance of fighting back.

I try to think of some way through its defenses - any hole, any weakness - but I come up blank.

If we do meet it, or even if we don't, this’ll all come down to luck.

Like a smeared painting, the ground blurs beneath us - rivers, roads, forests, hills, and farmland streak past as we soar. The air sings, hammering against Mazel’s frame as we cruise at 1150 km/h.

Not exactly a “cruising speed” by any normal definition, but Mazel isn’t in the same league as anything else I’ve ever flown. Or even seen.

I still wonder why she was in cold storage aboard the Trpimir. She outclasses every aircraft on both sides by a mile. Maybe I’ll ask someone in Aymar.

If we make it to Aymar.

Fiya did the math - six hours from takeoff to the border. Which puts us about four hours out now, and so far… no enemy contacts.

Naturally, just as I think that, Fiya speaks up.

“Radar detected. Missile battery. Heading three-three-two.”

I spot it quickly - a tall, truck-mounted radar system spinning in the distance. Nearby, a hidden launcher fires, a plume of white smoke curling into the sky.

But then - abruptly - the trail cuts off. An explosion blooms beside the launcher.

Malfunction?

I don’t know, and I’m not sticking around to find out.

The speedometer ticks upward, climbing past 1250 km/h - just over the sound barrier. I say a quick, silent prayer for anyone standing under our flight path. At this speed, our passing will be the last thing they hear before their eardrums rupture.

We stay at that speed for a full hour, shaving half an hour off our ETA.

And still, we fly on.

But it’s the quiet that unnerves me. The empty sky. The lack of resistance. I find myself more anxious about not seeing enemies than I would be if we were already in combat.

Where is everything? Did the enemy launch an assault deeper into Aymarian territory?

I shake the thought. Try to take Zyla’s view on things - be grateful for what you do get.

And right now, I can’t complain about a safe flight.

I keep checking the map, again and again, just to remind myself how close we are to the border as the sun begins its long descent.

Below us: farmland, gently hilled, endless.

Thirty minutes out.

But there’s a problem.

Three separate radars have us locked.

No missiles.

No fighters.

Nothing.

It’s unbearable. My heart thuds in my chest. My hands sweat. Mazel hums cheerfully as we push forward, still at speed.

Twenty minutes.

Still nothing.

I’m close to panicking.

Stop.

Breathe.

In. Out.

In.

Out.

Calm.

Ten minutes to the border.

My pulse races. The ground flickers beneath us in a blur of motion. Mazel screams onward.

Then-

Fiya screeches.

“Missile lock! Missile lock! Two-nine-five!”

I snap my eyes to the direction. There - orange smoke, streaking skyward. A new variant.

My finger hovers over the afterburner. Waiting.

The missile rises - then suddenly dives, leveling off with us. Approaching fast.

Six seconds.

In. Out.

Five.

In. Out.

Four.

A red laser flares from the missile’s nose - blazing a line of light directly across our flight path.

Instinct kicks in.

I yank the stick - up, hard - and just in time. The missile vanishes below.

Mazel jolts as the missile rips through the air underneath us. It reappears moments later, trailing orange smoke, arcing wide - then circling back.

It’s coming again.

“Fiya! What are we dealing with?!”

“It’s a predictive tracker! With an afterburner. It fires a route-check laser right before it commits. If you react too slowly-”

The laser flashes again.

I slam the airbrakes. The missile streaks past with a boom, shaking the cockpit.

Fiya’s voice shrieks again:

“Two more incoming! One-six-six!”

I hit the afterburner. The laser flashes over our nose again, and Mazel lurches forward-

1800 km/h.

1900.

Another laser - dead ahead. I roll, sharp and sudden-

A missile streaks below, close enough to leave a wake.

No time to think.

Another laser. I yank the stick back - still inverted - then slam it forward again.

WHUMP.

It misses by meters.

We roar low across the farmland. I roll upright - just in time to spot another laser. Another dodge. Another close call.

Too close.

Fiya’s voice cuts through the noise:

“Five minutes from the border! We can do this!”

I can’t reply.

This isn’t a dogfight.

This is survival.