The ship lurched with another impact, this time from behind. “Hang on,” Kyra yelled, “we’ll be out of range any second!”
“Ships scrambling from the landing pad,” Kreon noted, studying his console. “Mid-size, Patrol-class, heavily armed.”
“We can outrun them, but not their turbolasers,” Kyra said.
“Two more ships preparing to launch.”
“Shit, Kreon! This ship got any more tricks? Can’t turn invisible can it?”
“Stealth measures are available,” ALI chimed in.
“Not at fifty clicks away in broad daylight,” Kyra bit back. “Sydon’s Name! All that crap just to die like this?”
Tris startled in his seat as a voice laced with contempt issued from behind him. “Not today.”
A shadow fell across him as Sera took one step further into the cockpit, bracing herself against the empty seat behind Kreon. With all the excitement, he’d forgotten she was aboard.
Clinging to the seat with one hand, she flipped open a hatch in her wrist armour to expose a keypad. “Hold still,” she said, to which Kyra merely hissed through her teeth.
Moving carefully, Sera pressed a series of buttons, her armoured fingers clearly not suited to the task. “There.” A note of finality accompanied the word.
And far below them, a massive fireball blossomed.
Tris made the mental leap. He’d known the white fighter outside the tower was Sera’s as soon as he saw it; his first thought had been that they were never all going to fit inside it.
But the modest ship wasn’t just Sera’s escape route — it was her insurance policy.
Explosions continued to bloom behind them, the rear viewscreens showing images of flaming debris raining down on the landing pad.
“All pursuers have been disabled,” Kreon reported. There was a note of awe in his voice.
Sera flipped the wrist-hatch shut and wedged her armoured bulk into the empty seat. “You didn’t plant a single bomb?” she chided, tutting to herself. “Honestly, Kreon! I’m surprised at you.”
With the Tower of Justice and the city filled with spires receding behind them, Tris almost felt like he could relax.
Almost.
But he’d been here before; from recent experience, this was usually where the trouble started.
“Where is Àurea?” Kreon demanded.
“I tossed her out of the airlock, obviously,” Sera snapped. “She’s strapped into the acceleration couch. I’ll get her to the med-bay as soon as we’ve engaged the grav-drive. Assuming you have a med-bay on this relic.”
“This relic just saved your life,” Kreon reminded her.
She laughed — thankfully not the insane cackle but a softer, more human sound. “Oh, Kreon! Always so dramatic. I seem to recall it was you on your knees in there, not me.”
Kreon’s mood was darkening by the minute. “You honestly believe you could have gotten out of there on your own?”
“Without your people slowing me down? Undoubtably.”
“With Àurea?”
Sera didn’t reply to that.
Although if she’d declared she could, Tris would have believed her. His ears were still ringing from whatever sonic weapon she’d unleashed. His head was pounding. His arms and legs were sore from the sudden abuse, bruised and lacerated from near misses and flying debris. Sera, on the other hand, seemed remarkably unaffected by their escape. They’d been in the cockpit for less than three minutes, and she already had her breath back.
“The girl—” she began.
“Good news for you lovers,” Kyra interrupted. “Whole bunch of fighters coming our way. Looks like they lifted off from two different bases a few hundred clicks out. They’ll be on us before we reach orbit.”
“How is that good news?” Tris asked.
She turned in her seat to flash him a grin. “Just trying to look on the bright side.”
Tris shook his head. Kyra must have been tortured the same way he had, maybe worse. For the second time since leaping into the old ship they were facing almost certain death — and she still found time to joke.
“If you get us out of this one, I’ll take you shoe-shopping,” he promised.
Ha! Her laugh was loud in his brain, reminding him he still hadn’t had chance to put his pendant back on. Baby, you can’t afford me.
“Fighters closing,” she said aloud. “Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…”
“Seconds?” Tris grabbed the edge of his seat to brace for impact.
“No, fighters dummy.”
“Oh! Shit!”
“Yup. Sera, got any more fun toys you want to chuck at ‘em? No time like the present.”
With a whirr of motors and a squeal of protest from the seat, Sera rose. “I’ll be with Àurea,” she said.
And left.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Kyra muttered as the door slid shut.
“I have confidence in you,” Kreon told her.
“Aw, thanks hun,” she replied. “We’re still going to die though. But I feel much better about it.”
“I’m on the guns,” Tris said, turning sideways to give his attention to the console.
“Leading fighter is in range… now,” Kyra told him.
The tac display lit up with targeting options — drastically reduced, Tris could tell, because the approaching ships were behind them.
“Space mines?” he touched the icon next to them, looking for more information.
“No!” said Kreon. “Don’t launch—”
“Oops! I think I just did!”
“Oh for Sydon’s—”
Wayfinder bucked like a rodeo horse, throwing Tris against his restraints hard enough to bruise.
Kyra swore. “Damn near took our back end off!”
“Sorry,” Tris said, studying his tac display. A gigantic fireball was expanding behind them, causing the approaching fighters to shift their course around it. “Hey! I’ve got a target!” He stabbed at the lit icons, firing topside lasers that had been unavailable due to the angle of pursuit. The lead fighter winked off his display, the kill confirmed by video feed on a side screen. “YES! I got one!”
