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Thirty thousand meters above the surface of the planet, in an atmosphere so thin it barely qualified as air, a streak of light tore across the sky.
The friction alone was enough to set the trace atmosphere on fire. A faint aurora trailed behind the armored figure, glowing brighter as the speed increased, turning the red and gold shape into a comet that painted the edge of space with its passage.
Mach 6.
Inside the helmet, the HUD displayed the number in clean white digits against the dark visor. Ethan watched it stabilize and exhaled slowly.
Six times the speed of sound. In the world he carried memories of, jets that touched this speed were experimental, unmanned, and built by nations with aerospace budgets larger than most countries' GDPs. In this world, the numbers were similar. Only a handful of purpose-built drones, stripped of everything except speed, had ever reached this threshold.
And none of them had carried a human being.
This was the ceiling. Not of the armor's capability, but of what the current reactor configuration could sustain without compromising the suit's other systems. Flight, life support, thermal regulation, sensor arrays, communication, and the HUD all drew power simultaneously. At Mach 6, the balance was stable. Pushing beyond it would mean sacrificing something, and Ethan wasn't ready to make that trade.
Not yet, anyway.
As for the armor's combat systems, those were conspicuously absent. Valoria's weapons regulations were strict, and Ethan hadn't been authorized to install offensive capability for the demonstration. Mark One was flying without teeth, which was fine for a test flight but something he intended to address very soon.
For today, speed and altitude would be enough. Those two capabilities alone would get the attention of every military and government official in the Republic. The weapons could come later, through the proper channels, with the proper authorization.
He angled the armor downward and began his descent.
Across the ocean, in the presidential office of the Aurelian Republic, the atmosphere was volcanic.
President Harrison Wolfe stood behind his desk, both palms flat on the surface, staring at a wall-mounted display that showed the live broadcast feed. The image was clear: a red and gold figure, hanging at thirty thousand meters, filmed by a drone that could outrun fighter jets.
Defense Secretary Andrew Callister stood three feet away, maintaining the specific posture of a man who knew he was about to get yelled at and had decided to absorb it rather than dodge.
"Andrew."
Wolfe's voice was quiet. Which was worse than yelling.
"Is this the fake news you told me about?"
"Is this the 'Valorian smokescreen' you assured me wasn't worth losing sleep over?"
"If this is a smokescreen, then what are our physicists? Our aerospace engineers? Our entire defense research apparatus?"
Callister said nothing. There was nothing to say. Three weeks ago, he'd assessed the fusion claims as probable disinformation and allocated surveillance assets as a precaution, not a priority. He'd told the President it was likely a bluff.
The bluff was currently flying at Mach 6 at the edge of space, on live television, watched by an audience of hundreds of millions.
Wolfe let the silence stretch until it hurt, then spoke again.
"You had weeks. Weeks. To take this seriously. To prepare. To have a plan in place for the possibility that this was real. And instead, you filed it under 'unlikely' and moved on to trade negotiations."
Callister absorbed the blow without flinching. He deserved it. When the President finished venting, the Defense Secretary shifted into the mode that had kept him in his position through three administrations: solution-first thinking.
"Mr. President, the situation has changed. But it may also present an opportunity."
Wolfe's eyes narrowed. "What kind of opportunity?"
"Our satellite network has been tracking the armor since it reached thirty thousand meters. Based on its current trajectory, it will descend along the eastern coastal corridor of Valoria."
He pulled up a tactical display on his tablet.
"The ARS Dominion, our carrier group currently patrolling international waters in the region, is positioned directly along that flight path."
Wolfe studied the display. His expression shifted from fury to calculation.
"You're suggesting interception?"
"Interception is impossible, sir. The armor's speed and altitude exceed anything our carrier-based aircraft can match. And even if we could intercept, the Valorian military would never allow us to take it. They'd have jets in the air before we could blink."
"Then what?"
"We don't intercept. We destroy."
