Our Little Homeworld

by Horizon Runner


1.4: Flygirl

Time: 7:46 P.M.
Location: Mothership Pilot Barracks A, Rainbow Dash’s Quarters.

“Hey, Dashie. Damn, look at how much you’ve grown…”

Rainbow Dash tried her damnedest to hold back. Crying was so uncool. This whole conversation was totally uncool. She’d spent too long building up a reputation to stop being cool now.

But you know what? To the deepest, blackest pits of Tartarus with being cool. She could make up for it later.

She smiled back at her dad through the video screen and felt the dam crack. “You haven’t changed a bit, dad,” she said, blinking ferociously at the tears running down her muzzle. It felt good, letting things out. Dash felt like there was some word for it, some deep philosophical term that she’d be trying to remember for the rest of the week. It boiled down to a simple fact: Being cool was overrated.

Bifrost cracked a smile. He’d lost a few teeth here and there, and the shiny gold replacements shined in the light streaming in through his tentflap. The lines around his eyes and lips made him look way older than forty-two, the ever-present sand having made camp within each and every crevice. His scars stood out like little islands on his cobalt coat: A jagged one across his jaw, a star shaped one on his chest, just inches right from his heart, and finally, a great slash across his forehead, slipping into his trademarked seven-colored mane.

 “Hey,” he said. “Don’t sugarcoat things; I’m getting older every day, right? I’ll be an old geezer soon.”

Dash choked back another sob. She’d lost one of his colors; the indigo had merged with the blue, thanks to her mother’s genes. As silly as it was when she looked back, she could remember just how insecure that little difference had made her. She’d worried about it for a whole summer before her father took her aside and showed her a picture of mom. He pointed to her white coat, then at how Dash’s was lighter than his. He pointed at her mane, at the vivid tricolor pattern she’d borne, then at how bright Dash’s own colors were. Finally, he pointed at her eyes, deepest magenta. “This is why you’re not like me,” he’d said. “Because you’ve got her in you too, and let me tell you, that is something to be proud of.”

Just one little moment they’d shared, one of a billion, but in a way it was the only time their family had been whole.

Dash grinned through the tears. “Nah, you're never gonna get old. You’re too cool. You'll be a hundred years old and still be just as awesome.”

Bifrost smiled sadly. “I only wish that was how it worked, Dashie. Still, you’ve got a point; I’ll make an awesome geezer.” He reached out and tapped the lens. “And you’ll make an awesome old hag some day. Don’t forget that, Dashie.”

It was code, and pretty obvious code when you thought about it. Live to a ripe old age. Don’t die young.

Thinking of it that way might have seemed a bit macabre to an outsider, but to them it was a way of life. Soban dealt in danger, and Rainboom Company was just about the most dangerous outfit there was. They were the elites, with the best gear and the most crazy. The took the jobs that were too risky for regular troops, the missions that were suicide to anypony else. Most of the time they came out okay, but every so often a job would go south and they’d lose somepony, sometimes several someponies. A long happy life and a comfy retirement weren’t guaranteed.

Rainbow Dash had been on two missions with her dad’s company. She was only in her teens at the time, but that was old enough for a Sobani. The first one had been fine; just an escort trip for a VIP who needed to make it across the desert in one piece. Through the whole fourteen hour trip, there wasn’t a single sign of Gaalsien raiders. Dash hadn’t even had to fire a shot, though she did learn to fly a gunship on-site.

The second one had been the same, until it turned into a nightmare. Blood, bullets, and rockets everywhere; Gaalsien suicide troops diving into her gunship’s turbines just to bring her down; smoke and haze clogging her lungs as she crawled from the burning wreck; raw pain from a broken leg and wing as her father half-dragged her into the trenches, taking bullet after bullet on his powered armor. Open war, with Rainbow Dash and Bifrost huddling in a foxhole at the center of it all, waiting for backup that came two hours late.

Sure, they weren’t exactly “good times”, but they were defining moments, times when father and daughter had been closer than ever, whether they were sitting on a flatbed and bitching about the heat or screaming for another magazine over the sound of mortar shells. They’d been close, then, and now they seemed so far away.

Dash held back another sob. She wasn’t going to break down, not in front of her dad. She’d let her tears out, but no further. “Hey, dad? Do me a favor. Mom’s grave… I know it's hard to get back there all the time, but keep doing the thing for me. Please?”

Bifrost nodded. “Left the flowers earlier today. She’d be proud of you, Dashie. Hay, who am I kidding. I’m buckin’ proud of you.”

It was getting harder and harder to stay even remotely cool.

“Don’t worry about me, Dash,” Bifrost said suddenly, as if he’d read her thoughts. “I can handle myself and the company just fine, been doin’ it forever. You’ve got your own adventure ahead of you.”

“Dad—”

“Ah ah ah. No buts, got it, Dash? You’re gonna fly high, little filly, and I don’t want you looking back down on my account.”

Rainbow Dash sucked in a breath, willing herself to remain just a little bit cool. “Okay, dad.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Bifrost’s face broke into a grin. “By the way, you’re totally failing to hold it together.”

Rainbow Dash laughed. “That obvious, huh?”

“Hey, look at my face,” Bifrost leaned in, revealing his tear-soaked cheeks. “If you’ve gotta cry, Dashie, then cry. Crying’s how we ponies let go and move on. Ain’t no shame in that, and I expect you to clock anypony who tells you different.”

Rainbow Dash laughed again and felt the dam falling apart. “You got it, dad.”

Bifrost stood back and popped his trademark salute, his right wing held at a jaunty angle above his nose, feathers splayed wide. “Clear skies, Rainbow Dash.”

Rainbow Dash stood and returned the gesture, tears spilling from her smiling eyes. “Clear skies, Bifrost.”

