by Mars Dorian
Even the tiny ones.
Especially the tiny ones.
Aida blended in the trajectories of the space debris. The red glowing lines cluttered RX’s HUD.
“Evasive maneuver.”
Three Predators flew in triangle formation and picked RX as their favorite prey.
“Come get some.”
Two got hit by the missiles from his team mates, one slipped through the line of fire and entered the eLance range of RX. He smiled.
You degenerate abomination.
You think you can stop an elite pilot with your primitive tactics?
You disgust me.
RX adjusted the target with the aim-assist until the hit probability rose to 95%. He discharged the laser and destroyed the little vermin's circuit boards with the invisible beam. No discernible damage on the hull, but the Predator stormed into the void.
Not even a challenge.
The closest team member in the Asset squadron, W23, screamed over the comm.
“I’m hit, I’m hit.”
RX checked his tactical display and found the unit struggling against the Separatist mayhem. Five Predators launched a volley of rockets. W23’s point-defense maxed out on capacity and let a medium missile slip through. The organically-shaped projectile ate through his cockpit and penetrated his hull. Half his upper torso blasted from the APEX’s cockpit and vanished into the void. The partially pilot-less craft spat pieces of armor into the universe and morphed into an unguided projectile itself.
Goodbye W23.
RX saluted him in silence and resumed manual control. He’d pray for the pilot’s life after the battle.
“They’re everywhere,” another pilot in Team Asset said.
D12 updated his orders.
“Focus on the bombers, RX. They must not reach the convoy.”
“Copy that.”
His team members engaged with the Predator swarm and fired their kinetic impactors. RX concentrated on the big fish.
Banshee-schmanshee.
The big mofo was equipped with the Separatist’s version of the point-defense, so RX needed to rely on his eLance or kinetic impactors to cause damage.
“eLance?”
“Still recharging.”
No time to wait.
RX selected the kinetic impactors and accelerated, adapting his eclipse trajectory to the Separatist Banshee craft.
Distance to target: 8 kilometers.
“Just a little closer,” RX said to himself.
New red target pointers flickered over the HUD.
“The bomber launches some kind of autonomous micro-craft.”
Their version of drones, he thought.
“Tricky little bastard, but that won’t help him.”
The six micro-crafts closed and spread far apart from each, trying to attack RX from every angle.
“What’s their size, Aida?”
“About 3 cubic meters each.”
Forget about wasting impactor ammo. These suckers were small enough for RX’s point-defense which meant he could spend all of his concentration on the fleeing bomber. RX was right. When the micro-crafts entered his ADAM range, the system took ‘em out like petty fruit flies.
One after another burst into pieces when the point-defense lasers aimed at their cores. Aida updated the priority targets.
“Distance to bomber: 1.5 kilometers.”
RX locked-on the Banshee’s thrusters, switched to his impactors and discharged volleys of shells.
They pounded the Banshee’s unprotected thrusters on the back and shredded them apart. Within seconds, the bomber turned into a clump of pierced metal trash.
“Woo, you’re on a roll,” D12 said and whistled.
“I’m rolling because I keep pushing.”
The joy was short lived.
The remaining Predators kept squad Bank busy, which meant more than a couple of bombers made it through the intercept attack and neared the convoy where team Cash domineered. RX chose the next two bombers as targets. They shot energy-based javelins that whistled through the void. High-velocity flechette shells that penetrated armor and corrupted the systems, but RX studied their maneuvers and evaded the volleys.
“Amateur.”
Distance to bombers: 3.4 kilometers.
The target pointer circled around the Separatist spacecraft and showed RX the accuracy rate. D12’s mighty voice roared through the comm channel.
“They’re on me.”
RX watched the tactical screen. A Predator squadron swarmed the gentle giant. Looked like a damn space bee hive ready to sting their prey to death.
“D12, do you need my help?”
“No, focus on the bombers. I’ll handle this.”
“Are you sure?” RX said.
“Mission objectives prevail.”
“Roger that.”
Aida sounded.
“Banshee within kinetic impactor range.”
1945 meters.
RX focused back on his bomber target.
This was it.
Two more bombers and the threat was minimized. He fired the flak shells and watched their trajec lines on his HUD. The impactors were too small and fast for the bomber’s point-defense. It corrected his angle but couldn’t evade the second volley.
The shells ripped through his main thruster and robbed him 43% of his max speed.
Magic on the screen.
RX wanted to high-five his APEX and somersault with endless fire inside.
But the cheer remained shallow.
“Warning. Lock-on detected. Six unidentified projectiles launched from the bomber’s ports.”
They’re getting desperate, RX thought.
With no more Predators as flank support, the big boy had to fire everything it got.
“Can the ADAM handle it?”
“The four smaller ones, yes, but the medium missiles will slip through.”
The projectiles cut through space like laser daggers. RX assumed control of the kinetic impactors and unleashed waves of shells after the two mid-sized projectiles. The ADAM took down the four smaller ones with perfect accuracy.
“You’re finished,” RX said.
