by Will Crudge
The Zodiacs have an indefinite life-span. Some have served multiple generations of War Masters. But most eventually die in combat. They may be hard to kill, but they are still flesh and blood. Rapidly healing, borderline bullet proof, but still just flesh and blood.
I’m still a novice. A young warrior in training. But I’m still worth an entire battalion of ground troops, if well prepared. So that’s what we’re doing. We’re maximizing our ability to crush the enemy. Even if it takes a few stitches of thread to do it!
Eventually we are ready to go. But we still have a few hours before we are within visual range of our target. Then at least another hour or two before we are within effective weapons range. Add another hour, and we’ll be boarding a hive of pirates.
So we meditate ourselves to sleep. The meditation clears our mind, but also exercises our focus. We use it to ready our brains for sleep, and thus we forge our brains' path towards proper recuperation while we rest.
My Rage has subsided. Onslaught explained to me that it is dormant within me, but my endocrine system can trigger it. When my stress hormones, and adrenal glands reach a perfect storm of chemical activity, my strands of DNA react. They form a conduit of interdimensional energy, and allow raw energy to manifest in our third dimensional reality. We’re already hard-wired for it, but in most cases, we have to be trained how to call upon it. Training to do so, is preceded by intensive focused training on how to control it… understand it. That way we don’t get lost in its intensity.
This is training I NEVER RECEIVED. In the controlled environment of the temple, I was never placed in a situation where it might emerge until we were attacked. It was a raw form of stress that I wasn’t fully prepared for. Soldiers don’t have enough time in their youths to fortify their minds and emotions for the horrors of war. That’s why they get PTSD. War Masters are trained to master their emotions, and channel their traumatic experiences in a productive manner. But that training is part of the culminating training stages that I’ve yet to begin.
In short, I am a master of many forms of combat, but not a master of controlling the vast amounts of raw power within me. I can still fight, though.
Aside from the highest levels of swordsmanship, I’ve mastered nearly all of my combat disciplines. I can fire any weapon, plan tactical operations, and survive in harsh environments. Aside from space combat, and the metaphysical disciplines, I’m more than capable of besting any enemy you put in front of me. All I can hope to do is stave off my Rage while doing so.
To keep my Primal Rage from surfacing, I’ll need to stay close to Onslaught. He can efficiently shunt it for me, and by doing so, he can draw upon it. Zodiacs may share many of a War Master’s genetic gifts, but they’re still predators… Animals... This is by design. They ground us in our reality. Keep us focused. And we can draw on the best of what each species offers. Humans can harness the raw instincts, and heightened senses of the Zodiac. Zodiacs can tap into our access to higher dimensions of reality. By balancing the metaphysical with the raw physical, a pair can wreak havoc on an enemy, or show compassion to the innocent.
I’m not officially paired with my drill instructor, but I can meld with him enough to be combat effective. A true pairing takes time. The more a pair spends time together, the more they become two aspects of one complete being. The sublime bliss of a peaceful monk, with the capacity to annihilate the wicked. True perfection.
But pairing only occur after training is complete, and usually only after a War Master has completed a solo tour of duty. This allows for the War Master, and Zodiac alike, to begin with a foundation of self-confidence in their ability to apply their skills in the real world. Neither has anything to gain by allowing self-doubt to infect them both.
I can only pray that my own self-doubt will remain in check. I’m also nervous that my period can start any day now, and I haven’t got the first bit of feminine hygiene stuff. No wonder the Rage took hold so well. I feel bloated, and gross. My pheromones are spewing out like a volcano. The first enemy that gets near me before I start cramping will feel my wrath! Even if they survive my wrath, I will strip them of all of their chocolate!
Of course I can normally suppress my cycle for months, but it takes extreme focus to do so. I’m devoting all of mine to living through the next few hours. So, Aunt Flow will show up to find the door unlocked, and brownies baking in the oven. I could go for a brownie right now, actually. I think to myself.
“Enough about brownies!” Onslaught scolds.