The communication winked out, and Dash nearly collapsed. She sat down on her bed and curled up, letting her emotions work themselves out for a while.

She gave herself a few minutes to get a grip before she let herself leave her quarters. She was not going to be seen as a blubbering wreck, especially not by anypony outside of her family. She got up and tidied her mane a bit, not really paying much attention, and remembered belatedly that she was supposed to brush her teeth.

While she centered herself, Dash took a moment to look about her room. She’d only been staying here for a few days, but already she’d managed to make it her own. There were a few posters, one a recruitment-style piece featuring her dad’s grinning face with the caption “Let’s Crack their Skies”. There was another, similar number, this one featuring the Sobani Crest.

Depending on who you asked, the crest was either the visage of a bird of prey or a highly stylized vitruvian mare style pegasus, with wings simultaneously spread and folded. The politically correct version was of course the former, but it was no secret that Hurricane’s original followers—and many of his modern ones—had all borne wings.

The poster’s tagline was “We Stand”. Kinda lame, really, but it fit. After all, despite Gaalsi’s freakish, techno-organic monsters, Soban and their plain old ordinary guns and rockets—along with the powered armor, tanks, and gunships—had been holding the abominations off for years now.

There was a simple bed, a little more lavish than the stuff back home in that it had a full set of sheets. A little nightstand stood beside, a lamp and fold-out desk built into the plain design. A photo of the Company was propped up there, Dash and her father standing, wings linked, in the center. Against one wall was a tiny closet, empty except for the non-mandatory uniform vest that practically nopony actually wore unless they were going to a meeting or had to carry a lot of crap around with them. There was a hooflocker as well, containing a few assorted knickknacks from planetside, but nothing really all that special. If Dash had been from some other kiith, she might have had a trophy or something to show for her quick rise through the Company’s lower ranks—which was not just because she was the boss’s daughter—but Soban was a spartan kiith, and the rewards for most of her achievements been vocal praise and heavier workloads, rather than bits of metal.

The four exceptions to that rule hung on the aforementioned vest: A little gold thing on a purple ribbon—for wounds inflicted in the line of duty—a brass pair of upswept wings tipped with little amethysts—for being downed while flying an aircraft and carrying on the fight regardless—then a six pointed silver star with a little ruby set in the center—for gallantry in the face of enemies of Soban. Last was the one she valued most; the Rainboom Company patch, seven concentric colored bands, radiating out from violet. In the center was a tiny silver wing. The seven colors were still vivid as the day she’d earned it.

She didn’t wear the vest much for two reasons. First, it was itchy. Second, she kind of felt like it was cheating, flashing the medals. She was the second most decorated pilot on the ship, but most of her medals, save the Fallen Wings, were things most Sobani ended up with several of by the end of their careers, and she wasn’t any more proud of them than the occasional faded scar she’d picked up either in training or during that one job gone wrong. The patch was different, but even it was sort of a given. She’d been born into the Company, and she was more than good enough to join its ranks as soon as she was old enough. Almost every Sobani had a similar story, and those that didn’t ended up leaving the kiith anyways. The Company’s reputation was better than most, but in a way it was still just the family business to her.

There were two other symbols on the vest, of course, but they were barely worth considering. The Sobani Crest hung just above the ribbons, and the Mothership Crest hung front-and-center over the chest, one wing concealing the clasp that held it on. On the whole, both were average. There were plenty of Sobani, and the wings-and-spheres were part of every uniform, since it was kinda the ship’s logo.

Still, she debated slipping it all on. Today was the second-to-last day above Kharequus, and the pit-stop they were making before heading off for good was probably going to last twelve hours at most. She almost certainly wouldn’t get to fly.

But practicality won out. She was going to be wearing her pilot’s suit anyway, and the vest would be extra itchy under all those layers. Plus, she’d tried it once before and discovered that the Silver Star had a habit of digging into her chest, something she couldn’t fix because, well, she’d be wearing a spacesuit.

So Rainbow Dash left it in the closet. She turned one last time, gazing at the photo framed by her bedside. She sucked in a sharp breath through her nose and set a firm look upon her face. A grin spread across her lips, and she stepped out into the barracks foyer.

Spitfire was the first pony she noticed. She was the new squad leader, a replacement for the late—and admittedly less than great—Firebolt. She had a really nice fiery thing going with her mane and coat, and her body was hot as the Hells, too. Two things spoiled the image.

First, everything was hidden by the pilot suit she wore. It was similar in style to the vests, the main differences coming from the facts that it was a full-body spacesuit and that ponies actually wore the things, since, you know, there wasn’t any air in those cockpits. It was slimmed down from a real utility spacesuit and didn’t have anything in the way of pockets, just little clips where you could hook tools at the hooves—which worked great if you had a unicorn helping you or were a freaking artist with your wings. The air tank was small, designed to feed off a bigger one in your actual ship. If you ejected, you’d have thirty minutes of free activity, which you could extend to a slightly more reasonable six hours if you turned on the night-night spell built into the helmet. Of course, you couldn’t do much when you were unconscious, but there was also a handy little beacon that told the Mothership where you were, so assuming the whole situation hadn’t been fubared straight to Tartarus, you’d probably be fine. The suit had full wing-sleeves, which were made to lock with the control harness for the fighter, but in a pinch you could actually flap your wings in them. Given that pegasus flight was partly magic-based, you could even manage a little bit of movement in space. You looked like a drunk goose, most of the time, but in theory it could save your life. Dash had only ever tried airless flight once, and by the end the magic drain had made her wings so sore she had to stay on the ground for a week.

The second reason Spitfire’s smoking hot bod was spoiled for Dash was that she was the boss. Regs aside, propriety aside, common sense aside, there were just some things that were plain. Downright. Wrong. Lusting over the boss was one of them, at least as far as Rainbow Dash was concerned. When the boss had been her dad, this hadn’t been a problem for several obvious reasons, but with Spitfire, well… things were a little trickier.