“I can’t shake ‘em off, damn it.”
D12 again, desperately trying to fight off the Predators. They realized their rockets couldn’t handle his point-defense so they switched to kinetic impactors.
RX harrumphed.
“Why is Team Bank not intercepting?”
The statement echoed into the void.
RX switched between his priority targets and D12. If he blew the bombers, he’d score a little fortune. But he'd risk the death of his co-pilot.
“D12, Do you need my help?
“No, I’ll get rid of them.”
Didn’t look like it, but D12 was a proud creature. He wouldn’t admit defeat even if twenty rockets tore his APEX apart.
Aida intervened.
“Critical hit chance by 91%. eLance ready.”
The bomber duo equaled cannon fodder at this point. RX needed only a few more minutes to maximize accuracy and wipe them out.
But D12 didn’t have minutes.
And RX was the least-endangered unit.
Oh, decisions.
He switched glances between the bomber and the swarm occupying D12.
Friend or fortune?
Those Separatist bastards.
Shit.
“Abort route and calculate the fastest trajectory toward the Predator squad attacking D12.”
He pointed toward the four fighters on D12’s tail. Boosted the thrusters and locked-on the targets.
Minutes passed.
“eLance, Aida?”
“Operational.”
Finally.
The eLance cannon rotated toward the agile Predator fighters two kilometers away from RX. The invisible beam cut through the interceptors like a laser cutter and tore their armor apart. Debris spread like a piñata exploding with metallic confetti and clustered RX’s screen. He turned
away from the shrapnel-infested space as fast as possible and avoided their trajectory. D12’s deep voice resonated.
“Thanks bro, I owe you my life.”
“You bet your butt,” RX said with half a smirk.
On his tactical 3D map, he saw Arrow’s APEX pulverizing the bomber units now 56 km away from his trajectory. She squealed through every comm channel and laughed.
“Who just blasted the biggest, meanest boys?
RX wanted to stay quiet but couldn’t accept her bragging.
“Big deal, I weakened the bastards for you. They were basically space debris.”
But Arrow’s singing swallowed his words. The redhead even played her own song and made listening mandatory on all squadron’s channels. It began with a rhetorical question:
“Who’s the fastest bitch in orbit?”
The digital drums hammered.
“Arrow, Arrow, Arrow Dynamics
She flies FTL and blasts the enemies apart,
watch her win wars on difficulty: ultra-hard,
Arrow, Arrow, Arrow Dynamics
her APEX works A+, looks super-slick
Arrow’s a nuclear warhead with lipstick…”
“Tune that noise out,” RX said to Aida.
Worst song ever.
Seriously, a volley of energy javelins felt more pleasant than her ear-scratching voice. RX shut off her channel and turned his attention to his team comm.
“Good work everyone,” the sergeant of the USC freighter said.
“We didn’t lose a single unit thanks to your help. Now please continue to guard us until the RV point.”
“Roger that,” Arrow and D12 said in unison.
The commander cheered.
“Have you guys ever thought of joining the USC? We are always in dire need of excellent pilots.”
Arrow answered the question first, of course.
“Sorry, commander. Payment is more important than patriotism. But if you ever decide to honor your pilots like your god, you can give me a ring on my private comm channel.”
The other pilots laughed, except for RX. The redhead blasted two bombers and now pushed herself into the limelight. Didn’t matter. He was by far the most productive fighter of the mission. His ranking was going to spacerocket.
He joined his squad formation around the convoy and did a system checkup. Aida couldn’t find any damage, not even a scratch.
She exuded an affirmative beep.
D12 praised his savior.
“You’re an aggressive pilot and still manage to keep the craft damage-free. RX, you’re an investor’s wettest dream.”
“We’ll see about that.”
The convoy reached the coordinates to a US Corps space station that looked like an upside down funnel. The freighter’s captain rang one last time through the intercom.
“Thanks for your incredible assistance. You’re worth every credit.”
“That’s our job, sir,” D12 said and saluted the man goodbye.
He then addressed all three squads.
“It’s time to head home, boys and girls. First round in the commons goes on me.”
Arrow chuckled.
“You mean you’re paying for all three squadrons?”
“With today's performance, I'm going to be corporate commander in no time."
"You should run a mental check-up routine. I'm detecting a severe case of reality loss.”
Said the redhead who orchestrated her own winning melody. RX ignored her comments but heard his co-pilots cheering through the comm channel. He synced his route with his Asset squadron and remained on auto-pilot. The anger bit through his lips as he pictured the Banshee bombers from before.
Five more seconds, RX told himself, and I would have blown those suckers into space debris.
It wasn’t fair.
12
“Mission success, RX. Time to return to HQ,” Arrow said again.
RX clutched his fists. His short finger nails pierced his palm. He wanted to pummel the display but cringed at the expensive damage he'd cause. Aida switched to her motherly voice.
“Are you okay? I’m sensing a higher heartbeat.”
“I was this close on blasting that sucker."
RX pressed his thumb and index finger together.
"This close, Aida, this damn close.”
True.
