Assimilated

by Nick Webb

  Jake gripped the controls of the fighter, a knot beginning to form in his stomach. This was not how it was supposed to be. The South American contingent was supposed to show up, and then, as one massive fleet, they’d make a gravitic shift to the Imperial scout fleet patrolling Earth in an highly inclined orbit, and blast them out of the sky. The next target was the Imperial garrison on Mars, and then, once all the Imperial cruisers were mopped up, they’d make a strike on Geneseo station—the giant shipyard and orbital construction facility that was the prize over Earth.

  But now they were facing defeat, before the war had even started. How had Pritchard let this happen?

  “V-leader is signaling for the open fist,” Kit said.

  “Right. On it.” Jake moved their ship into formation with the rest of Viper squad, pulling out in front of the rest of the Resistance fighters, and at the last second before the arrival of the Imperial bogeys, blasted apart into a sprawling star formation, veering around the oncoming fighters and continuing on towards the cruisers.

  “Nice, Shotgun,” said Kit, studying his board. “Contact! Five o’clock! We’ve got a tail.”

  Jake thumbed the controls and swiveled the fighter around one-eighty without changing course. “Go, Kit!”

  Kit thumbed the trigger, and the pursuing fighter exploded in a blast of white before fading into a cloud of red embers. All good, except Jake noticed the explosion had happened just a split second before Kit’s fire arrived.

  “Hey Shotgun, it’s Crash. Viper Three. Just saving your ass. No thank you’s necessary.”

  Jake grinned as he flipped his comm on, and spied Viper three veer away in pursuit of another bogey. “Thanks, Crash. We owe you one.” His best friend, another pilot, had an ego the size of his ship, but a heart of gold.

  They pressed on towards the Imperial fleet, and Jake watched as at least half the Imperial fighters wheeled around to chase them towards the larger cruisers. The speakers rumbled louder with the low booms of the enemy railgun fire, and they could now individually resolve the cannons dotting the surfaces of the massive, bulky ships.

  “All right, boys and girls. Let’s Cherenkov this bitch,” said a voice over the comm, which Jake recognized as the Viper squad leader. A former scientist, he had a way with words that often puzzled his team.

  “I assume he means to blast the nearest one?” said Kit, thinking his comm was switched off.

  “I sure as hell do, Rooster,” said V-leader. “Concentrate fire on the closest heavy cruiser—the NPQR Nero. When the fighters catch up to us, engage them in close proximity to the cruisers. Cause as much damage as possible before our cruisers engage. Hitchens out.”

  Jake shrugged. In reality, he was built for this. Fast motorcycles, faster women, and blazing fast fighters—that was his motto. He thrived on adrenaline. He ate fear, and drank danger. He’d left his teenage years far, far behind, but he still believed he was invincible, and it showed in his flying. Loops and turns that would have made a stunt pilot blush. Spectacular games of chicken with enemy bogeys that dared to stare him down. This was his element, and he was in it to win.

  “Oh, shit.”

  Jake snapped his head to look at Kit. “What?”

  “Look.” Kit pointed out the front viewport.

  The NPQR Nero had not even launched its fighters yet.

  Dozens and dozens of the sleek craft flitted out from the hangar bay of the lumbering heavy cruiser and opened fire on their modest squad of fighters already engaged with the handful of Imperial fighters that had chased them back.

  Jake gulped. “Well, Pritchard never said this would be easy.”

  “He also never said this would be suicidal,” said Kit.

  With a shrug, Jake pulled up hard on the controls and swung the craft around as no fewer than five enemy bogeys locked onto their tail and opened fire. The speakers screamed with the simulated sounds of the rounds whizzing past, accompanied with what Jake quickly realized was actual, not virtual, noise, as a handful of rounds clipped one of their wings.

  “Hold on,” said Jake, “this is going to get a little rough.” He veered towards the NPQR Nero, and aimed square at one of the railgun turrets still blasting away at the USS Fury, accelerating towards it with the five fighters still hot on their trail.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” yelled Kit.