The word hung in the air.
"Two fighter jets. Lightweight air-to-air missiles. The armor is fast, but at its current altitude and trajectory, there's a brief window where it will pass within range of the Sovereign's combat air patrol."
"We fire. We hit. The armor goes down over open water. We recover the wreckage before Valoria can respond."
"With the wreckage in our possession, our research teams could reverse-engineer both the reactor and the armor within twelve to eighteen months. Mass production within three years."
Callister set the tablet down.
"Sir, whoever controls this technology controls the next century. If we let it stay in Valoria's hands, our position as the world's leading power is over. Not in a decade. Not in a generation. Now."
Wolfe stared at the tactical display. The carrier group. The flight trajectory. The narrow window.
The question of whether the pilot inside the armor would survive a missile strike did not appear to factor into either man's calculations.
"Do it."
Callister was already moving toward the door.
"And Andrew?"
The Defense Secretary stopped.
"If this fails, it never happened."
"Understood, sir."
Inside the testing ground, the atmosphere was euphoric.
The main screen showed Mark One's descent trajectory, the red and gold figure dropping through the upper atmosphere in a controlled dive that looked more like a bird of prey than a piece of technology. The reporters, who'd spent the morning calling Ethan a plagiarist and demanding his imprisonment, were now tripping over each other to ask General Hale questions.
"General, was there government involvement in Mercer's research?"
"General, you've appeared at both of Mercer's major demonstrations. Does this indicate a formal partnership between the inventor and the Northvale Military District?"
"General Hale, can you comment on—"
The phone in Hale's right pocket rang.
Not the regular phone. The other one. The black one, with the reinforced case and the encrypted line, that sat in a dedicated pocket sewn into his uniform jacket.
The wartime line.
Hale had carried that phone for ten years. In all that time, it had rung exactly three times, each occasion corresponding to a national emergency.
His face changed.
He turned away from the reporters without a word, pressing the phone to his ear.
"General Hale, this is the Homeland Security Bureau." The voice on the other end was urgent, clipped, operating at a speed that meant every second counted. "You need to contact Ethan Mercer immediately. Tell him to abort his descent and gain altitude. Now."
Hale's blood went cold.
"Two unidentified fighter jets have entered Valorian airspace over the eastern seaboard. They launched from a carrier group operating in international waters just outside our territorial boundary."
"Based on trajectory analysis, we believe they are targeting the Mark One armor."
"The Eastern Military Command has scrambled interceptors. They can reach the area in under ten minutes. Mercer needs to stay above engagement range until they arrive."
"General, tell him to hold on."
Hale looked at the reporters still pressing in around him, chattering, smiling, completely oblivious.
Fury hit him like a wall.
He drew the sidearm from his hip and fired three rounds into the ceiling.
The gunshots were deafening in the enclosed testing ground. Every reporter froze. Cameras jerked. Microphones swung toward the sound.
Then silence. Absolute silence.
Hale didn't explain. Didn't apologize. Didn't waste a single second on the stunned faces staring at him.
He ran to the communications station at the center of the testing ground, grabbed the direct link to the armor, and spoke with the controlled urgency of a man who'd spent thirty years in the military and knew exactly how little time he had.
"Mercer, listen to me. Abort your descent. Climb immediately. Do NOT continue on your current trajectory."
"Two hostile aircraft have entered Valorian airspace from the eastern seaboard. We believe they are targeting you."
"Our interceptors are ten minutes out. You need to stay above engagement range until they arrive. Can you do that?"
Inside the armor, after hearing General Hale's urgent warning, Ethan was about to climb when his sensors picked up the contacts first.
Two signatures. Approaching fast from the east. Fighter-class. Climbing hard.
He narrowed his eyes behind the visor.
Was the warning a step too late?
I anticipated this. But I didn't expect them to move this fast.
I hope they know when to stop.
Mark One doesn't have weapons. But that doesn't mean it can be pushed around.