Kyra muttered something about children under her breath, then hauled back on the joystick. “We’re going over,” she announced, as the nose came up.
Tris felt gravity change direction, pulling him towards the roof instead of straight back.
“Any better?”
Tris focussed on his display. More of Wayfinder’s guns were now pointing the right way, although this trajectory surely meant a longer trip out of the planet’s atmosphere.
It also made his head throb, as blood rushed into it.
He fired again and again, letting the computer do all the targeting work. He could tell that Kreon had joined in, the Warden launching a spread of micro missiles from his own console.
“We’re getting shields back,” Kyra said.
And just in time, as the first blasts from the fighters splashed against their protective shell.
“Yes!” Tris cawed again — just as another lurch from the ship threw off his aim. He cursed. Shields weren’t that great in atmosphere, he remembered. This high up their weapons weren’t likely to cause a back-blast, and the railguns could be used anywhere, if only there was enough power for them. And if only the enemy were considerate enough to attack from head-on. But the strength of the shields was… somehow proportionate to the density of the gases around them. He couldn’t remember the formula.
Another impact shook the ship, and Tris missed the button he was trying to press. That fighter was long gone anyway, evading the targeting lock and turning the laser’s icon back to black. “Damn it! They’re moving too fast!”
“They tend to do that when you’re shooting at them!” Kyra retorted.
Another blast hit home, obliterating one of Tristan’s laser turrets and the video feed that accompanied it. The blips of targets danced across his tac display, impossible to follow at this range let alo
ne hit. He couldn’t even tell how many were still out there; three were down, he knew, but as Wayfinder juddered again, the lights in the cockpit flickering, he knew the answer was too many.
As he looked on in horror, a new group of lights flashed up ahead of them, diving down from orbit at a frightening pace.
Shit! We’re in trouble! Tris couldn’t tell if Kyra was sending him a message or if stress was making her thoughts bleed out. He caught an image of her console through her eyes, and spotted warning lights flickering all over it.
Space mine? He hazarded.
NO! Kreon and Kyra chorused.
Then a new mind joined their conversation; cold, and ancient, and undeniably alien.
Do not soil your gestation sack, my grub! Help is at hand.
A familiar wave of comfort and concern washed over him as the Empress of the River of Silver Flashes shot past in her mottled green nestship.
Tris scanned the screens, finding one that showed her ship rocketing towards the enemy formation. Two more of the squid-like vessels blasted past, then a third; collectively, they hit the enemy fighters like a combine harvester. Laser bolts spat from every wingtip, vaporising the fighters too sluggish to respond. At the back of the group a few fighters peeled off, but their change in vector proved no challenge for the Siszar ships. One by one the enemy craft were blown out of the sky, vastly overmatched by the speed and ferocity of the nestships.
Kyra drove hard for space all the while, gritting her teeth against the Wayfinder’s juddering. Her trajectory was taking them directly away from the battle, which looked to be over in seconds. Kyra had corrected their angle of ascent to put gravity back in the right place, and Tris could hear her mental countdown until they escaped the atmosphere.
Suddenly, a savage thought pushed its way into Tristan’s mind. Where were you trapped, Pink-worm?
Tris blanched at the raw aggression that shrouded the words, colouring them with an inhuman eagerness for bloodshed.
Uhhh… Tris tried to summon up a picture of the tower they’d fled from. The gleaming white spire came easily to mind, its impossible vastness looming over them even as it shook from within.
I will shake it to pieces! The alien responded.
Then it was gone, wrenching away none too gently. It left a cold, slimy feeling in his head and a sheen of sweat down his back.
Three of the Siszar ships detached from the combat, veering off at top speed towards the city of spires.
Apologies, the Empress came through, the males of my species can be rather crude.
Tris shuddered in spite of himself. Friends of yours?
He felt her amusement. They would wish it so! They are competing for my affection. Males in this state have an excess of energy. I thought it could be put to good use.
He called me Pink-worm, Tris complained.
Of course! That is our word for your species.
But… we’re not all pink!
Neither are you all worms. It is a gross generalisation, for which I am sorry.
“We have another problem,” Kreon announced, breaking Tris out of his trance.
Kyra swore again. “I see it! Crap. We’ll reach orbit, but that thing can wipe us out before we make a grav-jump.
Tris glanced back at his console, noticing the bright spot growing steadily larger. “What is it?”
“What else?” Kyra called back. “A Sanctuary-class battle station!”
Tris felt his blood run cold. Not even the Siszar could help them against this.
A wave of grim determination accompanied the Empress’s assertion; We will try, she promised.
The last wisp of atmospheric gases vanished from the main viewscreen. Stars blossomed, painting the black canvas before them with pinpricks of light. And amidst them, a vast circle of nothingness.
The sleek black hull was the size of a marble — already close enough to use a variety of phenomenally powerful weapons, Tris knew. Starlight winked from the vast silhouette, revealing the deployment of its main guns. Seconds later a massive crimson beam carved through space directly above them, its wash almost blinding Tris even through the canopy’s flash-filters.
