by Will Crudge
That’s what I thought, anyway…
The seat rotates to face the berthing area. It’s empty. Nothing but a very retro harness. “Ok, where the hell are you?!” I shout.
“Show yourself!” Kyle adds. I didn’t hear him come in behind me, so I almost spun around to knock him the fuck out, by accident.
“I’m the ship’s NAV! Get in, Kat!” The voice replies. I just freeze. I’m so confused right now.
“Great! Now we’re dealing with an AI!” Kyle says sarcastically.
“Don’t insult me, buddy!” The, alleged, NAV retorts. “I wasn’t built to achieve sentience, like an AI is. I earned it for myself!”
I snap myself out of my confused daze. I decide that I have to quell this stupid exchange, and then figure out what to do next. I turn to look at Kyle, since the NAV doesn’t have a face for me to stare down. “Look, you two! We need to get my ‘Primal-Rage-having-ass’ off this rock, and get you somewhere safe, Kyle!”
“Bullshit!” Kyle scoffs. “I’m not leaving you! It’s bad enough I’ve lost contact with Miranda, but I can’t lose you too!”
I was hoping that he knew where she was, all along. I guess he can’t sense her either. I gather my resolve, and respond. “Let’s worry about one thing at a time, Okay?”
Kyle nods. I hear the ladder automatically retracting, and the hatch began to close. I had no idea the NAV could even do that on his own. They’re normally just non-sentient AI that focus on navigation, and flight controls. Interesting.
Then I turn to look at the empty pilot’s seat as it faces me. I had rarely spoken to any AI’s since I was child, so it’s hard for me to speak to someone without focusing my eyes on something. “Ok, NAV…” I pause, as I realize that I don’t know what to call it… him.
“My name is Throat, by the way.” The NAV says. Weird name, right?
“Okay, Throat,” I say. “Can you get us to safety?”
“Of course! That’s the whole reason I’ve been hanging around here for decades.” Throat says. I’m quite sure that he knows that he’s too small to be of much use in an evacuation effort, so his statement strikes me as odd.
“I’ve never flown a ship before.” I say, as a matter of fact. Then I turn to look at Kyle, but he just shrugs, as if to say the same.
“I don’t need a pilot. I just need you to strap in for safety. The A-grav is online, but it hasn’t been run-in in decades. I don’t want you two to turn into hamburger meat!” Throat says.
“What about me?” Kyle asks nervously.
“The toilet doubles as a jump seat. Strap in!” Throat replies. Kyle shoots me a concerned glance, as he hurries on over to get settled in. I don’t look back to see how he’s managing, though. I hurry to strap into the pilot’s seat. Before I can get the first buckle snapped, the seat rotates itself around, and I’m looking at the instrument panel.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing. I may not have any experience in piloting ships, but I do know what a cockpit should look like. This is alien to me. The HUD is not holographic, per say. It has two metallic pedestals on either side of the top of the panel, and they create a physical screen. Holographic images, symbols, and readouts are in plain view. I look down to see some kind of control stick made of some sort of highly polished wood. To the left, and well within arm’s reach, was a throttle lever that matched the stick’s wooden venire. There is a more traditional, yet highly-retro style, holographic display beneath the HUD. It displays tactical data, like munitions statuses, and targeting telemetry.
I had no time to revel in the amazing setup within the cockpit, however. A presence entered my mind. A familiar one. One that shouldn’t be here…
“Onslaught!” I shout.
“I’m picking up his vitals too.” Throat said.
“He’s alive! I can feel him!” I hear Kyles muffled voice call out behind me.
Before I can say another word, the hatch lurches open. I feel my ears about to pop from the abrupt change of pressure. Then I see a faint streak of grey race into the artifact room.
It’s Onslaught!
The sounds of something heavy hitting the deck plate fill the space. The subsequent sounds of claws on smooth metal follow. He must have jumped up into the hatch, and then scurried to claw his massive hide inside.
“Punch it, Throat!” I hear the Zodiac’s voice module call out. Throat responds by closing the hatch once more. The thruster array roared to life, and the massive multi-staged super ion thrusters lifted the small ship into a hover. The fighter rotates one hundred and eighty degrees, then begins to move towards the main hangar.
“Onslaught!” I shout without concern for formality. “You’re alive!”
“That which does not kill me, had better run!” Onslaught replies. But even with the voice module filtering out his animalistic vocalizations, I can hear the gurgling of fluid in his lungs. He’s seriously injured, but somehow he’s still breathing.