“How did you know I was thinking about brownies?” I ask defensively. The mind-melding between members of our kind isn’t necessarily a psychic one. We can only gage each other’s intentions, and channel each other’s instincts. Specific thoughts are tricky, though. We key in on raw brainwaves, but each individual can’t fully translate them into enough detail to actually read a person’s mind. Sure, we can hold conversations mentally, but that’s when we allow our foremost thoughts to be directly projected. This thought was not intentionally broadcasted.
“I can’t tell what you’re thinking about. You know that, Kat. But I devote a larger part of my brain to my senses, and I can taste, and smell your mental images better than you can imagine them for yourself.” He replies.
“I had no idea!” Kyle chimes in.
“I’m sure you didn’t. You’re not a half-ton furry battle tank, are you?” Throat slips a verbal jab in.
Onslaught laughs. He fucking LAUGHS? I’ve never heard him do that. The last Zodiac I’ve heard laugh was Killjoy, my father’s paired mount. But big cats are more prone to humor than many K-9 species of Zodiacs. Ironically enough, you’d think that a cousin to man’s best friend would be the more joke-prone species. But then, cats are cats. If the Zodiac felines didn’t have an innate loyalty to our kind, then I’m quite sure they’d rise to be the dominant species in the galaxy. Feline overlords. With bare-fleshed primates to scoop their poop! I laugh at the mental image.
“Alright now, is everyone rested?” Onslaught snaps into serious mode. His default, as it were.
“I am.” Kyle says.
“I am… Kinda.” I say. There’s no point to attempting deception when you’re melded. It’s like a nasty circuit board fire. It makes you cringe, and fills the air with nastiness.
“Your cycle is at hand, so I understand.” Onslaught nods. I’m red with embarrassment. Melded or not, he would have known anyway. I just wish he didn’t have to point it out verbally.
“Kat,” Throat calls out. “Since you’re the proud owner of this bucket, would you like to get a front row seat to the show?”
Owner? “Uh, what?” I say.
“The pilot seat, doofis!” He scolds.
“No, I mean… Why would I be your ‘owner’?”
“Are you dense?” He scoffs.
“I’ll play your silly game! Yes, I’m dense.”
“I haven’t been hanging around the temple for seventy some-odd years for my own benefit!” He says sarcastically.
“Just spit it out!” I snap at him.
“Slasher and I served your grandfather… For a short time, your mother, as well… I was destined to be your ride when you completed training, and it was my mission to keep tabs on you until you did. Why else would your grandfather’s sword be on display in the artifact room?”
My heart sinks. I’m in shock. I believe what he says, but it’s shocking none the less. “Why didn’t my father tell me this?”
“I don’t know why he wouldn’t. I figured you knew all along, and that you were either too shy, or just too anti-social to come visit!” He says.
I look at Onslaught, but I can’t gage his expression. I get the sensation that he knew all this as well, but I guess he had no reason to ever bring it up. “So, why not just travel with my father?” I ask Throat.
“Because I’ve served your mother’s bloodline since Slasher and I achieved sentience. Condor’s family have always used cutters, or whatever skiffs they could get a hold of. Not that I didn
’t offer, of course. But he decided he wanted me to keep you safe while you trained. He doesn’t care to be cramped in smaller starships, anyway.”
“Keep me safe?” I ask.
“Yeah, safe. Your temple was the last one outside of Unum space. We’ve known for years that it was only a matter of time before it was going to be attacked. Even the UAHC doesn’t - officially -recognize the Guild’s existence anymore. The UAHC Fleet forces have been hiding our existence from their civilian government. That’s why they haven’t showed up in force yet. They can’t devote a large dedicated force to secure the temple’s safety without someone asking why.”
“So my father knew this was going to happen?” I ask scornfully.
“Not so much that it would happen while you were in training, but he knew the risk couldn’t be ignored.”
“Makes sense.” Kyle says. “What better way to keep you safe, than by a fully sentient super fighter watching your every move.”
“Bingo!” Throat explains.