Of course, Spitfire herself made it a bit easier with just how much of a hardflank she could be. She had that Drill Sergeant McNasty thing down pat: hard eyes, brow like a rock crusher, lips fixed in either a frown or a sneer depending on the object of her ire, voice somewhere between “lion roaring” and “cannon firing”.  Still, she’d been around long enough for Dash to catch the “squad leader” side of her as well. She might be a hardflank, but she cared. It was intriguing; a hidden face just below the surface, perhaps waiting for just the right rainbow maned mare to—

…Nope. Nope nope nope NOPE.

Rainbow Dash gave her head a good bonk. Nope. Not happening. The boss was off limits, and that included stupid sexy fantasies. Only trouble would follow.

Spitfire was having a heated discussion with Lightning Dust—really just a shouting match with Spitfire doing most of the shouting. Dash almost let herself grin, but she caught Spitfire’s eye for a moment and saw nothing but cold. It lasted only a second, but Rainbow Dash could feel the lingering frostbite from that glance.

So the boss was ticked at her, too. This was going to be a great morning.

Dust was pleading her case. “Look, I know overclocking the engines can be dangerous, but—”

Spitfire slammed her hoof against the deck. “But nothing, Dust. You are not to make further use of the boost system until I say so, is that clear?”

Dust bit her lip, her eyes narrowed. “As the Majiirian Sea, ma’am.”

Spitfire nodded decisively. “Good, then go get suited up.”

Lightning Dust disengaged with a half-formed salute and headed for the lockers. She had to go past Rainbow Dash on her way, and she aimed a bitter little kick at the latter’s shins. “Queen Spitfire’s on the warpath today, fillyfooler. Better be careful.”

“Oh, bite me,” Dash hissed back, eyes flickering to Spitfire, who was now definitely looking her way.

Dust gave a little huff and strode off. Dash took a moment to admire her swaying flanks, just to spite her. Plain fact: Dust was still hot as the burning sands, even if she’d turned out to be a total bitch.

Not that Rainbow Dash had ever been that interested. The whole feuding-aces thing was Cloud Kicker’s fault. At the time, there had been a bet involved, something hard to remember about Dash not having the guts to ask the new girl out. When Dash had proven her gutsiness, she’d found out the hard way just how Paktu ponies felt about curved relationships.

Dash had then tried to lighten the mood with a few totally innocent jibes about repressed feelings, but she’d eventually realized that whatever Dust’s problem was, it was a lot deeper than just a little confusion. It was a shame; they’d gotten along pretty well at first, and then all of a sudden WHAM! A wall of homophobia crushed all the good times like a freaking hammer.

In retrospect, that whole bet had been stupid. Dash made a mental note to give Cloud Kicker a noogie or something for it later.

Regardless, Spitfire was approaching, and from the look in her eyes she was pretty ticked. “Dash. A word.”

Rainbow Dash nervously noticed just how obviously that wasn’t a request. “Yes, ma’am?”

“I’ve been looking over the records of previous flights. I happened to notice something rather interesting, something I’d been pretty sure I wasn’t seeing before, because I had a decent estimation of your intelligence. Apparently, I was wrong.”

Dash grimaced. Oh, this was going to be fun. “What exactly was the problem, ma’am?” she asked as innocently as she could.

“You might just have heard of the Arrow’s boost system.”

“I’m familiar with it, ma’am.”

“Rainbow Dash. Please tell me why, in the name of Celestia, you are using it on every. Bucking. Run.”

Rainbow Dash swallowed nervously. There it was. The pieces fell into place.

The Arrow-class had an ingenious little system installed. Basically, it used the pilot’s innate magic reserves to give the fighter’s engines some extra kick. It was supposed to be used sparingly, since most pegasi didn’t have much magic to begin with and sucking too much out forcibly could cause all kinds of nasty side effects.

But some pegasi did have lots of magic, and this included Rainbow Dash. This meant that she could, in theory, use the system for a good while, hours even, without suffering a burnout. This, in turn, meant that she could zip around at speeds that most pilots couldn’t match, coupled with better maneuverability thanks to juiced-up vernier thrusters. She usually used it sparingly, since it was kind of against the regs to even turn on the thing without authorization, but Firebolt had never cared about that anyway, and so she’d gotten used to the system. In fact, she was pretty sure the exercise was making her magic stronger, meaning she flew a little faster free-winged. She’d noticed a while back that Dust had been keeping up with her better, and had suspected the other pilot was doing something similar, but she’d never been sure until now. She guessed that Dust had just finished getting this lecture.

But the minor breach of the regs wasn’t the problem Spitfire was getting at. “Do you remember how your last squad leader bought it, Dash?”

“He overused the boost, ma’am,” Dash responded dutifully. “Suffered a burnout mid-maneuver and ended up blacking out while moving too fast for rescue craft to reach him. He then fell out of orbit and burned up in the atmosphere, ma’am.”

“And thus Firebolt lived up to his name,” Spitfire said without any humor. “Now, why. In the Equatorial Hells. Are you still using the sand cursed thing?”

Dash took her time answering. There was no point even considering lying; if Spitfire had the flight data, she knew that her accusation was true. “It… works for me, ma’am.”

“It works for you,” Spitfire repeated flatly. “Explain.”

“I don’t burn out, ma’am.”

“Right. See, that’s where you’re wrong, kiddo.” Spitfire stared her down. “Everypony burns out. You just think you don’t, because you’ve never hit that point.”

“I know my limits, ma’am.”

“I don’t think you do, Dash. I think you know some limits that don’t kill you, and I think you push them a little further every time you fly. Sooner or later, you’re going to push things a little too far, run into your real limit, and splatter like you hit pavement—exactly like Firebolt did.”

