together in four evenings, as I recall. I helped Dad put the bits together.”
“This is absurd. I’m flying over Mars in a plane that would have fit just fine in the Hitler War.”
“Actually, it’s a little primitive for that. We were improvising.” She threw a few switches, then said, “I’m going to have to go to manual. The on-board systems aren’t really up to dogfighting. Make sure your parachute straps are secure.”
“Maggie, we’re only wearing light suits.”
“Then we’d better hope we don’t need the parachutes. Hold on, this is going to get bumpy.” Pulling down the microphone on her headset, she said, “Talbot, I’m going to take the rear and try and keep our new friends off our backs. Head right for the Embassy, and don’t look back. Clear?”
“Hold on, I’m….”
“You will do no such thing!” Orlova snapped. “I know this atmosphere, I know this plane, and you know neither. Get to safety. I can handle this. That’s an order.”
“Roger,” he reluctantly said. “See you on the deck.”
“Good. Orlova out.”
While she settled into manual control, Orlova looked back at the pursuing pilots, glancing down at their progress on the rudimentary sensor display. Lots of quick maneuvers, sloppy piloting, not making the most of their advantage, though they would still catch up to her in a few moments. Rookies, at a guess, perhaps making too much use of their automated systems. That was something she could exploit.
With a smile, she pulled the nose up, gaining altitude, watching as they struggled to follow. Her controls began to soften, the power fade away as the fighter pulled out of the thin pressure envelope in which it could safely operate. Two of them gave up the attempt, staying down on the deck, while the other managed to gain some height. While he wallowed through the air, she banked around in a wide arc, swooping down towards him and tapping a control on her joystick, sending fire spitting in his direction.
The machine gun was at least automatically aimed, and a salvo of bullets smashed into her opponent’s wing, sending him wheeling down to the surface as the on-board computer attempted to salvage the situation into a controllable crash, with less than a thousand feet to play with.
His wingmates were coming up fast, and bullets flew past the cockpit, missing only narrowly, a little out of range. On instinct alone, she dived down for the ground, Harriet gasping as she pulled out of the descent with only a few dozen feet to go, close enough to make out every detail of the surface. She could only see one of the fighters ahead, and she ranged in towards it.
“Behind us, Maggie!” Harriet said. “Five o’clock!”
“Too many old movies…,” Orlova muttered as she hurled the fighter into a series of evasive maneuvers, glancing up at the power register. As with everything else on this prototype, the flying time had never been sufficient, the bugs in the system not worked out, and the stresses of combat were beginning to take their toll. For a split second, she had a chance shot at one of the other fighters, and she took full advantage of it; the pilot was close enough to the ground that he could get into a glide path down as her bullets tore into his engine housing.
Before she could properly check, a salvo ripped through the air above her, sending a series of red lights flashing on her controls as she threw switches in an attempt to mitigate the damage.
“What is it?”
“Sensors, damn it. Look around for the bastard.”
Orlova’s eyes ranged the sky as she wove an intricate pattern of evasive maneuvers, trying not to stay straight and level for more than a few seconds, heedless of the damage to her power reserve, which was getting worryingly near the red line.
“Got him, seven o’clock,” Harriet said. “Heading our way.”
A portion of Orlova’s mind was impressed at the journalist’s
“This is absurd. I’m flying over Mars in a plane that would have fit just fine in the Hitler War.”
“Actually, it’s a little primitive for that. We were improvising.” She threw a few switches, then said, “I’m going to have to go to manual. The on-board systems aren’t really up to dogfighting. Make sure your parachute straps are secure.”
“Maggie, we’re only wearing light suits.”
“Then we’d better hope we don’t need the parachutes. Hold on, this is going to get bumpy.” Pulling down the microphone on her headset, she said, “Talbot, I’m going to take the rear and try and keep our new friends off our backs. Head right for the Embassy, and don’t look back. Clear?”
“Hold on, I’m….”
“You will do no such thing!” Orlova snapped. “I know this atmosphere, I know this plane, and you know neither. Get to safety. I can handle this. That’s an order.”
“Roger,” he reluctantly said. “See you on the deck.”
“Good. Orlova out.”
While she settled into manual control, Orlova looked back at the pursuing pilots, glancing down at their progress on the rudimentary sensor display. Lots of quick maneuvers, sloppy piloting, not making the most of their advantage, though they would still catch up to her in a few moments. Rookies, at a guess, perhaps making too much use of their automated systems. That was something she could exploit.
With a smile, she pulled the nose up, gaining altitude, watching as they struggled to follow. Her controls began to soften, the power fade away as the fighter pulled out of the thin pressure envelope in which it could safely operate. Two of them gave up the attempt, staying down on the deck, while the other managed to gain some height. While he wallowed through the air, she banked around in a wide arc, swooping down towards him and tapping a control on her joystick, sending fire spitting in his direction.
The machine gun was at least automatically aimed, and a salvo of bullets smashed into her opponent’s wing, sending him wheeling down to the surface as the on-board computer attempted to salvage the situation into a controllable crash, with less than a thousand feet to play with.
His wingmates were coming up fast, and bullets flew past the cockpit, missing only narrowly, a little out of range. On instinct alone, she dived down for the ground, Harriet gasping as she pulled out of the descent with only a few dozen feet to go, close enough to make out every detail of the surface. She could only see one of the fighters ahead, and she ranged in towards it.
“Behind us, Maggie!” Harriet said. “Five o’clock!”
“Too many old movies…,” Orlova muttered as she hurled the fighter into a series of evasive maneuvers, glancing up at the power register. As with everything else on this prototype, the flying time had never been sufficient, the bugs in the system not worked out, and the stresses of combat were beginning to take their toll. For a split second, she had a chance shot at one of the other fighters, and she took full advantage of it; the pilot was close enough to the ground that he could get into a glide path down as her bullets tore into his engine housing.
Before she could properly check, a salvo ripped through the air above her, sending a series of red lights flashing on her controls as she threw switches in an attempt to mitigate the damage.
“What is it?”
“Sensors, damn it. Look around for the bastard.”
Orlova’s eyes ranged the sky as she wove an intricate pattern of evasive maneuvers, trying not to stay straight and level for more than a few seconds, heedless of the damage to her power reserve, which was getting worryingly near the red line.
“Got him, seven o’clock,” Harriet said. “Heading our way.”
A portion of Orlova’s mind was impressed at the journalist’s
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