There were only ninety operating battle crafts on each orbito, and not all of them were made in this century. When there were large battles like this, instead of fear of dying—which the soldiers genetically couldn’t feel anyway—there was a desperation to get the best vehicle. If you got a bad battler, that was when you were more likely to get blasted apart by the Critamal before your expiry date. Goodbye recycling. Goodbye return to Earth.

“Ready!” Romy dodged Elara’s flying limbs to stand next to the black-haired Deimos.

“Incredible,” Thrym said as he and Phobos joined them. “Elara was first awake and is still last.”

Knot 27 set off at a fast clip down the passageway to the moon dock station.

There were 450 active soldiers on board Orbito One at all times. The remaining fifty personnel included the newest batch of forty cadets who were in warfare training, priming to slip into position of “space soldier” at any time. Then there were ten officials, including the commander and vice-commander, who stayed on board to direct the battle. This number didn’t include the hundreds of baby space soldiers ripening in the cultivation tanks in the heart of the station.

The hallways were empty. They were definitely last.

“Where are we in orbit?” she called to Thrym.

He studied his watch briefly, expression tight. “Five minutes until spotlight.”

It took ninety-two minutes for the stations to orbit Earth. Spotlight was code for the position closest to the Critamal’s mothership. Once Orbito One reached spotlight, they would deploy their battlers and Orbito One would continue its orbit around Earth. It would take a further eleven and a half minutes for the next orbito to rotate into spotlight after them and deploy the second wave of battlers.

The moon dock—the dock on the poachers’ side—was wide open; the knots already there were moving in orderly, precise fashion.

“Wait here, I’ll get a craft,” Thrym ordered. He had to yell over the flurry.

“If we get a bad one, it’s your fault.” Phobos glared at Elara.

“Shut up, meteor face.”

“Shh, Thrym’s coming back,” Romy said.

“We’re one of the last to leave,” Thrym said dejectedly. “Eighty-four crafts have already been prepped.”

Deimos snorted.

They had six crafts to choose from. The odds of doing well in battle with such a craft were low.

The knot wove through the moon dock, piling into a battler right down at the end.

“Mighty Mercury, will this thing hold together?” Phobos asked.

Romy read the manufacture information engraved on the inside of the door. “Made in China, 2045.”

“Are you freakin’ kidding me?” Elara screeched. “It was made on Earth?”

“Just get into your suits.” Thrym groaned, his patience in tatters.