The withering firestorm eased and then ceased. The fighters who’d had him in their sights shot past, but others were lining up, closing in on him like, the fingers of a crushing fist. An eighteen-fingered fist.
Crap! These odds aren’t good.
Even Romulus had to admit he couldn’t outfly these jokers. Didn’t mean he was going to die easily. He span about, facing back along his course track, giving them a random burst of railgun fire to give them something to think about.
He set his engines burning hard enough to make his eyes feel like they would pop. With his Stork’s orientation 180 degrees out from his course bearing, his burn initially slowed him down, but with the oncoming fighters now heading straight for him, his closing speed was still increasing.
Enemy fire degraded his nose armor. Then his flanks.
He was closing fast, his course and orientation bearing now matched and his velocity rising rapidly. If his armor held out until he’d passed through the Hardit formation, he could turn round faster than them. Perhaps he’d take out a few more, at least.
With his course heading straight for the middle of the enemy formation, Romulus pivoted his nose and jammed his thumb on the firing stud. The Stork’s heavy railgun throbbed with killing ecstasy. One Hardit bloomed in fire. Then another burned. And another.
Romulus screamed, a mix of defiance bundled messily with hatred and fear.
Nose armor was down to 10% in places, and still the hail of enemy fire assailed him.
He wasn’t going to make it through to the other side!
Then the enemy broke off suddenly. He shot another one but then four more exploded… not his doing.
Tac-display showed Remus flying at the enemy flank from one direction. From the opposite direction came the Old Man, Ensign Dock whipping his pinnace around like a fighter craft. And the CAG was accompanied by a wing of friendly drone craft that had finally made it back from their patrol zone.
Romulus shot through the scattering enemy formation, pivoted through 180 degrees and decelerated, ready to pursue the enemy.
Over half the enemy fighters were reduced to glowing debris. The rest were fleeing but Dock was hunting them down with the drones slaved to his control. Remus was returning to cover Romulus’s six.
Something about his ship’s system status bothered Romulus. He frowned, not realizing at first what was wrong. Then it hit him… his armor integrity was still falling away.
“Hey, what gives?” he asked Remus. “I’m still taking damage but I’m not taking hits.”
“Didn’t you listen to the CAG?” Even in the middle of a battle, Remus found time to sound disappointed with his brother.
Romulus thought a moment. What had Dock said? Then he remembered that sweet Little Loobie had been shuffling command positions. “What the shaggy? What’s his name, Orleaf?”
“Commander Oleif. You know, currently our field commander? He said the enemy is shooting hollow shells filled with a corrosive paste.”
“You mean my armor’s being eaten?”
“’Fraid so, brother… You did bother to suit up properly this time, didn’t you? Please tell me you did.”
Romulus accessed the suit diagnostic on his wrist. Even the fast-fit flight suit he was wearing was a pain in the ass to put on, and so, no, he hadn’t carried out proper pre-flight checks. Before he had time to interpret the diagnostic, the status console flashed an urgent tactical update. Another thirty enemy fighters had appeared above and behind him. These ones were moving a whole lot faster than the ones they’d just shot up… and they were heading on an intercept course, right for him.
He made himself stop and think first about the wider battle this time, rather than running blindly at whoever was trying to kill him first. Dock was busy chasing away the surviving fighters from the first attack waves. Without their fighter cover, the enemy bombers were being shot to shreds by the returning Legion drones while the attention of the new fighters was firmly on Ma Nhlappo’s boys. Momma might be stuck on the planet, but the Hardit skangats were still feeling her family’s influence up here in space.
Remus burned hard, running from the enemy, but abandoning the squadron. Romulus followed, ready to turn back to the ships, if the new wing of Hardits refused to be drawn away. He tried raising Oleif to request orders, but he had lost comms to the squadron. Something was blocking him.
A new marker appeared at the edge of his tac-display. It was a distress beacon. Janna.
“Keep going,” urged Dock, his voice distorted over a poor comm link. “I’ll cover you.”