“And you mentioned, ‘Slasher’?” I ask. I couldn’t help but wonder what he meant by that. I knew very little about LRF-90’s at the moment.
“Yes. Slasher.” He says plainly. “What about him?”
“Who is he?” I ask.
“I guess you’re even denser than I originally thought, Chicca!” He scoffs. “I’m the NAV… I handle navigation, or astrogation, naturally… But I also handle tactics, weapons, and flight controls. Slasher is the hull maintenance system. He controls the repair nano, upgrades, maintenance, and he’s an even bigger asshole than I am.”
“Is he sentient too?” Kyle asks.
“Yep.” Throat replies.
“Does he even talk?” I ask.
“He can, but not much. And he’s extremely limited on how he can speak in human terms. He’s actually perfectly happy to allow me to be the interface for humans. Like I said, asshole.”
“So the name of the ship isn’t just some weird naming convention, is it?” I ask.
“Why is it weird?” Throat says defensively.
“It’s hyphenated. It shouldn’t be.” I say.
“That’s because we’re two difference beings that make up one long range fighter.” He explains.
“How can you be long range without FTL?” Kyle asks.
“I thought I already covered this… I was built when FTL couldn’t be scaled down. Two millennia ago, only capital ships, and a hand-full of colony ships had slip-space drives. This gave us the edge.” Throat answers.
“The edge?” Kyle asks.
“Yeah, the edge. We were built to reduce friendly casualties. Our hulls were sourced by…” Throat was cutoff.
“Skip that part!” Onslaught scolds. I’m both intrigued, and confused… Onslaught seemed adamant about Throat explaining mention of the ship’s origins. I make a mental note, and just keep listening.
“Oh, right.” Throat continues. “Anyway… Back then, interstellar warfare was bloody. Only full scale ships could wage it, so the collateral damage and losses were immense. The LRF series was designed to kill the enemy in their own territory, but by use of long range tactics, immense speeds, and firepower that couldn’t be wielded by any other ship of this scale. We would spend months, or sometimes years, travelling into enemy controlled space, hitting them hard, and then heading home. It was so effective, that after a few centuries, LRF-90’s were considered too dangerous. Eventually we became decommissioned due to political pressures. In some governments, it was even a war crime to have any LRF-90’s in service. But many of us were achieving sentience, and the Unum government couldn’t abide by sentient beings becoming dismantled, or shackled into demilitarized statuses. Eventually we began serving the bloodlines of the War Masters. Many of their elders had been the first generation LRF-90 pilots before their genetic heritage was abruptly – changed – to what it is today…”
“Once again, Throat…” Onslaught scolds. Another hint of secrecy. Intriguing!
“I’m sorry! I should know better.” Throat replies with an uncharacteristic tone of remorse.
“Our origins are closely guarded secrets. The origins of the LRF-90’s are as well. Only when the Guild decides you two are ready to be initiated in this knowledge, will it then be made clear to you. Do you understand?” Onslaught says as he glares at both me and Kyle.
We nod. No argument to be had there. The Guild doesn’t do anything without reason, and they seldom keep secrets from each other. So, if we shouldn’t be made aware, then I have no choice but to accept it.
All I know, is that I’m about to bleed out of my lady bits, storm a pirate cruiser, suppress an immeasurable level of raw energy, and be covered by a nearly indestructible super fighter controlled by two ancient sentient beings. How could things go wrong?
BLOOD BATH
The missiles casually fly toward us, but Throat is humming some kind of tune, as he takes them out with his particle beams. The beams are invisible in open space, but I can see them depicted on the HUD. We are less than thirty thousand clicks from the enemy cruiser, so time dilation is no longer our ally. The energy shielding is working overtime to deflect the enemy beam fire. Throat jukes them off in time for the shield generators to charge back up to full power, but then we get hit by another barrage of beams.
He said to expect this, and that we aren’t in any real danger. I’m not convinced.
He’s answered the Mercy’s hails of distress, and they know we’re coming. But in doing so, the enemy vessel detected the raw energy from our transmission, and we’ lost our element of surprise. But that wasn’t too much of a loss.
