The Oppressed

by Matt Thomas

  A man reaching the end of what the Hetarek considered his utility stepped forward from the gate.

  Bryan extended a hand, his sleeve rolled up to the firearm even in the cold, his rifle dangling down the front of his chest by its sling. "Bryan Howe. I'm with the Free Human Forces. Why don't we sit down some place and talk while my people see what they can do for you?"

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  What dream the alarm interrupted, Costeaux didn’t know. If the grinding, screeching, pulsing noise didn’t wake him, the red strobe installed just above the hatch to the berth he shared with Sasha did the trick. “General Quarters, General Quarters, all hands man battle stations, all flight crews report. General Quarters, General Quarters, all hands man battle stations, all flight crews report.”

  Muscle-memory overcame his brain fog, and he shoved his feet through the legs of the flight suit carefully arranged in a pile beside his bunk for that exact purpose. Every night for the last six years he prepared to be sprung out of bed to race into combat. It happened only a handful of times, but enough that he had perfected the layout of his equipment and practiced the art of donning it perfectly before he was fully awake. Connecting a hose loosely or failing to seal something properly meant death in the vacuum, and he couldn’t afford to risk any mistakes when every second counted.

  Sasha went through the same procedure within arm’s reach, not saying anything as the pilot struggled to gather himself. In seconds, both pulled their flight suits up around the waist for modesty, the tops would be zipped while running down the corridors. They painted a strange picture to anyone not used to the sight, undershirts sticking out, sleeves flapping behind them, survival equipment connected but not cinched down, and their helmets on as they listened to the briefing being replayed over the local channel.

  “Warp signatures detected at the edge of the system, seven hundred thousand clicks starward of Pollux.” The voice came through the helmet speakers small and confused as the command crew tried to discern the situation. Columbia had returned to the bulk of the Free Human fleet, leaving the carrier Excelsior protecting the Twins. “Count three signatures, cruiser-size. Fighter launch detected. No numbers yet.”

  Dauod and Quinn nearly collided with them in the hallway just outside of the docking arrangement. “Who’s up there?” Sasha asked.

  “It should be Five and Six. One and Two just came off shift, I think.” Quinn said.

  The flight crew chief overheard them and confirmed. “They are. One and Two are still refueling.” He extended a plastic tray with four small paper cups filled with espresso.

  “My love for you is real.” Quinn said as he tossed back the coffee, barely breaking stride.

  Costeaux drank his and tossed the temporary glass back on the tray. “Thanks. Any issues?”

  The crew chief shook his head. “Everything’s green. Standard load-out.” Jean sealed up the last of his flight suit and dropped his helmet faceplate. He followed his pilot out the airlock into the vacuum and up the ladder into their fighter.

  His wing-mates from their sister ship Redoubtable called out an update as he stepped through the airlock onto the hull of the battleship and began to climb into the cockpit. “Confirm three Arrowheads, looks like they each launched nine Sickles heading for the stations. They also launched Scythes. Distance is three hundred thousand clicks.”

  As they launched, they could see the Baseballs swarming away from the cigar-shaped carrier in the distance, glints of reflected sun forming a cloud between warships protecting the planet and the Hetarek.

  “Cobra Flight, Excelsior, move to intercept inbound Sythes at will.”

  “Copy, Excelsior.” Jean replied, even as he desperately tried to find the larger craft amongst the swarms of incoming fighters.

  “Why are there Scythes?” Quinn asked as the two fighters rushed towards the coming fray.

  “Maybe they’re trying to land troops on the planet.” Dauod suggested.

  “There aren’t enough of them.” Jean replied, trying to cut off the distracting questions so he could focus on finding an enemy to kill. “I only count eight.”

  “Cobra Flight, Lead, we’re launched and en route.”

  Costeaux plotted trajectories. “They’re headed for the planets. We can get within firing range before they hit atmo.”

  Sasha already flew at maximum speed, the range to the targets slowly ticking down. Jean picked two targets for missile lock.

  The Baseballs and Sickles nearly clashed. Even at tens of thousands of kilometers away, Jean could see the flashes of combat. He appreciated not having radio communications with the remote controlled operators sitting on Excelsior, so he didn’t have to hear their pedantic banter as they stared at computer screens with limited risk.