Rainbow Dash struggled to find a rebuttal, but Spitfire held up a hoof to stop her. “Look, I don’t care about excuses. You did a dumb thing. Repeatedly. You survived it, which is all well and good, but I don’t want to see you doing it again, got it? Your luck won’t last forever, Dash, and I’m not planning on scraping your stupid flank off of some space rock.” Her eyes lit up like little firestorms. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Rainbow Dash answered dejectedly. “Clear as the desert sky, ma’am.”

“Good. Now, suit up and report to the hangar. We’ve only got one simple run for today, but it’s the big one. Eyes will be on us.”

Rainbow Dash saluted and made her way off towards the lockers. Thoughts were starting to form in her head, old worries that she’d thought were things of the past.

The boost system had kept her head and neck above the rest of the fliers on the Mothership. Without it, she was going to be stuck with the Arrow’s limits, stuck with the rest of the pack.

She had to wonder if she’d still be the best flier around.

Time: 8:10 P.M.
Location: Mothership Docking Sleeves. Cockpit of recon fighter Alpha-Zero-Two.

The recon ships rested snugly in their sleeves, and the pilots were already on their way in. Rainbow Dash paused at the top of the access ladder and glanced back at the deck crew. "Everything look good?"

Deck Chief Typhoon gave her a raised eyebrow. "Yeah. Everything looks good, Dash. We... wouldn't let you climb into the thing if it didn't."

"You sure? Like, everything's completely fine."

"Yeah. That's kinda the deck crew's job." Typhoon's eyebrow rose a little higher. "You sure you're okay? You seem nervous."

Dash grinned sheepishly and scrambed into the cockpit before she made herself look even dumber.

Of course everything was fine. Everything was always fine. The deck crew hadn't screwed up before, and they wouldn't now. Chief Typhoon had been managing the fighters on the Scaffold for years. He knew what he was doing, and his crew would, too.

She ran down the pre-flight checklist nearly automatically.

Suit interface... check.

Fuel and air gauges... check.

Structural integrity scan... check.

Reactor stability... check.

Inertia dampening spells... check.

Main engines and vernier thrusters... check.

Readouts and Heads-Up-Display... check.

It looked okay. It was okay. Definitely. She signaled in. "Rainbow Dash; all pre-flights complete."

The radio buzzed to life, and a mare's voice was on the line. “This is flight control, reading all ships ready to go. Spitfire, we're giving you full command for the flight. Finish up and bring your kids up to the comm. We've got authorization for one last round of drinks before we shove off!”

"Roger that, Flight Control. And Scratch? Hold the booze. Some of these kids are barely old enough to fly.

"Ain't no harm in a glass or two before the big day!" the flight control officer said. "Still; your call. Docking control has your path cleared. Head on out."

Dash ran through the pre-flight checks one more time, just to be absolutely sure. Everything remained green. It was okay. So she might not be able to outfly the rest of the squad on magic alone anymore. Big deal! She was still the best flyer they had—barring the boss, of course. Can't compete with a veteran.

“You heard the lady, kids,” Spitfire said over the comm. “Head for your predetermined show-parade positions, and make it look good for those cameras! Releasing locks in three… two… one… GO!”

There was a dull clunk, and the clamps were off. Dash hit the throttle and zoomed out of the docking area. She could see the others doing the same in her peripheral vision.

They hurtled through the hangar. The space ahead was empty all the way to the outer door—docking control doing their jobs right for once. Nevertheless, one of the tug corvettes passed them close enough that Dash could give a little wink to the pilot—a sexy grey mare whose eyes…

Dash blinked and shook her head. The view must have been distorted by the cockpit glass.

She switched her focus back to the matter at hand. Dust and she were neck and neck, while Soarin and Thunderlane had chosen to take things a little more slowly. Spitfire was right behind Dust, and kept close enough to Dash that it was clear she was watching both of them.

They approached the secondary hangar doors, already parted to allow them passage like a great pair of castle gates. The thin Material Retention Field stretched across the space snagged onto the fighters, causing a momentary backwards tick on Dash's speedometer.

Then they were out in open space. The Mothership fell away behind them, and the black arms of the cosmos reached out to embrace their tiny ships.

There were three observation towers extending out above the hangar doors, and Dash caught a glimpse of ponies cheering silently as she shot past. Fireworks were going off in the distance—massive charges laced with dazzling rockets and flares. It was as if the entire world was one huge party tonight.

And yet, all completely silent from where Dash sat. The idea that these celebrations were happening all over the planet was was difficult to process.

She focused on the matter at hand. Show-parade meant that the squad fell into a specific flight pattern as soon as they left the hangar. They split, arcing around the Mothership and weaving plastrails their into a threadbare ball around it. Then they broke off in a starburst pattern, turned around, and weaved a symbol in front of the Mothership before flying into a perfect Delta formation at its bow. There they remained as the plastrails formed the Mothership’s wings-and-circles crest behind them, slowly vanishing as they dispersed.

“Nice job, squad,” Spitfire said. “Now that we’re done with the showboating, let’s move on to the actual worthwhile crap. Claw formation!”

The fighters shifted, becoming a five-tipped claw with Spitfire’s craft in the center and just behind them.

“On my mark…”

Dash spotted the drones, moving slowly into position. They looked a like gas tanks strapped to engines—mainly because that’s pretty much all they were they were. They were programmed with extremely basic flight instructions: go to a spot and wait to die. Anything more sophisticated than that was technically illegal. Little fins with red running lights stuck out at the “top” and “bottom” of each one. As Rainbow Dash watched, they came within range of her fighter’s IFF system, and little red boxes appeared around them.

“Mark.”

The squad shot forward, maintaining the formation. It was something they’d practiced for months now; something to focus the Arrows’ admittedly lackluster firepower into a single point. As they approached the drones at two hundred meters per second, the formation paid off.