“I – I can’t believe it! Th-the mech…” I shudder as I speak. The Rage is responding to my traumatic memory of his supposed demise.
“Calm down, child!” Onslaught spouts. “The Rage will take you! You don’t know how to control it yet!”
I don’t say anything. I’m filled with a flood of emotions that are too convoluted for me to process. I can feel the energy surging up through my chakras, and it’s threatening to subvert me. All I can do is breathe calmly, and pray it subsides.
“Listen up, folks!” Throat announces. “The hangar doors are jammed closed. Apparently it’s been hit by something big. I’m going to have to ram our way out!”
Ram? Is this NAV insane? We’re going to die! I think to myself.
I meant to form words to match my thoughts, but my body is too busy being pinned to the back of my seat. The inertial dampeners are rusty, after all… And we’re closing in on the massive hangar doors… at full thrust!
SUPER FIGHTER
We didn’t die from the impact. Neither did the inertial dampeners fail. I soon realize that Throat had re-routed every bit of energy to the forward energy shields. I don’t know if I’m more thankful to be alive, or if I’m just confused that a ship this small has over-powered energy shields.
The Throat-Slasher punched its way through the blast door as if it were made of paper. I check both of the HUD’s for any reports of damage, but there’s nothing. Not even a scratch.
I don’t know how long it took for the fighter to thrust itself into open space, but it must have been lightning fast. By the time I am done checking for damage readouts, all I see are bright stars, and blackness. I don’t even remember how long it took for the A-grav to re-engage. The inertial dampening system is a sub-system of the antigravity drive. Even though we’re achieving insane speeds, I don’t feel the slightest hint of inertia.
“Is everyone alright?” Throat asks.
“Yes.” I say.
“Yes.” Onslaught says.
“I’m not dead.” Kyle says.
“Good!” Throat says. “Not that I care about you, Kyle. I’m just happy that you’re guts aren’t splattered across my berthing area!”
“Dick!” Kyle scoffs.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Out-system, preferably.” Throat replies.
“Do you have enough fuel for that?” I ask, as I try to find a fuel gage.
“I do, but I’m not going to be doing all the heavy lifting.”
“So, what then?” Kyle shouts.
“Well, this hull was built before FTL could be scaled down to a ship this size, so it would make the most sense to hitch a ride.” Throat says with no small measure of arrogance. Not that he didn’t have anything to boast about. He saved our lives by punching through a blast door. A blast door that was rated to withstand a missile strike, at that.
“What other vessels are nearby?” Onslaught asks.
“Mostly bad ones, I’m afraid. There are probably friendlies inbound, but with time dilation, my scanners may not pick them up for a wh
ile.” Throat replies, but this time with a more respectful tone. I make a mental note of that.
“Are we within weapons range of any enemy contacts?” Onslaught asks. I just wish I had enough mental clarity to ask such a critical question. Even seriously wounded, the ancient Zodiac remains battle-focused.
“From a line-of-sight perspective, yes.” Throat replies. “But we’re far enough out for me to out-run missiles, or rails slugs. My shields can also deflect energy beams with confidence.”
“How in the hell can you outrun a relativistic missile?” Kyle beats me to asking the same thing. But I was going to use a far more diplomatic choice of words.
“Kid, you’re aboard an LRF-90!” Throat scolds him.
“And what’s that supposed to mean? This bucket is probably two centuries old!” Kyle blasts back.
“More like two millennia.” Onslaught corrects him. “And this ship is part of the fastest non-FTL class of buckets ever built.”
Kyle shuts up. But I haven’t found the ability to. The looming energy inside me has made me snippy, to put it mildly. “So, how fast can you get us to safety, almighty ancient bucket?”
I can’t tell if I’m being sarcastic, or just humorous. I’m not the best judge of my own emotions… even without Primal Rage coursing through my veins.
“That’s enough, Kat!” Onslaught snaps at me. I can hear him stirring. He sounds like he’s laboring to lift himself off of the deck. His hot breath heats the back of my neck. If I hadn’t known him for so long, then I would have thought he was going to eat me.
I turn my head to my left, and I see a blood-soaked snout. The smell of iron is palpable, but I push back the urge to wince. The back of the pilot’s seat obscures my view of his eyes, but I’m sensing feelings of profound empathy beaming off of him.
