Authors: Ronan Frost
"Sixteen Class VII Hartrias warships have dropped
into sector eight."
"Estimated four hundred Sova-1's closing on our
position," spoke Loriena, almost over the top of Mitchell.
"Sound the retreat!" cried Lockhart. "We've no
chance!"
The Scoipre pulled aside as the massive force blinked
from jumpspace. Bright light flashed super-nova white for a second
as the Hartrias warships shot past, rapidly decelerating, blurred
light and lines pulling into focus. Watching through the external
cameras Lockhart was stunned at the incredible potential firepower
he saw amassed before them.
"I want all scanners onto that fleet," he ordered.
"Update the computer with superstructure data, spatial positioning,
firepower; everything you can get. Inform General McMillan and the
Federation computer systems."
The small scout ship was blasting away obliquely from
the enemy now, seemingly ignored by the Hartrias. But it was
obvious that within minutes the massive fleet would trap the Berana
and its two support ships.
"Turn her around."
Lockhart's voice was quiet and grim, barely a mutter.
Subman Mitchell blinked. "I'm sorry sir?"
The Captain snapped his head up, grey eyes like
flint. "I said turn us around - now! We've got to buy the Berana
some time and distract that fleet."
"Sir!?" Mitchell was dumbfounded. "We narrowly
survived a head-on assault upon a hostile planet, and you want to
take us into heavy enemy fire again! Is this some sort of death
wish?"
"Negative, astrogator. Set a vector across their
path, close enough to penetrate their electoshielding."
Tech Officer Waterly was already working on the new
orders as the course was set into the computer. Loriena glanced
sideways at the Captain.
"I'm not sure your ploy will work. Surely they have
sensors that will be able to identify this as merely a scout."
Lockhart shook his head. "They will not be certain.
They cannot afford to risk a craft penetrating their outer
shielding for the risk it may carry missiles. No, they will focus
upon us."
"If we survive," grumbled Mitchell.
Becoming more infuriated at the subman's attitude by
the minute Lockhart at last exploded. "Do your duties, astrogator,
or retire to the docking bay were I can flush you out into space!
Subversion will not be tolerated."
Mitchell slammed his lightpen down upon the narrow
space of the console. "No sir! I must protest against this insanity
before we are all killed."
"Security." Lockhart motioned to his right with a
slight nod as the two stoutly constructed droids stepped forward.
"Take subman Mitchell to his cabin and retain him there."
The two red and white coloured droids stepped
forward, camera visual units deepset into the vents of their
angular heads. Mitchell stumbled back, his chair slamming backwards
and crashing to the ground like an overturned turtle. The security
droids moved quickly and efficiently, their three digits upon each
hand clasping like the jaws of an exotic deepwater fish. Bucking
and kicking futilely beneath this steel grasp Mitchell was forcibly
hauled from the bridge, the door closing behind with a pneumatic
hiss that immediately silenced his protests.
The remaining crew watched the spectacle from the
corners of their eye, not daring to take their attention away from
their instruments. Loriena pushed a finger to her throbbing temple
as she fought to monitor three different radio channels.
"Sir," she said, Mitchell forgotten already before
the approaching danger. "The Berana's engine room has been hit and
the Lanceman has been critically damaged. The crew are ejecting but
already she's burning up."
"Does the General know of this threat from the
rear?"
Loriena nodded. "The computer systems have
acknowledged, but I think McMillan has enough on his plate at the
moment."
Lockhart's brows furrowed. "Proceed with current
course. We've got to give the Berana enough time to pull out into a
defensive position."
The Scoipre fell faster, the grey mass on the
vidiscreens growing as they approached.
"Keep us low and tight," whispered Lockhart harshly,
his knuckles clenched tight upon the arms of the control chair.
"Low and fast."
Engines burning maximum thrust now the Scoipre was
accelerating beyond the safety limits set by Federation
technicians. Already Lockhart could hear a protesting, high pitched
whine ringing in his ears as the acceleration compensators
overloaded. It was then that all those aboard felt the terrible
invisible hand of inertia push against their chests and face,
forcing the cushions of the seats bowing aside under their
weight.