“Fire!”

Five streams of shells slammed into the first target, shattering its frame and setting off its tiny fuel reserves. The next drone flashed on their HUDs, and the squadron shifted direction as one, opening fire on the second drone. A third went the same way before their pass ended.

“X-formation. Reverse thrust and come in slow. We’ll take the rest out all at once.”

The “talons” of the formation shifted back, so that the squad formed a flat “X” instead. This way, it was easier to engage multiple targets. As they approached, the squad cut their thrusters and used their verniers to aim their guns, each targeting a different drone. Dash proudly claimed two of the six remaining targets before the squad slipped past their wreckage.

Spitfire popped back on the radio. “Good job, squad. Form up back into Delta and get ready for test number two.”

Soarin’s mic came on. “Stance drills, boss?”

“We’ll start with formationless attacks,” Spitfire said. “Then it’s evasion with paint rounds.”

“Aww, but I just helped the deck guys scrub the paint off from last time!” Soarin mock-whined.

“Then don’t get shot, smartflank,” Thunderlane responded. “Ready to go, ma’am.”

“Drones are set and should be in your target window. On three… one… two…th—”

Dust shot ahead of the squadron, heading for the targets a little faster than she should have been.

Spitfire started swearing with the whole vocabulary of a Sobani veteran, and Dash made a mental note to remember a few little gems. “Follow her in and run the drills!” Spitfire shouted. "Hurricane's blood, I’m going to wring her sand-cursed neck for this!”

The squadron came in a half-second behind Lightning Dust, who managed to take out two of the sixteen drones before they reached her. Dash took out another as she watched Dust at work.

“What in the bucking hells are you doing, Dust?” Spitfire snapped. Dust didn’t answer.

Rainbow Dash watched as Lightning Dust zipped around like a sandfly, clearly abusing the boost system as far as it would go. “What…” she breathed, even as she slammed her hoof down on the trigger and blasted another target.

Suddenly, Spitfire’s tone changed. “Sands on fire… Dust! Cut the boost system!” Again there was no response. “Your engines are going to bucking melt, you moron!”

And suddenly, Dust’s fighter jerked as something within exploded. A plume of fire shot out of the side, spinning the craft in circles as it careened away from the drones.

Spitfire started inventing new words at that point. “Squad! On me! You have clearance to use the boost system. We’ve got to get to her and find a way to bring her back.”

“I read you, ma’am,” Rainbow Dash said, hearing the same chorus coming from Soarin and Thunderlane. She slammed her hoof on the boost control and shot forward, then flipped her ship backwards and reversed thrust until she was flying parallel to Dust’s out of control fighter.

The fire had gone out by now, but Dust wasn’t making course corrections. Her gyroscopes had stopped the spin, but they were only operating automatically. “I think she’s unconscious!” Dash reported before she caught a glimpse of Lightning Dust hanging loosely in her cockpit harness, a crack spiderwebbed across her helmet visor. “Definitely unconscious!”

Thunderlane shot in close, then pulled back. Damn it, my tow cable's not loaded. Does anypony have a tow-cable?”

“Ah, manure,” Soarin moaned. “We left them on the ship, remember? Why should we have needed tow cables for an airshow?”

Dash spared a glance for her navigational computer, then did a double-take. “Guys, we’re too far off! We’ve got maybe two minutes before we won’t be able to pull out of a falling orbit!”

“Damn it to the sands!” Spitfire’s ship zoomed past Dust’s fighter, and slowly eased in until their bellies were touching. Spitfire's RCS thrusters kicked in, shoving Dust's fighter slowly back towards a stable orbit.

But it was blatantly obvious that Spitfire's plan wasn't working. Dust had basically burned straight against her orbit for around twenty seconds. A single set of RCS thrusters were nowhere near enough to fix the orbits of two fighters. Anypony could see how badly this was going to end.

“All right,” Spitfire said, her voice suddenly going soft. “Pull out, all of you.”

“You sure about this, boss?” Soarin asked hesitantly.

“Go, damn it. That's an order.”

“All right, ma’am,” Thunderlane said. “Goddesses protect you.”

Spitfire pulled away from Dust's fighter. She maneuvered her fighter so that her magnetic docking clamps were parallel to Dust’s belly, and locked them on. Her RCS fired again, this time tilting both fighters until Spitfire's main engines were tilted in the right direction for an orbital climb.

Dash balked. “Ma’am, your clamps are gonna tear off!”

“I know, Dash. That’s why I’m keeping my acceleration low. Now shut up and leave before you get yourself killed!”

Dash watched helplessly as Spitfire’s engines ignited, yanking Dust’s fighter roughly towards the horizon. On the navigation aide, their landing location ticked forward slightly. Nowhere near enough.

Dash cursed under her breath, and altered her course to match.

As she approached, she could see exactly what Spitfire was doing. Her thrusters were kicking along at maybe one-quarter power, while her RCS thrusters were gunning at full just to keep Dust’s inertia from pulling her into a spin. From the golden tinge held by the jets, it looked like she was using the boost system as well.

“Sands on bucking fire…” Spitfire muttered, just loud enough that her microphone picked up. “Dash, don’t be a moron. Pull out.”

“Not gonna happen, ma’am.” Rainbow Dash rotated her fighter, bringing her clamps in line with dust’s upper hull. “Between the two of us, we might just have an actual shot at this.”

“Sands on bucking fire,” Spitfire repeated, but that was all she said.

Dash locked her clamps and felt the dull shock that signaled contact. She slowly increased her throttle, watching as Spitfire tuned down her RCS thrusters to compensate. Soon, they were moving in tandem, Dust’s fighter balanced between them.

And they were still coming in too low.

Then Dash heard the voice of another mare, sounding as wonderful as a flute on a breezy day:

“Tug-corvette Aman’sar to recon squad. I've got her!”

