But that didn’t do anything for Mischa, and the lasers were reaching around the wing to rake the Isaiah. Damage to some cameras, damage to movement trackers, making the halo defense five percent less accurate against moving targets. Damage to armor plating and overall structural integrity. One piece of ‘arm’ on the Isaiah hung free and tore slowly at everything it hung off of.

Mischa smashed one hand into controls to his right. Antigrav canceled, jet turbines canceled, only generalized hovering remained in use. He fell, encased in a sarcophagus, which was in turn encased in tons of metal. The platform was high above. The hovering system ensured he didn’t fall in a straight line, drifting in a curve instead.

It put him closer to the point the lasers were all diverging from, but it took him out of Legend’s sight. The man couldn’t aim at what he couldn’t—

A series of beams all firing in a line struck the Isaiah.

It had to be a guess, helped by a listening ear.

Legend couldn’t aim at what he couldn’t see. Mischa took an evasive course of action, one eye glancing at the screen with the damage report. Thermal control, mostly. Some articulation, but the Isaiah didn’t need much. It wasn’t what he would have fired at, had he been aiming that shot.

No more chance shots came, as he regained control, booted up antigrav, and started up the jet turbines.

As had become habit, he glanced at the screen.

89.361% stress. If that hit the ceiling of 100%, there was no recovery. They would switch to evacuating and they would pray.

The floor? 64.5%. It crept up, little by little, innocuous, innocent. It would go down as they put distance between themselves and this battleground, but every power used on any Earth would contribute. Once raised, the floor never seemed to go down.

The lasers sputtered out, then resumed. The Isaiah’s defenses tracked and countered the lasers, meeting each with a ray of its own, only for as long as was necessary to keep the Isaiah from being hit. The ones that didn’t hit him were cutting through the Victory I’s projected wings and slicing into the exterior wall of the facility like knives into butter. Sharp.

Mischa typed out a new targeting command, oriented the Isaiah, and steered it almost directly below the hole. Amusing, that Legend was firing straight down, but because each laser bent in the air to strike at the opposition, they didn’t reach him.

Tracking wavelengths, adjusting the frequency, he mapped it out so he saw the lasers in a bold red against a black and white depiction of the environment. He zeroed in.

Mischa had always liked a game of darts when at the bars. He aimed for the bullseye.

The lasers sputtered out. Legend was preparing his next attack, a shift in the type of lasers he was using.