Individual details of the Hartrias fleet became
rapidly clearer. Lockhart could see markings and his mind
subconsciously classified the classes of ships. It seemed all
available craft had been gathered into this roughly spherically
shaped armada, the brick-like ramships leading the way, flanked by
a deadly wall of missile gunboats. And the Scoipre was plummeting
right into the midst of them!
In those few moments Lockhart was suddenly sure the
computer had made a calculation error, for it seemed they were
heading directly for the five-hundred metre tall side of a
battleship, their own size suddenly belittled by the space-going
giants. The scout craft started to rock beneath his feet, the
g-forces becoming worse now, as they punctured the Hartrias' outer
electro-shielding.
Lockhart knew enemy fire would begin within
moments.
Three thousand and eighty kilometres away General
McMillan struggled to remain upright as he grasped for the arm of
his chair, the Berana tilting sideways and shaking the crew. His
thick grey brows knotted as his attention caught upon the overhead
radar.
"Whit in the name of the Eighth system aye they
doing?" he cursed.
His aide ignored the incoming damaging reports for
the moment. "It's the Scoipre, sir. It's Captain reported they were
trying to hold off the Hartrias."
"Brave bastards," McMillan muttered, "but they dinnae
have a chance. Flight Coordinator, order oor Minnow squadrons into
sector five."
"You're pulling them out?" asked his aide.
"We do it noo before we're pulverised!" He glanced to
a side console, scanning the screen of digits in an instant.
Something cold touched deep inside his heart and he knew that the
Lanceman was totally destroyed - all communication lines severed.
It would be lucky if a handful of crew had survived the fireball.
"Keep the Ki to oor starboard," he said, referring to the remaining
flanking warship. "As soon as the Minnows huv blasted a way clear
we get oot of here."
In the control pit operators worked rapidly and with
forced military calmness at keyboards and others spoke into small
microphones, relaying the orders through the massive bank of
computer and mechanical systems.
"All communication with the Scoipre has been lost,"
came the word from the control pit.
"The scout has brought us little more than a few
seconds," grumbled McMillan. He knew without doubt that the
Scoipre's crew has suffered a quick death at the hands of the
mighty armada.
The General's aide stood at his superior's side, eyes
narrowing. "Sir, that Hartrias warship is not advancing."
McMillan paused, rediverting his attention back to
the Urisa and the Rplore. In a few moments his seasoned mind had
picked an irregularity from the picture he saw.
"Yiv picked it," he grumbled. "Something's nae right
about the way their just sitting thar." McMillan savagely combed
his beard with two fingers in a subconscious motion. "Wan of them
is damaged - it has tae be!"
"Reports did indicate the class five warship did not
launch any Sova's or fire any shots."
"Then thae's it!" cried McMillan. He punched a button
on the arm of the control chair. "Engine-master - cancel thae last
order. I want us back intae combat." McMillan then spun to the
flight coordinator, motioning sharply. "Get all available resources
ontae that class five warship - she's without shields - it's just
ae facade. If we ken get close enough we'll sink that bitch with ae
single shot. Flight-Coordinator; are the SX craft ready?"
"Updated orders," said Robinson. "Sector forty two,
speed one-eighty."
Richael cursed beneath the plastic face plate of his
flight helmet. "I thought we were retreating!"
"Negative. New commands-" Robinson stopped as a click
over their headphones heralded a communication from the flight
leader.
"Flightman five kappa, this is squadron five leader,"
came the gruff announcement. "I want your ship at my starboard
side. Advance to my bearing."
"Yessir," snapped Richael, hardly having time to
comprehend the fact that he had been promoted to the Flight
Leader's side. Then realisation struck home: most of the squadron
had been destroyed. Surviving by pure luck he was now one of the
remaining few needed to flank the leader's side.
Seconds later Flight Leader Schiever's craft bobbed
into their portside view display. His craft was blackened with
laser fire, the block markings denoting it of Federation origin
practically burned away. But the battered Minnow still handled
agilely as Schiever fired a quick forward thrust and spun his craft
in a perfectly executed barrel-roll.