  “I got two ready.” Costeaux kept his attention on the Scythes. “You see ‘em?”

  “Yeah.” The box around the targets, still heading for the planet, went green. “Two away!” Sasha shouted as the missiles launched.

  “Cobra Four, Fox One and Two.” Another pair of missiles streaked forward to their right.

  While the four missiles headed to their four targets, the four targets suddenly an inexplicable spun away from the planets, pointing directly at the Free Human fleet.

  Jean’s sensors told him that the Scythes split in two, somehow instantly doubling. But then they detected the sudden burst of speed. Struggling to understand, he extrapolated the position.

  “Oh shit.” He muttered, before switching to the fleet-wide emergency channel. “All ships, all ships, all ships, Cobra Three. Scythes just launched eight heavy warheads outside of the defense zone. Repeat: eight heavy warheads inbound.”

  The Hetarek had once again demonstrated their superiority at using the humans’ tactics against them. Having launched their warheads, the Scythes dove towards the surface as a diversion, sending the Sickles to occupy the human fighters. As the Scythes headed down, they increased the angle between the human defensive screen. Their passenger compartments must have been converted to weapons bays large enough to hold the enormous torpedoes. Once launched, the warheads could find their targets without coming in range of the human drones. The Hetarek effectively fired around the humans’ shield. Only the handful of Petrels stood in their way.

  Their delayed departure put Lead and Two closest, and they diverted towards the incoming weapons.

  On his screen, he saw both of his and one of Four’s missiles they had launched at the Scythes strike their targets. The Hetarek did not even attempt to evade. They fulfilled their purpose the moment they dropped their warheads. The Free Humans chalked up three useless kills.

  “We’re cutting it close, they should fly right by us.” Lead announced. “Going guns.”

  “I’m right with you.” Two followed.

  For the second time in less than three minutes, a sensor return dissolved into a cluster. One of the warheads, the third back, split apart, not due to gunfire, but by design. Six smaller warheads splayed out from the weapon track. The Hetarek had planned for that exact contingency.

  The smaller missiles shot straight at the incoming Petrels, who, having initiated their gun run, had become locked into their trajectory. The close proximity and high speed kept them from changing course.

  Cobra Two broadcasted no transmission as two missiles struck it directly. Jean could see only a flash, and watched as his sensors stopped detecting the heavy fighter.

  Lead cursed, loudly and frequently on the squadron radio channel. Jean’s sensors told him how desperately she tried to evade, hiding behind her wingman’s debris as the missiles tried to find her. All three incoming projectiles detonated around her, and, for a moment, Jean just assumed the Hetarek had a second kill. But the fighter emerged from the cloud of fire and shrapnel. The Hetarek torpedoes continued on their trek.

  “Cobra Flight, Lead, we’re hit and I’m RTBing, time now!”

  Cobra One headed straight back to the Excelsior, but n
ot at maximum speed. Sensors picked up gasses, heat, and chunks of debris left in the fighter’s wake. Further back, a pair of Sickles pursued, closing the distance. Checking distances and velocity, Jean confirmed what he feared. Cobra One would fall into Sickles’ range before the Columbia could provide cover. “Sasha, Lead’s not going to make it.”

  The pilot checked his own screen, not out of doubt but hope. “Is there anyone near her?”

  “I think we’re the closest, and she’ll make it to Excelsior before we’re in gun range. Although...” Costeaux started toying with the settings on his torpedo. “Four, give us some cover for a minute.” He asked. Dauod responded that a flight of Sickles bore down on them as well but was not yet in range.

  “What’re you thinking?” Sasha asked.

  “Maybe we can run some interference from here. If I can put a torpedo between them and detonate, the Hetarek might back off.”

  The targeting computer threw a fit. Costeaux asked it to extrapolate a path, hit a point on the hypothetical path at a particular time, and self-detonate. The computer ordinarily breezed through each operation individually, but together and combined with the dogfight around them, the variables made it throw errors and give unacceptable probabilities. It liked shooting torpedoes at large, slow moving targets, and detonating upon impact for a reason. Jean’s instructions went against it’s programming.