“No need, CAG,” replied Romulus. “We can handle the Hardits by ourselves.”
“Who said anything about Hardits? I meant I’ll cover you with the Captain. Go! Follow your heart!”
The two brothers streamed away from the squadron, thirty Hardits on their tail.
“You know you tell me I show off too much?” said Romulus, trying to ignore the system display reporting the steady disintegration of his craft.
“I may have said that on occasion,” said Remus.
“Well you ain’t seen nothing yet. Follow me, bro’. Watch and learn the right way to impress a girl.”
Romulus set maximum burn, which rammed him back into his seat, the acceleration trying to pull the skin off his bones as he sped on his way to Janna… trying to reach her before his Stork fell to pieces.
— Chapter 37 —
Janna peered through the observation port of the elevator car and out into the blackness of space. Were her eyes playing tricks or were some dots heading her way?
She pointed at the dots “Hey, you two,” she said to the two Marines. “Put your bionic eyes to good use. What do you see?”
Shinzo lined his sight up along Janna’s arm. “A Stork-class shuttle,” he said. “It’s armed. No, wait, there are two of them, and… Hardit ships in pursuit. Lots of Hardits.”
No guesses who had come to pick them up. Her helmet registered a new link a moment before a familiar voice sounded in her ears: “Time to step outside, Princess. My bro’s gonna pick you up. And those two cyborgs keeping you company, of course.”
Janna clenched her fists. Her voice icy with anger, she replied: “Call me Princess again and I’ll cut your nuts off.”
“That’s my girl.”
Janna blew through pursed lips, which only fogged her helmet. Patronizing bastard. Had he any inkling of what it felt like for a Wolf to sit helpless like a fairytale princess that needed to be rescued by shining knights? Put a combat blade in her hand, and place her in a compartment full of Hardit soldiers… then she’d soon prove who needed rescuing.
“Come on, Janna!”
She looked over at Tennyson and his gauntleted fingers which were stretched toward her. The Marines had opened the emergency airlock in the roof. Shinzo was already inside. “Tell Romulus what an arrogant veck he is later. Take my hand and don’t let go.”
Janna pushed off and shot over to Tennyson. The moment he had her in his grip, Shinzo ordered the outer hatch to open without waiting for the inner door to seal first.
The pressurized interior shot them into the vacuum, right into the path of a dogfight.
— Chapter 38 —
When the pursuing Hardits closed to within 5,000 klicks, Romulus turned to face them and fired his engine to slow down. If he could keep their attention, that might give Remus enough time to pick up Janna.
He thumbed the firing stud in his hand control and watched another Hardit vessel break apart.
The bastards were cleverer than he’d thought. They broke into two separate streams, a pincer movement aimed at Janna and his brother.
He waited just long enough for the Stork’s tactical AI to extrapolate the enemy’s new trajectories and plot possible counter measures. Then he was off in a fast, ten-second burn that slammed him hard against his acceleration couch, bruising him in places that meant he wouldn’t enjoy the full pleasure of Janna’s company for a few days. Nonetheless, his Stork’s vector had c
hanged according to plan. He ran his upper lip into a snarl as he raced alongside the line of enemy vessels. He spun 90 degrees to starboard and raked them with fire as he passed. The railgun bolts ripped through the enemy, tearing them to ruined fragments of metal, plastic, and flesh.
The Hardits were arranged line astern, their forward-facing guns unable to bear because they hadn’t the maneuver capability to pivot independently of their course bearing. It was a broadside really, against a foe who couldn’t shoot back.
He cared nothing for mercy, only that the enemy should die. After he swept past the last Hardit vessel, he twisted the Stork around to fire behind his direction of travel. Putting bolt after bolt into the enemy until an amber alert he hadn’t paid attention to turned red, shortly after which the bolts stopped coming. His ammo was exhausted.