"Wingmen five kappa and epsilon, stick close to me.
I've just received a scrambled message from the Berana - we're
launching another offensive."
Richael pushed the joystick away from him as his
craft spun to follow after the Flight Leader. Keeping a tight arc
they pulled around the hull of the Berana curving above like the
curved surface of a planet. From this distance Richael could make
out the flushed sensors, cannons and a multitude of other smooth
bulges in the side of the massive warship, shadows cast long and
sharp in the pristine of space. Then they flew through the
terminator line caused by the Berana and were suddenly in the
light, the blazing sun small with distance but still shedding
considerable illumination.
"Time to put that flight academy training into
practice, boys." Flight Leader Schiever's voice crackled a little
with static as they passed through the electro-shielding of the
Berana. "I've just punched a garbled computer sequence through to
you."
Richael flexed sweating fingers beneath the fabric of
his flight gloves. "Navigator, what are the orders?"
Robinson studied his computer console as the message
was decoded. "It looks like some sort of spearhead stealth attack,"
he reported "We're to escort a team of Black Ships."
His attention almost entirely devoted to controlling
the ship Richael only nodded absently. He knew Black Ships was the
name given to newly designed and newly constructed space craft,
kept under a shroud of secrecy accessed only by those of high
rank.
"The Skeeters new design," continued Robinson. "SX-10
Bladeships. Looks like some sort of bomber."
"I see them," muttered Richael. They were moving fast
now, so fast the side of the Berana was a blur of detail, and
pulling away from this web of shadows were three gloss black shapes
dwarfed by the backdrop of stars. The Bladeships accelerated
quickly and merged paths with the three Minnows.
"Accelerate to point oh three," commanded Schiever
over the intercom.
"Course set and accelerating," obeyed Richael.
Silently, like darting sharks sniffing prey, Sova ships converged.
Richael swept a glance over the instrument panel, checking
everything, every instrument and dial, knowing any second they
would hit enemy fire.
It came suddenly. An invisible net of crossfire
rocked his small craft, shields falling instantly into red. The
brief respite whilst under the Berana's protection was shattered as
Sova-1 fighters plummeted from all three dimensions.
Instinctively Richael accelerated, positioning
himself into a tighter formation. Plasma streams grazed his
starboard jets, the instrument panel lighting up like a Christmas
tree.
"Holy shit!" Seconds later most of the red flashing
lights blinked off as auto repair systems rerouted power. Richael
pushed left on the joystick, relieved that the Minnow responded to
his pressure. But there was no time for an exhalation of relief.
Richael only saw metallic flashes before a wall of Hartrias
fighters swarmed about.
Panic bored through his mind like lunatic screaming
down hospital corridors, flooding his senses with adrenalin.
Richael threw open the safety plate and ran a gloved finger down
the row of buttons underneath. Six guided torpedoes erupted from
the underside of the Minnow, curving away in separate directions
leaving twisted flame streaks in their wake. Suddenly it had seemed
the cockpit of Minnow had been turned upside down and the hull of
the Bladeships loomed on a collision course.
Richael had no time to pull out of the spin. Not
thinking twice he broke radio silence, bawling at the top of his
lungs. "Incoming! Dive right dive right!"
The Minnow still spinning crazily he fell through the
three Bladeships just as they slid sideways. There was a bare metre
separating ships as Richael's Minnow plummeted through.
His mind still spinning Richael managed to apply
reverse thrust, pulling the Minnow out of its spin, firing his
lasers as he pulled around. Buffeted wildly he barely managed to
avoid a blanket of enemy fire as it shot by underneath.
"Dammit to hell, wingman - cover me!"
Glancing at fore radar Richael saw Flight Leader
Schiever had been separated from the three Bladeships, leaving them
open. Richael accelerated upwards at a rate that pushed his jaw
painfully into the back of his head, realising he had no more
torpedoes in store. Grimly narrowing the focus of the laser he
prepared to cut into the swarm of Sova-1's that had enclosed
Schiever.