He had a lock-on.
Two Banshee bombers within impactor range.
A few seconds, and then boom.
Goodbye bombers, hello bonus.
But then again, he saved D12. That thought mitigated his wrath.
“What about the ranking? Has the mission data already been evaluated?”
“The algorithm is still working. You will see your result once we’re home.”
RX shook his body and resumed a horizontal position on his seat. Activated the recording settings and reviewed the battle he just finished.
Analysis.
He wanted, no, he needed to be better.
Better than his co-pilot, better than his peers, and certainly better than Arrow.
Arrow.
Oh, her name alone pounded his liver with acid shots. He brushed the thoughts aside and concentrated on the footage. Paused the parts where he hesitated, broke out of formation or didn’t fulfill the mission objectives within the timeframe. Minor deviations, considering his squad obliterated the Separatist threat. But the care for details separated the elite pilot from the rookie stardust-licker.
Back at the hangar, RX leaped from his cockpit and snapped his helmet off. D12 ran along the APEX line as the personnel and drones arrived to maintain them. D12 stretched his arms and frowned.
“I messed up your ranking. I give you permission to punch my face.”
“You’re alive, that’s what matters.”
“If you didn’t come back for me, you would have blasted the Banshees into particles, made a little fortune and rocketed your ranking.”
He looked down between RX’s boots.
“I’m sorry, man, I truly am.”
“Don’t worry. This sector seems to be infested with Separatists. I bet the next job is already knocking on our hull.”
“That’s the spirit.”
D12 hugged RX hard. Felt like steel pillars squashing a banana into puree. RX smiled but cringed under the colossus’ weight.
“I still need my bones, at least until I can afford a clone.”
D12 laughed heartily. He bro-hugged RX and ushered him out the hangar section.
“Tell you what, I pay for your feast in the commons today. Eat and drink whatever you like.”
“Appreciated.”
They entered the tube system and traveled. Back in the commons, the artificial air smelled of sweetness and cheering. Half the carrier seemed to be present—engineers, ground-pounders, pilots and even folks from finance swung their butts around. Partied like it was 2099. RX pushed himself through the masses and looked for D12. He sat with the co-pilots of his squadron and waved him over with a cylinder-shaped glass in his hand. RX smiled until he recognized the flaming strands of Arrow coming into view. She sat a few chairs down the table and sent him the peace sign. This female unit had no qualms. RX shunned her from his vision and hunkered down next to D12.
“Brother, what the hex took you so long?”
“I was pondering the last mission.”
“Don’t think too much or your head may explode. You did fine.”
“Let’s hope the algorithm agrees.”
He looked up and noticed the party in the commons climaxing.
“What’s all the commotion? Is the commander throwing a birthday party?"
“Better, we snapped three more premium contracts with the US Corps. And when I mean premium, I mean exorbitant. Guess we’re all in for a raise.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Here, have a Fluffie.”
D12 handed him a glass with the red liquid.
Fluffie, or the ‘brainsmasher’, as it was fo
rmerly known, until one higher up with alcohol issues changed the name to a less triggering one.
RX took a sip. The liquid blasted down his throat and left a trail of fire. He coughed and turned red.
“I always wanted to know what a laser blow job tastes like.”
D12 cracked up again and high-fived his co-pilot.
“That’s what I love about you. When the going gets tough, you crank out the one-liners. I swear, you should collect your best ones and publish them on your feed.”
“Anything to boost my ranking.”
RX sat next to D12 and surveyed the table. Freshly-printed artificial flavors in rainbow colors graced his view. He recognized chocolate cookies, pork with herb sprinkles, thick gravy, toxin-free fish replicas, pasta and a lot of weird looking food samples. Maybe exotic delicacies from rim colonies. RX’s tongue bathed in the flood of saliva that accumulated in his mouth. He snatched tray and fork and pierced the food pieces like vermin. Arrow licked at a peach replica with melon flavor and winked at him.
“You know, you don’t have to slay the food, it’s already dead.”
RX ignored her comment.
She didn’t.
“You’re still pissed? We did great today, even you.”
Whoa, that almost sounded like a compliment. Maybe she was already drunk.
“Did you see how I blasted the bombers?” she said.
“You mean after I had torn them apart?”
Arrow smiled her sharp lips.
“You’re just pissed a woman snatched your pole position.”
“I’m pissed because you take credit for my work. The bombers were mine.”
“There’s no ‘I’ in team.”
Look who’s talking, RX thought.
Arrow only believed in team work when it propelled her rankings. No one of course admitted it, because of the corporate correctness.
RX was poised to engage in verbal battle, but now was the moment of celebration and free food. He wouldn’t let the flamehead scratch off his good mood. RX piled the artificial goodness on his tray and addressed D12 and his co-pilots. They talked tactics and spacecraft maneuvers. The one with the short hair bowed to RX and reached out his hand.
“I have to admit your performance today was stellar. You were a dancer among the debris.”
He shook RX’s hand.
“I’m honored to serve in a squad with such a capable pilot.”
