I banked and rolled into a steep dive. The bandit followed leisurely, his targeting lock a deafening reminder of his advantage.

Plummeting through the cloud layer, I leveled out and cut my engines, gliding on inertia and the combination of thick atmosphere and lifting-body design. The lock wavered and vanished and the bandit’s engines roared past, dispersing the clouds in a cone behind him. I primed my autocannon and opened fire.

The first two shots went wild as I adjusted for wind sheer, but sixty-two graphite slugs tore though his fighter, which broke apart with a flash.

The pilot managed to eject, his parachute silhouetted against the red glow of the volcanism below. He wouldn’t survive the surface, but might have a chance to signal his carrier before he died.

I adjusted my engines and followed his descent, lighting up his head with a targeting laser. Eighty grams of graphite and a bloody puff ended his life.

Poor human, sent into combat with no backups.

They hated us out of envy. Robots never die.