Throat assessed that they don’t want to kill us. The beam fire is just an attempt to overwhelm our ability to devote resources to offensive firepower. They must be under the assumption that our shields are of typical design for any smaller craft.
Smaller craft burn additional fuel when their shielding is under stress. The added power helps to prop up the generators to a certain degree. But ours are not that simply designed. I don’t know much about space ships, but I do know that typical pirate tactics will not work on an LRF-90. Fortunately for us, most humans alive have never faced one in combat. It’s like seeing a unicorn on a field of battle.
We answered the hails intentionally. Not only to ease their concerns, but to also redirect the cruisers firepower away from the smaller transport vessel. Our vector is also set for an intercept for the Mercy. Which gives the illusion that we’ll provide a standard escort position. But our plan is to change course once the enemy fire becomes too close to the Mercy, and then attack the cruiser head-on.
We have no name for the cruiser, however. Pirates don’t make it a point to broadcast their transponder IDENT codes. We’ve named it, Chris. It’s just easier than constantly referring to it as ‘the pirate cruiser’.
We do know that the UAHC, and Unum forces must have entered the system. We noticed that the handful of Crimson ships have transitioned to FTL already. That can only mean that they don’t want to get caught within sensor range of our allies.
The vast gravity wells in the system make it tricky to come out of FTL in the inner system. So, unlike the pirates, our reinforcements have heeded caution. But it will take several days before they can be within weapons range. Not unless they get within scanner range, and decide to abandon caution. We could use a little surprise FTL jumps from our friends right now.
But it doesn’t change our situation. The transport vessels don’t have advanced enough shielding to transition to FTL this close to the system’s star. At least not without a high risk of being trapped in a null field, and thus disappearing from our sense of reality forever. This also means that we can hit the pirates hard, and force them to make a risky jump… Or at least take them out before they decide that escaping is worth the risk.
We close in on our change of vector point, and I can see the hull of the Mercy with my naked eye. She’s been riddled with carbon scoring and debris strikes, but she’s still flight worthy. I can
only assume so, at least. I’m kind of dumb about space stuff, remember?
Our vector change allows use to bypass a few missiles altogether. This frees up some energy that we would, otherwise, be devoting towards the particle beam cannons. Now with fully charged shields, and a new vector, we hit max burn.
Chris’s targeting systems were designed for fighting over vast distances, so they can’t calculate their firing solutions with much fidelity. Our speed is more than what their system can account for, and all they can do is resort to WAS. ‘Wild-Ass-Guessing’.
Their guessing was wrong, as it stands. We have the edge, and now we just had to punch our way through before the auto-defense cannons can take aim. This seems like the ultimate flaw in our plan, at first. But now I’m seeing the brilliance of taking an LRF-90 into combat. Combat against a cruiser that is outfitted with Crimson tech, to be more specific.
Crimson cruisers have to choose between their defensive batteries, and their energy shielding resources. Their EMP generators are also their shield generators. Plus, their defensive batteries are powered by the same reactor. They’ll have to make a last-second judgement call on what to focus on.
They can’t afford to use EMP, or they make themselves vulnerable to attack while their shields recharge. Their auto-cannons will have to work overtime to try to saturate the space around them, and against an abject that’s moving more than double the speed of what they were designed to target. We’re even out-burning missiles at our current speed.
Their energy shields will have to be taken down to kill us either way. But killing us is not their goal. So they’ll be forced to fully power their shields to stave off any significant damage… making us fly at them unopposed… and armed with a perfectly good pair of SK’s... ‘Ship killers’.
SK’s are missiles that take advantage of relative velocity. In our case, immense velocity. Once the SK’s get within effective range of their target, they begin to detect the frequencies of their target’s energy shielding, and then they match them as closely as possible. Like frequencies will pass through each other like two beams of a flashlights crossing each other. Then the dense armor penetrating warhead will punch a hole in the hull. This will likely prompt the pirates to go into whatever damage control protocols they may, or may not, have drilled for.