Spitfire breathed an audible sigh of relief. Aman’sar, you’ve got the delta-v to get her back?”

“Um, only if I do it really fast. We’re almost in the atmosphere.”

Spitfire and Dash took that as a cue to disengage from Dust’s fighter. The tug slid into view, executing a reverse-burn to bring itself alongside Dust. “Is she still unconscious?”

"She's not making contact,” Rainbow Dash said. "I'm guessing a concussion."

“Get her back to the Mothership and make sure she gets to medical ASAP,” Spitfire ordered. “Dash, let’s clear out. We’re not any more help here.”

The two fighters cranked up their engines to full as the tug locked its magnetic grapples to Lightning Dust’s fighter.

“Recon squad, instruments say we’re hitting the upper atmosphere. Are you sure you’re ok?”

“You don’t have time to worry about us. Get her out of here, Aman’sar.

Dash watched the rapidly vanishing tug. It was a kludged-together mess of a ship, clearly pulled together from several different designs. The central core was nearly the identical to the familiar lozenge-shaped Ambassador shuttle-corvette, though a second engine bank had been mounted below. Two massive magnetic grapples were attached to its sides, along with engines and thrusters built into their housing, probably along with a good number of other systems. The Porter wasn’t an elegant design, but it wasn’t meant to be. All it had to do was grab and push.

And boy, could it push. When the Aman’sar activated its backup thrusters, it lit up like a torch against the surface of Kharequus. It didn’t really seem to be moving right, but a glance the radar confirmed that it was quickly ascending into a higher orbit, away from the deadly friction of the atmosphere.

At first, it seemed like things were going well. Dash watched her altitude tick upwards, feeling the knot in her chest loosen. They were gonna be okay. Everypony was gonna be okay.

And then Spitfire’s engines stopped.

Dash’s breath caught in her throat. “Ma’am?”

“Fuel loss…? Damn. Of all the days for them to miss a fuel leak...”

“Ma’am, what’s your status?”

“Outta gas, Dash.”

Dash spoke without thinking. “All right. I’m lining up my cockpit with yours. Get ready to transfer.”

There was a pause. “What.”

“Ma’am, I’m not leaving you to burn here.”

“Oh my bucking…” Spitfire trailed off, and the tension hung like razor wire in the air. “Fine. Make it fast.”

Rainbow Dash didn’t waste any time. She spun her ship around and matched course with Spitfire’s craft again before rotating as fast as the ship would turn. She could feel the inertia through the dampeners as her HUD gave a bleek in protest. She looked up, judging by eye the point at which Spitfire’s cockpit was lined up with hers. She bit her lip. Couldn’t be sure, but it looked good.

For a moment, Rainbow Dash and Spitfire both looked up through their cockpit canopies, their eyes meeting in silence. Neither said a word, but Rainbow Dash gave a short nod and keyed her canopy to open.

It was odd, how nothing seemed to change. In the movies, there was always some hiss of air or dull thud, but in this case there wasn’t anything like that at all. The cockpits weren’t pressurized to begin with, of course, so there was no real reason for them to make such a sound.

She watched as Spitfire unhooked her harness and did the same with her canopy before carefully pushing off from her ship. The fighter swayed slightly before the gyroscopes could correct the turn, and started drifting slowly off towards the dark surface below.

Spitfire drifted towards Dash, wings splayed in their protective sheaths. She didn’t flap, only coasted, using slight twitches to adjust her heading, little bursts of magic. Dash could see her wince at each flap.

As far as Dash knew, Spitfire was on the low-end of magical power for a pegasus. Using your wings in a vaccum was ridiculously hard on a good day—without air, your magic had to do five, maybe six times the work it normally did. With the way she’d been boosting before, this maneuvering could be putting her on the edge of a burnout.

Spitfire caught the edge of the canopy with her hoof, and swung herself carefully into the cockpit. Rainbow Dash tried to shuffle aside, but the control harness kept her rooted in the center. In the end, Spitfire simply had to scrunch herself, spacesuit and all, into the side of the cockpit.

“You secure, ma’am?” Dash asked.

“As I’ll be,” Spitfire answered. She was breathing heavily, and her head drooped in her helmet. “Get us out of here, Dash. Forget my fighter.”

“Got it, ma’am.” Dash keyed the canopy closed, and gunned her engines. She felt a shift as the inertia hit her, and saw Spitfire slide backwards a bit. “Sorry, ma’am!”

“Forget it. Keep going.”

Dash’s eyes locked on  the nav-aide, and her heart dropped into her stomach and began to burn. “Oh hells.”

“What, Dash?”

“We’re too low… not gonna make it out like this.” Rainbow Dash shut her eyes, willing her stupid brain to come up with something, any way to get back to safety. There was one possibility… they might have a chance if she burned at just the right angle while passing through the upper atmosphere. Maybe. If Celestia was holding onto their fighter with both hooves.

“Got a plan, Dash?”

‘Yeah, but I don’t think you want to know, ma’am.”

Well, damn,” Spitfire chuckled. “I guess I’m putting my life in your hooves, Dash. Good bucking luck. You should have left me to burn.”

“Sobani don’t leave squadmates behind, ma’am.”

Spitfire chuckled faintly. “I suppose that’s right, isn’t it?”

Dash keyed the maneuver into the nav-aide, eyes flickering to the horizon. The sun was rising against the planet, its light exploding across the planet’s surface like a rolling wave of golden fire. It was a stunning sight. Not too bad for a final view.

Rainbow Dash shook herself and locked her eyes on the navigation aide as she rotated into position for the burn. The angle had to be just about perfect, or the fighter was done for. Her eyes snapped to the fuel gauge—a little low for comfort.

Three seconds on the nav-aide. Two. One.