  “Jean, if you’re going to do something then fucking do it. Those Arrowheads are right on us.” Dauod called over the radio.

  “Hold on, I’m trying to do math.” He yelled back. Finally, lines started appearing on the HUD for a projected path. The probably of hitting the right point fluctuated around sixty percent. “Okay, I got it. My controls.”

  “Your controls.” Sasha replied, taking his hands off the yoke.

  Costeaux made realigned the ship, pointing where it told him to and adjusting his speed and drift until the box in the center of his vision went from red to amber. He adjusted the rudder carefully, his thumb depressing the safety constantly while the targeting computer gave him a warning tone.

  “Come on, dude, be a sniper.” Sasha encouraged.

  “Sickles in range.” Quinn announced. “Engaging.”

  The targeting box flicked green, and Costeaux squeezed the trigger. “Torpedo away. Your controls.” When he released the controls and looked up from his screen, lasers and tracers flew around him. “Shit.”

  “My controls. Engaging.” Sasha immediately switched to the next task. Jean found him the nearest flight of Sickles and provided vectors.

  “Three, Lead, did you just shoot a torpedo at me?”

  “Negative, Lead. We shot a torpedo in your direction. Maintain course and you’ll be fine.” A klaxon went off in his helmet. “Missile lock, popping CM.” Sasha sent the Cobra into a series of evasive maneuvers and someone reported having a lock on one of the Sickles. “Lasers.” The beams lanced out and through the Sickle, striking it enough that the Hetarek disengaged its pursuit. Almost immediately, the trail of a missile shot past the canopy and began to arc around. A different tone sounded, and Costeaux checked his scope. The torpedo had detonated just as intended, in front of the flight pursuing Cobra One. It looked like one of the enemy fighters had taken some damage and both fell back.

  “Holy shit, Three. Thanks. They’re breaking pursuit.”

  “Don’t really give a fuck about that right now, Lead.” Jean said through gritted teeth. He continued flipping switches for the countermeasures. The inbound missile swerved while the starfield outside jittered randomly. Jean accepted the risk of taking his eyes off the instruments for a moment, straining his neck to look behind him. The computer highlighted the incoming projectile, and he could see the glowing streak heading towards them. Clouds of chaff and flares shot out the back of their Petrel, and the computer momentarily lost lock on the incoming missile. But the incoming missile lost its lock on the fighter. A brief flash told him the warhead detonated. “I think we’re good.”

  Sasha stopped evasive maneuvers, and found the offending Sickle still lingering behind them. He yawed hard, spinning the fighter like a top. “Give me a solution.”

  Jean punched instructions into the targeting computer. “Got it. Locked. Bay two open.”

  “Fox one.” Sasha let loose the first missile. “Fox two.” A second streaked forward, just behind the first. Hopefully only one would be distracted by the Sickle’s countermeasures. The trick worked. The first missile shot wide, but the second detonated just beneath the Hetarek fighter. On the sensors, the Sickle became a blur of unidentifiable objects.

  “Scratch one.”

  Jean found Dauod and Quinn, locked in a frenzied ball with two Sickles. It was hard to tell who was hunting and who was hunted as the fighters danced around each other, jockeying for position. “We got you, Four.” Jean said as he picked a Sickle to kill. With Four so close, missiles were out of the question. “Guns are hot.”

  To his left, Sasha leaned forward in deep concentration, a bad habit Jean wished he would break.

  “Asp Two reports scratch one Arrowhead.” Redoubtable announced. Its own heavy fighters must have taken out one of the Hetarek warships.

  “Wish they’d report our kills.” Sasha said. “Guns, guns, guns.” Tracers and lasers flashed ahead of the fighter, striking the Sickle across its wing. The Hetarek ship began to spin out of control, keeping the same course as it coasted, dead.

  “Scratch one.”

  Four took advantage of the sudden change in dynamic. Dauod angled away from the remaining Sickle. “Heading for you, Three.” Quinn announced.

  “I hate this.” Jean said to himself as he tried to get the targeting computer to distinguish between the two incoming fighters. Their distance closed extremely rapidly. The computer tried to give a very rough estimate for where the three fighters would intersect, and began counting down.