He scanned the enemy formation to make certain he had killed them all. Exhilaration tensed the pit of his stomach, ready to leap out of his throat in a cry of triumph. But a closer look at his tac-display smothered the feeling. He had no time for celebration because his brother and his lover were in deep shit. The surviving Hardit pincer of six ships was headed straight for them. This time it was his loved ones who were the fish in the Hardit barrel.
He reversed his Stork’s orientation again and spoke a series of instructions to his AI while he burned to the limits of his endurance to first slow his speed and then accelerate toward Janna and Remus.
“Please confirm override,” said the AI in its deadly-dull, electronic voice.
“I confirm mission success takes priority over my survival.”
“Complying.”
There was nothing dull about what the AI did next.
With the Stork now under its control, the AI pushed the engines to provide such thrust that Romulus was just starting to feel the agony of his brain being squashed against the back of his skull when a light popped in his head and the universe stopped.
It restarted with a heaving gasp.
Romulus opened blurry eyes thick with tears. Sticky tears. Frakk! His eyes were weeping blood.
That woke him up enough to begin to take in his surroundings. He wasn’t accelerating and he wasn’t dead. The rest would come clear in time.
“How… how long was I out?” he asked.
“You were unconscious for 33.4 seconds,” replied the AI. “Do you wish to retake control of this vessel?”
All Romulus wanted to do was close his eyes and make the galaxy leave him alone for a month until the pain became bearable. I’m in a frakking battle, he reminded himself, and forced himself to look around best he could.
“Actually,” he replied to the AI, “I don’t think there’s much point in taking back control. You can keep it.”
The Stork’s bow had gone. There was no overhead and the flight deck’s starboard bulkhead was in the process of melting, a ragged edge advancing toward him that left in its wake nothing but hard vacuum.
Mader Zagh! That must be the corrosive paste the Jotun CAG was talking about. And if it could eat through armor…
Romulus scrambled to hit the emergency release on his harness to escape the advance of the corrosion, but it didn’t work. He looked down and reassessed his situation. It was his arms that didn’t work. They seemed to be attached to his torso but he couldn’t feel them or move them.
“AI, contact Flight Private Remus.”
He waited for the link-established tone to sound in his helmet, but nothing… Maybe his ears weren’t working either.
“Get me my brother! The other Stork. Now!”
All the lights on the pilot console went out. Romulus sensed the craft cling to life for a few more seconds, and them the power died completely.
He edged his gaze to his right. The corrosion had eaten through the bulkhead and was starting on the deck. It was only seconds away from him.
Now his breathing stopped working properly too. All he could manage was a shallow panting.
In his last moments he looked out into space, trying to make sense of what was happening. There was a lot of debris nearby. No one seemed to be shooting, but there could be a desperate dogfight raging only a thousand klicks away and he would have no way of detecting it.
He scanned his field of vision but couldn’t see Remus or Janna. Alive or dead, he would never know. Janna and his family was all he could think of now. His Momma and brother. Technically they weren’t related, they were orphans who had found each other. But he desperately wanted them to know he had done well… to be proud.
The edge of corrosion ate through the deck even more rapidly than the bulkhead. It lapped around the edge of the tactical console on his right, aiming for his couch.
A tear came to his eye.
I can’t believe I’m thinking such crap! What he wanted wasn’t for his Momma to know he’d died well. He wanted to live!
As if in answer to his plea, a shadow crept over his fast-disappearing flight deck, followed by a battlesuit gauntlet. Despite the armor and powered exoskeleton, the gauntlet deftly released him from the harness.
“What happened?”
“Don’t you know? You need your brain checked for damage. We were sitting targets, dead for sure. Your Stork flew in, pulling impossible gee’s, spun around into a halt so you were a shield in between us and the Hardit attack while Remus rescued us. You took their hits and blasted them at point-blank range with your missiles. They had no chance. All blown to hell.”
The figure in the battlesuit was hugging Romulus from behind, using the motors in his suit to move them both through space.
“Janna? Is that you?”
