by Ava D. Dohn
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The Shikkeron’s turn-around flustered Salak. ‘Why were they no longer fleeing?’ That thought so disturbed him, he almost recalled his fighters. Then he watched the ship’s screen in frustration as the enemy’s six tiny fighters broke up one attack after another. The ferocity of their aggressive actions helped offset the extremes in firepower between them and the Pseudes fighters. The Stasis ships were pretty much ignored by Darla’s Marines who concentrated mainly on Salak’s pilots.
The contest was relatively short-lived, and five of the Marine fighter craft were lost, but at a heavy price to Salak. Six of his fighters were destroyed and four of the Stasis were taken out. True to Darla’s words, Salak’s armada received a two to one loss against the enemy. This sad turn of events also disheartened the commander because, when his fighters finally did arrive at their target, they were low on munitions, thus decreasing the damage inflicted on the Shikkeron.
Salak’s sadness was soon turned to great joy when reports reached his ears of the Shikkeron’s damage. “We have ‘em now!” He shouted, almost singing. Standing in the captain’s lounge, he danced a little jig, holding his arms high and snapping his fingers to a tune he hummed. When finished, Salak grabbed his grotesque helmet and trotted toward the bridge.
Salak was busy being complimented for his outstanding military genius, when disaster struck. The few remaining Pseudes fighters still equipped with missiles were preparing to deliver the coup de grace to the Shikkeron when the navigations officer cried out that they were under attack. Everyone had been so busy observing the fight with the Shikkeron no one noticed the Divulsion and OjibSheannon’s fighters close on the unsuspecting armada. Salak ordered all the fighters recalled to thwart the coming onslaught.
If the attacking fighters could be compared to the point of a rapier, the Divulsion and accompanying host should be compared to a hailstorm on a wheat field. Coming in right behind their fighters, they smashed through the Stasis warships, scattering the survivors like so much chaff. The Wolfpack’s sixteen howkers and ketches tore the Stasis’ luggers and bilanders to pieces. For weeks they had prowled the skies, waiting for such an opportunity to test the abilities of their new fighting machines. Against the Stasis’ makeshift warriors, there was little contest.
In short order, the sky looked like one giant swarm of angry hornets. Ships o’war engaged one another buccaneer style, sometimes closing to within battery range. Back and forth, up and down, around and round, went the war ships. Once in awhile a cheer would go up as a missile found its mark. At other times there would be cries and curses as ships were rent and the crews saw coming death. On and on the battle surged, both sides taking losses and both gaining victories.
Salak’s bark led the cutters into action. For close to twenty minutes, he pushed his ships to attack, but when he saw two of the cutters disappear in smoke and fire, he pulled his ship back seeking some way to escape the battle, and when a missile tore into the ship’s hangar deck, killing its crew and partially disabling his steerage, the commander ordered a hasty retreat. Then word from his navigation officer caused him to change his mind and issue new orders.