“Lantian ship,” a voice snarled from the comm unit, “you will hold position or be destroyed.”
Kyra glanced at Kreon; Fight on? she asked him.
The Warden returned her look with a grimace.
Tris knew they couldn’t win. The Lemurian battle station had played its role perfectly, using their distraction and its own stealth technology to slide into position directly above them. That’s what they were designed for, as far as Tris could tell; orbital defence.
And they were very, very good at it.
“Broadcast unconditional surrender immediately and power down all weapons, or the next blast will cut you in half.”
Kreon glared at the comm unit as though it was the one speaking.
“If we surrender they’ll take us back there,” Tris said, aware he was stating the obvious. “We’ll be executed all over again!”
“More grist for the propaganda mill,” Kreon agreed. “However, given the damage we have caused during our escape, I fear their response will be reflected in the manner of our execution.”
Kyra nodded. “Better go out with a bang,” she said.
Tris agreed.
Excellent! The Empress joined them, her response jubilant. We all die together!
Dimly, Tris heard Kreon second the thought.
And we will deny them the chance to eat our bodies! the Empress added.
Tris wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, so he send a voiceless affirmation.
Kyra flung the control stem forward, diving the ship violently. Tris hit every button on his display, lancing out towards the battle station with turbolasers and pulse cannons. A second huge laserbeam dissected the space they’d occupied a second ago, while Kyra threw the stick over to change course again. The Empress streaked past, her wingtips spitting fire, and twisted away at the last moment as a volley from the battle station sizzled across her bow.
Tris noticed Kreon had killed their shields, and knew what that meant; one last, desperate ploy.
Kyra, literally reading the Warden’s mind, brought them back up on an intercept vector, pointing their nose directly toward the battle station.
“Firing,” Kreon said, working his controls.
It felt like Wayfinder hit a speed bump, their forward motion suddenly arrested by the recoil of the gigantic railguns. Two big chunks of ultra-dense alloy accelerated towards the battle station faster than the eye could follow. Tris could see the result though; two perfectly-matched holes appeared in the station’s southern hemisphere, both expanding as jets of flame and debris burst from inside.
The battle station barely moved. There must have been some internal damage, but it was nowhere near enough to threaten the gigantic vessel.
An alarm warbled in the cockpit.
“They’ve locked on with their primary weapon!” Kyra yelled.
“My sincere gratitude, to all of you,” Kreon said quietly. “It has been a privilege.”
Tris hunkered down on the console, bracing himself for impact.
But as he planted his forehead on the display, his fuzzy focus made the Sanctuary’s blip look like two.
He blinked, confirming what he was looking at. “Another one!” he cried, flicking his eyes to the viewscreen.
What he saw there would stay with him forever.
Immediately behind the Sanctuary-class battle station, an identical silhouette had appeared.
Only where the first sphere was smooth and sleek, this one was anything but; huge plates had been plastered over the hull seemingly at random, like gigantic steel Band-aids. New steel rings encircled the vessel at intervals, like belts straining to keep its belly in.
And from the centre of the ship, like the stick on a lollipop, extended a gun barrel that had to be a hundred metres long.
Despite the alterations, there was no denying that batt
le-scarred silhouette.
It was the Folly.
“Mum!” Tris couldn’t help himself.
“Welcome home, Tristan,” Askarra’s voice crackled over the comm. “Did you have fun with your friends?”
And as the first Sanctuary turned to unleash its arsenal against the new arrival, a blast of incredible proportions shot forth from the Folly’s gigantic new gun barrel.
An incandescent column of white light, it struck the opposing battle station dead-centre. For a second the black sphere was enveloped in a coruscating field of energy, surging over its surface like waves on a beach.
Then a candle of flame flared out from the opposite side of the sphere, growing rapidly. The powerful white beam punched out into space, having carved a path straight through the Sanctuary’s middle.
Transfixed, the battle station spasmed — then again, more dramatically — then the entire thing went supernova.
Kyra swerved the ship away as chunks of debris and tongues of fire reached out for them. A hail of smaller particles rattled against the hull, triggering more alarms from Kyra’s console. Angling sharply away from the expanding cloud of plasma, she held their course until the rate of impacts slackened off. Finally, there was silence; no-one inside dared break it with chatter.
Until the crackle of the comm announced an incoming transmission.
Tris knew instantly that it was directed at him.
Because of the accent.
“Well hello there, handsome. You miss me?”
It was Ella.
With the remains of the Lemurian battle station drifting down towards the planet below, Kyra brought the Wayfinder in close to the Folly. From this distance Tris could see hundreds, if not thousands of new plates welded over holes in the skin of the battle station. Several new weapons had been grafted onto the surface, though perhaps ‘recycled’ was a more appropriate term for them. No two weapons were alike, and neither were the hull patches; some shone with reflected running lights, burnished and silver; more looked tarnished and blackened, as though they’d been cut off a burned-out wreck. Still others were red with rust, covered in peeling paint or embellished with strange shapes like fins. Taken all at once, it was a hideously ugly mess; a mishmash of junk and spare parts, all strapped together with the spaceship equivalent of gaffer tape.
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