  “Either something very innovative or very stupid.”

  The railgun turret swiveled as its occupants noticed the Resistance craft bearing down on them. With the fighters still in close pursuit and the railgun now firing at point-blank range, Jake violently swung the fighter to and fro, only just narrowly dodging the high-velocity slugs blasting out of the turret.

  And it had just the effect he wanted. Within moments, the five fighters had been whittled down to two as the stray slugs obliterated them into expanding clouds of debris, and he twisted the fighter around to veer away at the last second, only narrowly avoiding a collision with the turret. As they peeled away Kit thumbed the trigger for a torpedo, which shot away from the undercarriage, and the turret exploded in a fiery blast that would have blinded them had they not been speeding by so fast.

  “You are one crazy son of a bitch, you know that?” Kit’s voice was low, as if he was shocked to still be alive.

  Jake turned to him and grinned. “Not half as crazy as what I’m about to do next. Just let me know whe—”

  “Look out!”

  But it was too late. The piece of debris was small, as space battle debris went, but it was enough, and it slammed into the port wing at full speed, sending them into a spin.

  “Port gravitics are out. Compensating,” said Kit, as Jake struggled to right the bird.

  “We’re about to hit the Nero. Hurry, Rooster,” said Jake, his voice rising as he eyed the hull of the massive ship speeding up to meet them.

  Kit’s fingers raced over his board, but the spiral continued, and the hull loomed.

  “Kit….” Jake murmured.

  “Working on it,” his co-pilot mumbled.

  Jake eyed the proximity sensor on his board. Six hundred meters. Five hundred. He was starting to feel ill from the spin. Three hundred meters.

  “Kit….” He repeated.

  “I—uh—I don’t know….” Kit’s voice trailed off.

  Two hundred meters.

  Jake began to wish he’d stayed in bed with Ensign Kelley. In the seconds of life remaining to him, he thought back on that lovely ass. Those firm, petite breasts. The little tattoo of a bird on her lower back.

  One hundred meters.

  The Earth Resistance had started like most do. The Corsican Empire, like all empires must, had devolved into a bureaucratic nightmare as red tape and regulations piled high and rights bled away. The atrocities of the early years of their galactic expansion had waned, and only the older generation remembered, leaving the young to silently rage against the humiliation of control by a distant world.

  As empires went, the Corsicans had the most benevolent of intentions. To conquer the scourge of piracy infesting the merchant shipping lanes in interstellar space, and to bring peace to the thousand worlds. But domination, even when put into practice with the best of intentions, never ends well.

  The Corsicans, or New Rome, as they styled themselves, conquered the larger population centers of the thousand settled worlds piecemeal, relying on fragmented alliances and fear to induce worlds into the Pax Humana one by one. A space fleet and military unrivalled in all of history surely helped as well. And by the time Earth became the 650th world conquered, just in time for Emperor Justinian’s golden jubilee, most of the thousand worlds had given up hope of resisting the incontestable might of the empire and either joined outright or laid low, hoping to go unnoticed.

  But Earth fought back. The first resistance, over forty years earlier, was crushed mercilessly, and the ringleaders went into hiding, biding their time until conditions were ripe for another chance at freedom.

  And now the time h
ad come.

  Or so Jake had thought. With a loser deadbeat drunk of a father and a bleak future awaiting him in whatever factory the empire would assign him to, he secretly joined the Resistance and signed on to the Imperial Fleet, under the guise of aspiring to become an Imperial Fighter pilot. And up until an hour ago, he was.

  But that all now seemed a distant dream as the gray hull of the Nero spiraled up to meet him.

  “Kit…” he murmured again.

  Death might even be a welcome fate compared to what the empire might do to him if captured. Stories out of the prison labor camps were few, but grim, with rumors of torture and abuse. Jake grit his teeth as the grey wall of metal loomed in the viewport. Damn. And he’d never even get to learn Admiral Pritchard’s secret.

  Twenty meters.

  A whining sound—Jake heard the gravitic drive reengage on the port side, and Kit yelled in triumph. “Get us outta here, Shotgun!”