Rainbow Dash hit the ignition and froze her wings in the harness. She could hear the muffled roar of the engines behind her, feel the light tremble and the faint tug of movement through the inertial dampeners. For second after second, she couldn’t tell what was going on outside. Her cockpit was turned away from Kharequus.

Then she caught a glimpse of the fire licking against her hull. She was burning.

Still too low!

The altimeter ticked down steadily, and a quick glance at the nav-aide showed her orbital path quickly retracting as the atmosphere tugged her down. A drop of sweat dripped down her nose as she watched all those numbers ticking down. The Arrows couldn’t survive re-entry. They’d be dead before she hit the ground.

There wasn’t time to think. She hit the boost.

Maybe it was the panic or maybe the way the atmosphere was taxing the inertial dampening field, but when Rainbow Dash used the boost, she felt it. It was like a kick in the chest, forcing her back into the harness. Spitfire fell back against the cockpit wall, letting out a string of curses as she hit. Something flickered at the edges of Dash’s vision, lights in the dark that couldn’t exist. Something else whispered strange, formless things into her ear.

And then she was out of the atmosphere.

“Holy hells, Dash,” Spitfire coughed as she pulled herself back towards the front of the cockpit.  “What did you just do?”

Rainbow Dash shook her head. “B-boost, ma’am. I think I went… ugh… a little overboard.”

“Damn right you did. Take a look at our orbit.”

Dash did. She’d shot into an elliptical orbit so high that it could take days to complete.

“You got enough fuel to ease that off?”

Dash checked her fuel gauge. "Barely, but yeah." She switched her heading, pulling her orbit down to a reasonable level before setting up for the circularization burn.

“How about now, Dash? Enough to transfer orbits and get back to the Scaffold?”

Dash checked the gauge, shut her eyes, and thought about math as hard as she could. “Doubt it, ma’am. I might be able to pull it off, but it’s gonna be a trick. Could use the boost system, but…” She sucked in a breath. “To be frank, ma’am, I’m not really sure I want to.”

“Well, that’s just wonderful. Guess I’m stuck here with you.” Spitfire sighed and shook her head. “Well, you’ve got the comms. Call for a pickup.”

Dash let herself hang in the harness for the moment, letting her breathing go back to somewhere approaching a normal rate. She hadn’t realized just how stressed out she’d been. Her wings were sore where she’d had them tensed. In fact, her entire body ached.

She couldn’t help but glance at Spitfire who caught her gaze and held it levelly. Her speculation had been dead on earlier, when she’d mused that Spitfire had a hidden side. With how badly Lightning Dust had just bucked things up, Dash was a little surprised that Spitfire hadn’t just let her burn.

“You gonna keep giving me meaningful glances, Dash, or are you gonna call for rescue?”

Dash sighed, and started keying in the radio broadcast.

Hardflank though Spitfire might be, Sobani though she might be, most leaders didn’t stick their necks in the oven just to save a dumbflank who’d brought herself down while brazenly defying a direct order in front of an entire planet’s worth of celebrating ponies.

Time: 9:39 P.M.
Location: Somewhere in Kharequuin orbit.

It was over an hour before a ship made it out to them, half an hour Spitfire and Rainbow Dash spent mostly catching their breath and checking that nothing too important had melted off the fighter. The resource collector made itself known first with a short hail. Then it appeared as a tiny dot, far off towards the rim of Kharequus.

Rainbow Dash stretched her legs as much as she could while enmeshed in the control harness. “Gee, took them long enough.”

“Better late than never,” Spitfire muttered. She tapped her suit radio. “Recon leader to…” Dash caught an almost imperceptible groan from Spitfire. “First Hoofstep. You got fuel, or are we riding as cargo?”

“We’ve got fuel lines, Alpha lead. Don’t worry your pretty lil’ heads about needing to be dragged home.”

Spitfire sighed. “Fantastic.”

“Hey.” The collector captain lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Just to let you know, it looks like most of the cameras ‘failed’ when that whole mess went down. For what it’s worth, the only shots that got broadcast showed a fighter malfunctioning and the rest of the squad pulling a bunch of heroic manure. It was a bit harder to hide from the ponies watching through windows, but you were pretty far from the Mothership, and I’m not planning on commenting about it.”

Spitfire gave a bitter chuckle. “Well, ain’t that just bucking perfect.”

“Hey, just calling it like I see it.” The resource collector slowed to match the fighter. “You both packed into the one ship?”

“Long story. Dash, get us that gas.”

Rainbow Dash snapped out of her concentration. “Got it, ma’am. Thanks for the pickup, First Hoofstep.”

“Hey, don’t mention it, Recon two. For what it’s worth, I saw every second of what you guys pulled. That was some damn fine flying, and if the bits of radio chatter I picked up are any indication, you both deserve medals for it.”

Dash pulled her fighter in, lining up the docking port on its side with the fuel tubes on the collector’s belly. “Just how Sobani operate, ma’am. Never leave a squadmate behind.”

“Damn respectable, that is.” Dash could hear a faint hiss as the valves connected, then a dull hum as fuel started to fill her tanks. “You hotshots got my respect, even if… hells, especially if what I think happened actually happened.”

The valves hissed shut, and Dash used her verniers to push off. Spitfire moved to take her place.

“Dash, let’s take off.” Spitfire laughed a little, sounding absolutely exhausted. “I’m just going to assume you won’t screw up the intercept and end up smashing us into a satellite or something.”

Rainbow Dash’s mouth quirked upwards. “After today? That’d be a pretty lame note to go out on. No worries, ma’am.”

“That’s what I like to hear, kiddo.”

“Good flying, you two,” the collector’s captain said. “If I run into you on the Mothership, you’re both entitled to whatever alcohol I can scrounge up.”

Dash felt her lip twitch. “Not legal to drink yet under Scaffold Law, ma’am.”