The figure mumbled curses. “Do I sound like a girl? No, I’m not Janna, and you’re not all there, pal.”
Romulus wanted to ask whether Janna was okay. Remus too. But his senses slipped away.
When they returned, the Marine who had rescued him was strapping him into an acceleration couch on his brother’s Stork.
Janna was in front, bracing herself against his couch because the Stork was accelerating.
“Guess I needed rescuing too, Princess,” he groaned.
She punched him in the shoulder. That probably wasn’t a good idea, but he couldn’t feel any pain. “You’re such a twonk,” she said, sounding angry for some reason. “But I’m glad you’re my twonk.” She sobered and cast her gaze down. “What about the squadron, though? Who’s going to rescue them?”
— Chapter 39 —
Commander Marquez confirmed Loobie’s order without hesitation. “Jettisoning port armor, sections 251 through 311, and frame zero compartments on decks 13 through 16, aye.”
Beowulf sloughed off its outer layers, cutting them away before the cancer of the corrosive Hardit munitions spread to kill the entire ship.
Loobie winced as she felt the discarded ship sections bump against the hull, each impact like a shot to her gut. At least this time they had managed to evacuate the crew in time, but a corner of the CIC screen showed the damage this was causing to the outer cargo.
“Attack wave eliminated,” reported Charge.
“Stern armor down to 34%,” said Marquez. “They were trying to disable our engines, presumably for boarding.”
“I agree, thank you, Commander.” The XO was stating the obvious, but that was his job. The responsibility for deciding what to do about it was Loobie’s.
“More hostiles incoming,” reported Anunwe from her sensor station. “Transferring tracks to main screen.”
No one on deck spoke as the tactical update revealed the size of the new attack wave. For a moment, everyone was trapped inside a personal bubble as they registered that another 186 Hardit warboats were headed their way.
“In range within six minutes,” Charge reported.
“Message from the CAG,” added Ndiaye, the Comms officer. “Drone losses 78%. Small craft defense screen withdrawn to re-arm. Be aware that the enemy have successfully prioritized our most capable warboats. Combat effectiveness of small craft down 90%. Conclusion. Combat S
pace Patrol will be ineffective at repelling this new attack wave.”
Despite all the hormonal adjustments intended to keep her calm, Loobie sensed acid gnawing at her gut and a chill up her neck. The drones had been her last hope. They weren’t going to make it.
What they desperately needed was a breathing space, and that wouldn’t come cheaply.
She asked Ndiaye to hail the other two captains of the doomed squadron.
“We have no choice,” Loobie told them. “We cannot all escape this attack. Therefore Beowulf will abandon our cargo and stay behind as rearguard.” She was surprised at how calmly her voice described her command’s suicide. “You must get away with your cargo, and with luck we have imparted enough velocity to our load that it will eventually reach Khallini”
“Negative,” said Valgerd. For the first time, the Indomitable’s captain rolled her lips up to reveal serrated fangs. Loobie shivered.
“Beowulf is a third-rate troop ship. Leviathan is more modern but still a troop carrier. Only I command a true warship.”
“Redirecting all piloted small craft to Beowulf and Leviathan,” said Oleif, the Jotun CAG.
The tactical AI controlling the main CIC screen brought up a view of Indomitable. It had already detached its cradle of cryo pods and was spinning between the two clouds of sleeping legionaries to face her attackers head on. A gentle nudge from its main engine separated the destroyer from its cargo, freeing its weapons systems from the obstruction. Weapons ports flared across the Indomitable’s forward sections flinging invisible laser lines at the Hardits.
“Good luck, Indomitable. Rejoin us when you can.”
“Negative, Captain Lubricant. We took hits to the aft sections. Beyond critical. I could not jettison enough sections to remove the infection without destroying our cargo. Now it is too late. We will lose main power within a few minutes. Indomitable is doomed.”
Merde! Not only was it doomed, but if the Hardits were half the technicians the Marines claimed, they could reverse engineer some serious military technology.
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