  “Four, break on my mark.” Jean instructed. He glanced over at Sasha, who’s nod was barely visible. The computer gave them some probability of success. “Mark.”

  The incoming Petrel dove, revealing the Sickle behind it. Sasha didn’t bother announcing the shot. The fighter’s weapons fired, stitching along the hull of the Hetarek fighter as it tried to follow Dauod’s maneuver. The rounds struck something critical, and the engine ruptured, expanding gas and debris that Sasha narrowly avoided flying through.

  “Thanks, Three.”

  In the fury of the fight, and the futility of further effort in the matter, Jean had forgotten about the Hetarek warheads.

  “All ships, all ships, all ships, Redoubtable. Be advised, incoming warheads are EMP devices. I say again, incoming warheads are EMP devices. Excelsior has lost power.”

  “What the fuck?” Quinn exclaimed over the local radio. Costeaux checked his scanner and found the sensor return for the second carrier, but not the tell-tale transponder signal. The cruiser Jutland, which had been escorting the carrier, was similarly dark. Without the cruiser, and with the carrier’s point-defense weapons disabled by the EMP, nothing could stop the last two incoming devices.

  They were not EMPs. The first detonated early, clearly struck by some countermeasure. Jean’s naked eye could see the flash of the massive explosion even at their extreme distance.

  Excelsior’s hull hid the light from the second explosion as that warhead waited until it had buried itself within the massive ship. The carrier’s change in shape and course confused Jean’s sensors as they tried to determine whether the remains of the ship still qualified as a carrier. It began to drift towards other vessels, and the airways came alive as any ship that still had power warned of impending collisions with those disabled ships who could neither see nor hear.

  “The remaining two Arrowheads just jumped.” Quinn announced.

  The chaos on the airwaves kept them from hearing Redoubtable call “all clear.”

  *****

  The day’s events muted the ready room. Exhaustion contributed
the most, but the absence of half of their number did its job to dampen the mood.

  Costeaux sat in his favorite chair, an old ejection seat from an early model Petrel. Quinn and Dauod perched themselves atop a coffee table they had pulled over, both hunched over and leaning on their knees, staring at the floor. If any of them spoke, it was trivial.

  Sasha shuffled in, the physical wear showing as he dragged his feet and kept his hands shoved in his pockets. He shook his head as he dropped down into his designated chair next to Costeaux.

  “You guys see Lead’s ship?”

  Everyone shook their heads.

  “She was just showing it to me as second ago in the shuttle hanger. The docking clamp was destroyed so they had to use the hanger. Then, the gear wouldn’t go down so they did a hard landing. They’ve got it hanging in a cradle. I stood underneath the port wing, I could see the hanger ceiling through the holes. The insides are all fucked up. They stuck all these pans and things underneath it because it’s still leaking fluid. The number three weapons bay door was partially peeled back. It’s just a fucking mess.” Sasha reported.

  “I can’t believe that ship made it back.” Dauod shook his head. “I saw it get hit, and I thought they’d be dead.”

  “Man, I’m telling you, I saw the crater in the hanger deck from the crash landing. They’re going to have to patch up that landing pad before they can use it again. She says she’s taking photos and writing a letter to Ephemeris thanking them.” Sasha said.

  “How’s her weapon’s officer?” Dauod asked.

  “She said he’s still in the med bay. He hit his head pretty hard; they said he’s got at least a severe concussion if not a cracked skull. He’s done. No flight status. Doesn’t really matter anyway, that ship’s just scrap parts now. It’s too messed up to survive a jump itself and they can’t repair it here. So Lead’s off flight status for a while, it looks like.”

  Dauod broke the awkward pause that followed. “Excelsior’s isn’t in much better shape. The entire starboard side is demolished. One of my buddies is in Asp Squadron said the landing bay looks like someone just scooped out part of the ship. The shielding around the magazine kept it from setting off every round of ammo, but the fuel system ruptured. The site is one big cloud of oil and chemicals. They diverted the entire squadron back to Intrepid. He said they got the fighters crammed in there wingtip to wingtip. It’s chaos.”