Spitfire and the collector's captain laughed in tandem. "Kid," Spitfire said, "I don't care how old you are. You deserve a drink after that one."

"Couldn't've put it better myself," the captain said. “Anyway, fly safe. Drinks or no, you two deserve a damn rest.”

As she burned plasma on her way into high orbit, Dash felt a grin slip onto her face. Today might have sucked on all kinds of levels, but she’d also accomplished something amazing… no, more like dozens of amazing things, all in quick succession. She wasn’t going to start counting now, but she was pretty sure at least eight records had just been shattered.

Besides that, everypony had made it out alive thanks to her. While this wasn’t the sort of thing she was going to brag about, it felt pretty good to be an actual hero for once.

Time: 10:33 P.M.
Location: Mothership Medbay MD-06.

“She’s still out?” Spitfire asked as she walked into the medbay.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Medical Officer Redheart said, looking up from her tablet. “She burned out, then kept burning out, all the way up until I popped her full of magic inhibitors. Ten more minutes and her brain would have been cooked.”

Rainbow Dash didn’t say anything. She watched Lightning Dust’s breathing, let her eyes run up and down the IVs and monitor cables all hitched up to her like spiders’ webs. She’d never liked medical equipment—it gave her the heebie-jeebies that someone could control whether you lived or died with a tube in your leg and some electrodes on your chest.

Lightning Dust somehow managed to look tense even while she was unconscious. She’d been strapped down, but only because she’d been having little thrashing fits. Dash didn't know the whole situation, but it was obviously super bucked up.

Dust... Why had she done it? What happened? She’d been totally normal earlier—her bitchy, grumpy self—and then suddenly she disobeyed a direct order, nearly got herself killed, and apparently kept trying to get herself killed. It didn’t fit with her personality.

“Umm, Nurse Redheart, I have the records you asked for.”

Rainbow Dash turned and found herself staring at the cutest little mare she’d ever laid eyes on. She was thin and just a little taller than average, with a long pink mane and tail curled in a way that managed to seem conservative despite their length. Her cream-yellow coat looked soft. For an instant, Rainbow met eyes with her, and something happened to the mare. She hunched in on herself, shifting her eyes to the floor and continuing on her way.

Rainbow Dash blinked in surprise. She would have been insulted if the reaction didn’t seem so automatic. It was like the she was conditioned to be afraid of other ponies.

The cute-but-sad mare gave Redheart a tablet. “I didn’t see anything obvious. Except… well… never mind...”

Redheart looked up from the tablet. “What is it, Fluttershy?”

The mare bit her lip. “In her early records, two cases of unexplained b-burnouts. The doctor’s notes linked them to some kind of familial trouble, but it’s not… um… clear.”

“Ah geez,” Redheart grunted. “This never ends well. All right, Fluttershy, check her meds and make sure everything’s stable. I don’t have anything else for you to do right now, so feel free to head out whenever you like.”

The nurse named Fluttershy did what she was asked and left without another word. She didn’t meet Dash’s eyes again.

Redheart turned her attention to Spitfire. “Thanks for stopping by, but there’s not much you can do for her right now.”

Spitfire nodded. “Is there a chance she could be moved?”

Redheart’s eyebrow shot up. “Moved where, exactly? I don’t like moving patients.”

“Scaffold medical facilities. Fleet Command and I have talked, and we agreed that she needs to go.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. She’s under my care, and she’s not stable enough that I’m confident of moving her, regardless of what Fleet Command says.” Redheart smiled. “Sorry, but that’s my ruling.”

“So, she stays on the ship?”

Redheart nodded. “Until she’s out of my care. Might be before we leave for good, might be after. I can’t be sure.”

Spitfire opened her mouth to reply, but Redheart held up a hoof. “Just stop for a second. I know you’re mad. I know she did something stupid and got herself into this mess. I know she made you look bad, but there are some things you should know about her condition."

Spitfire narrowed her eyes and nodded. “Fine.”

“She’s stable, but I don’t know whether or not she’ll ever be off magic inhibitors. Even if she is, she’s got nerve damage. She’s not flying again, not with those wings.”

Rainbow Dash inhaled sharply. Spitfire twitched.

“Exactly.” Redheart tilted her head back to indicate her lack of wings. “Can’t say I know how that feels, but I bet you two do. She’s paid for her mistake plenty already, so I’m just asking you take it easy on the girl. She bucked up, but tossing her off the ship isn’t going to do anypony any good.”

Spitfire closed her eyes. “You’re sure about this? She’s never flying again?”

“I’m not an expert on magic, but I know the nervous system. I doubt she’ll be able to move her wings at all.”

Spitfire sighed. “Dash, we’re going.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you for your time, doc.”

“Just doing my job. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope I don’t end up seeing any of you folks again. It’s Tartarus what happened to Lightning Dust. Wouldn’t wish that kind of thing on anypony.”

Spitfire made it two steps out of the door before tilting her head to the ceiling. “Journey!” she called.

“Yes, Spitfire?”

“I’m not in the mood to be polite. Call the research team and tell them that I want them to pull that sand cursed boost system right out of the bucking schematics. I don’t care if it’s the same old ship or an entirely new design, but I don’t want that thing anywhere near my pilots. Got that?”

“I fully understand. I will relay your wishes.”

“Thanks, boss,” Spitfire said. Once again, she sounded exhausted. “Sorry about my tone. Rough day.”

“Again, I fully understand. Please, do get some rest.”

Spitfire nodded. “Dash, dismissed.”

Rainbow Dash saluted and left as fast as she could.

Thinking was hard, and Rainbow didn’t want to think. Not about her dad, not about Spitfire, not about Lightning Dust. Maybe a bit about Fluttershy, but not right now. Her stomach was growling. She didn’t have to think real hard to deal with that.