  Jake pulled hard on the controls, and the fighter veered away at the last moment, the tip of the wing barely grazing the hull of the Nero. Jake yelled his war-whoop.

  “How’s our engine, Rooster?”

  Kit’s brow dripped sweat onto his console, and Jake wondered if his co-pilot would hold up under the pressure.

  “Shaky, but holding.”

  Red flashes burst all around them and Jake swung the fighter hard to starboard to evade their new pursuers. The Imperials were everywhere, like an angry, buzzing swarm of killer bees, bursting out of a kicked-over hive.

  The hive. Jake craned his neck around to look back at the Nero, and saw the fighter bay still belching out bird after streaking bird. If only he could stop them….

  Flipping the fighter around so fast that the stars and fleet of cruisers and fighters wheeled overhead and blurred into one, he pressed forward on the controls and shot towards the gaping maw of the fighter bay. Anti-fighter guns blazed all around the opening to the flight deck, and Jake couldn’t quite understand how, but he swerved and dodged most of the streaking red bolts, before yelling at Kit, “Now, full spread of torpedoes!”

  Several dull clunks told him of the torpedoes’ departure, and he watched with a grim smile as the missiles impacted inside the fighter bay. Three massive explosions ripped across the deck, spewing debris and bodies—still struggling against the merciless vacuum—out from the open bay doors and into space.

  “That oughta foul things up in there,” said Jake. And yet, all around them, the evidence of defeat was at hand. They’d lost a handful of fighters already—good men and women with whom he’d trained for months, preparing for this very day. The day of their liberation.

  The small fleet of Imperial cruisers had drifted closer to the Resistance fleet, which looked ragged from the constant Imperial bombardment. The Imperials were moving in for the kill.

  With a rude buzz, the comm crackled to life. “This is Captain Tiberius aboard the NPQR Nero. Admiral Pritchard, you are ordered to stand down and report for your arrest aboard my ship. The Emperor has caught wind of your little rebellion and has directed me to put an end to it. All rebel fighters and cruisers, stand down now or you will be destroyed.” The voice paused and Jake could hear a few pops, almost as if the captain were greedily cracking his knuckles in anticipation. “But by all means, Admiral. Give me a reason. Just give me a reason and I’ll give your fleet such a beating you won’t even know what hit you. You have two minutes to comply before we utterly destroy you. Tiberius out.”

  The Nero cut off the signal and the comm fell silent. Kit glanced over at Jake, a grim look passing over his face.

  “Sounds serious,” he said, in his usual dry irony.

  Jake looked back at the fighter bay. The constant stream of fighters leaving it had ceased, so at least there was that one small victory. The rest of their situation, however, looked dire. The Imperial fleet was nearly on top of the Resistance cruisers and continued the bombardment. Outnumbered over two to one, Jake couldn’t imagine their ships would last much longer. Not unless Pritchard came through with his secret, whatever it was.

  “All fighters, this is Admiral Pritchard. Disengage with the Imperials immediately and return to your carriers. Quickly now, do as the good captain says.”

  Jake could hardly believe it. Was it over so soon? Why would the man just give up? He’d most likely be executed for stoking a rebellion, as well as all the other senior leaders of the Resistance. He swore again to himself. All that planning, all that training, all that work for nothing.

  “Shotgun, get us the hell out of here,” said Kit.

  Jake swung the bow around, weaving through an array of Imperial light cruisers, still pounding away at the Resistance force, and aimed for the NPQR Fury, whose open fighter bay was just a distant, yellowish dot against the grey hull.

  A flurry of motion caught his eye. A fighter—from his own Viper squad, by the looks of it—chased by four Imperial bogeys, and looking to be on its last leg. Jake watched, in near agony, as the fighter lost control and impacted on the surface of the light cruiser hanging nearby. The four pursuers veered off, in search of a new straggling target.

  Jake drew a quick breath when the comm flared on. “This is Viper Three, we’ve crashed and need assistance. Engines and life s … out … … ‘s on fire. Hard to brea …”

  The comm signal crackled, and went out. Viper three. Crash. His friend. Before Jake could say anything, Kit shouted. “Woohoo! Look at that, wouldya? Is that Pritchard’s secret?”

  Peering out the side viewport, Jake saw more gravitic flickers as yet another fleet popped into existence just kilometers away.

  The South American fleet.

  Kit’s voice dropped. “Uh, Jake, I’m reading a nuclear signal. The Imperials are so tightly packed in here, I think the South Americans are just going to nuke ‘em. We should probably be getting outta here.”

  But Viper Three. Crash, and his co-pilot….

  Without stopping to consult Kit, Jake blasted away towards the wrecked ship caught in the twisted metal of the light cruiser’s hull where it had collided. As they approached, Jake saw that the hatch was open, and a helmeted man in a flight suit hung on to the twisted door.

  “Hang on, buddy, we’re coming,” Jake mumbled.

  Kit yelled. “Jake, they’ve launched the missiles! We’re dead if we don’t get out of here now!”

  Shaking his head, Jake pulled the fighter just meters away from the wreck. “Crash, buddy, it’s us. Shotgun and Rooster. You’re going to have to jump. We’ll open the hatch.” He glanced at Kit to make sure his helmet was secure, and satisfied it was, he pressed the emergency override button to open the hatch.

  A blast of air shook their arms, but the seat restraints kept them securely fastened to the chairs. Jake glanced to make sure the hatch was fully open, and, assured it was, yelled into the comm. “Go, Crash!”

  They watched, holding their breath, as the lone figure leaped across the five or so meters separating the two ships. Crash had pushed away at a slightly low angle, so Jake pushed the control in to adjust the fighter’s attitude.

  The man sailed into the fighter and collided with Kit, who grabbed him and pulled him to the ground. Jake punched the door closed and pulled the bow around.

  “Jake!” Kit yelled, “The missiles are here! We’ve got five seconds, tops!”

  Without another moment to lose, Jake slammed down hard on the gravitic accelerator, and the fighter leapt away from the surface of the Imperial light cruiser, just as the first missile detonated in the middle of the cluster of ships. The shock wave blasted against the nearest ones with a piercing white, unstoppable force. They all held their hands over their eyes to avoid being blinded, and when they uncovered them and looked back, only the Nero remained, with a handful of light cruisers and missile frigates.

  Jake turned to Crash. “Was your co-pilot still…” he trailed off, not wanting to say the words.

  “Already dead, Shotgun.” Crash’s looked down. The usually jocular and talkative man didn
’t say another word. Jake began to realize that this little rebellion would come at a cost. A terrible cost.

  And he decided he’d be ready. Jake looked over at his co-pilot—his friend—and swore to himself he’d do everything possible to keep him alive. But at the same time, he told himself that they were already dead. Dead men couldn’t feel fear. Dead men don’t balk at the sight of a hundred-strong wave of fighters breathing down your throat.

  They were dead already, just like Crash’s co-pilot. It was easier to think that way. Jake grit his teeth in determination as he swung the bow back to the raging fighter battle still playing out in between the two Resistance fleets and the remnants of the Imperial one. Only a handful of Imperials remained, but they were putting up stiff resistance. Quite a swing in fortunes in just a few minutes.

  All thanks to Pritchard’s little secret.

  The hallway in the USS Fury was dusty and strewn with debris from the battle. Jake noticed that light fixtures had come loose littered the floor, and a few support trusses poked through the wall panels. The occasional red stain on the floor spoke of some unfortunate Resistance crewmember caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  He was hoping Ensign Kelley could get off from her shift. Having been re-assigned to cleanup after the battle was over, she was approaching her thirteenth hour on duty. Thirteen hours earlier they were lying naked in her bunk, looking forward, almost carefree, to a successful battle.

  Now though, having lost dozens of their friends, things were different. Jake felt more determined. Grim. But still horny. He imagined that little bird tattoo on Kelley’s lower back as he anticipated the short break they’d get before the next mission.