“Touch my snout.” He gargles softly. I react on command. My left hand comes up to cradle his massive jaw. As soon as I feel his warmth through his matted fur, the Rage begins to retreat. I see a red glow emerge from behind the seat. I’m guessing the energy is coursing through him, and his eyes are giving off residual light.
“Your vitals just spiked for the good, Onslaught.” Throat says.
“Indeed.” Onslaught replies.
I’ve always been taught that a Zodiac can heal rapidly from the energy of his or her paired War Master. It’s a two way street, in fact. The additional Primal Rage must have compounded that effect, and I can feel his life force begin to strengthen.
I’m relieved, but now I have the mental clarity to know why. Not only am I relieved of Onslaught’s rapid recovery, but I’m relieved from the burden of the Primal Rage. It’s like the weight of a red giant star was lifted off of my shoulders.
But my moment of peace is short-lived. I should have guessed that we wouldn’t go undetected for long. Eventually I would learn that LRF-90’s are very stealthy when they needed to be, but the need for speed had outweighed our need for stealth. The ion emissions were too massive to avoid detection at our current burn rate, and as soon as time dilation caught up to the enemy’s sensors, it was only a matter of time before we were pursued.
They couldn’t actually catch us without transitioning to FTL, of course. We were cruising at 0.78 the speed of light, after all. I never knew such speeds were achievable, to be honest. But there we were.
A massive pirate cruiser tried to maneuver into an intercept vector, but had given up after a few hours. Even by cutting the angle, they would have never picked up enough velocity to make it worth the fuel expenditure. We managed to pick up speed by vectoring around Planet Hannover. Hannover was a gas giant beyond the system’s main asteroid belt, and it was comparable to Jupiter in mass.
Over the next few days, we managed to add several AU’s between ourselves and the enemy, but they would not be easily deterred. We had no idea how many Guild ships managed to get out of the temple, but we do know that most of them have. At least a dozen transport vessels managed to slip passed the armada of pirates, and Crimson ships.
Some didn’t, however. The further out we got, the spottier the sensor data became, so we may never know the true body count. I wouldn’t know for several more decades, in fact. But that story is for later…
Knowing that we couldn’t be caught, the enemy vessels had changed their tactics. They began concentrating their efforts on chasing the transport vessels in our quadrant of the system. Throat analyzed their formations, and concluded that they were trying to draw us in to recue our people.
We were flying in a priceless warship, and they would stop at nothing to capture us. An LRF-90 on the black market was more valuable than a fleet of modern ships. And the Throat-Slasher was the only ship from the temple that had any offensive capability. We were being forced to make an impossible decision. And it’s working.
“We have no choice but to play their game, I’m afraid.” Onslaught tells me. I’m just enjoying the view from the cockpit, and have my feet propped up.
“Yes.” I reply. There wasn’t anything else I could offer. Despite being well trained, my training is incomplete by Guild standards. Not to mention, I don’t have any combat experience to speak of. I don’t even know how to fly a fucking ship!
“We’ll be slaughtered!” Kyle scoffs. I cringe at the thought of Onslaught chastising him, but it never came. We weren’t in training anymore, I suppose.
“No.” Throat chimes in. “Well, you all might get killed, but I’ve survived much worse!”
“That may be true, NAV!” Kyle retorts. “But we’re outgunned! Our only advantage is speed, and that won’t matter once we close within a few thousand clicks of those cruisers!”
“Enough!” Onslaught huffs. I can’t tell if he meant it towards Kyle, or at Throat as well. I’m guessing the former. “What’s the IDENT of the closest transport vessel?”
“Mercy of Kaylen. It's reporting hull damage, but its main systems are still intact. There’s a pirate cruiser about three hundred clicks off her stern, and holding that distance.” Throat reports.
“They’re toying with it. That cruiser can overtake the Mercy at will. As soon as friendly warships make it to the inner system, they’ll take it out, and then run. We don’t have time to save everyone, but we can save one ship, at least.” Onslaught says.
“Do we have a plan?” I ask.
“I do.” Throat says. “Lay down harassment fire to draw out any fighters or drones onboard the cruiser, lose them in open space with our superior speed, punch a hole in the hull, drop you guys off, and then I make my way to cover the Mercy while you all take control of the enemy ship.”
“That’s suicide!” Kyle yells.
“Says the blood relative of Kaylen…” Throat mumbles.
“What’s that supposed to mean?!”
“Silence, Kyle!” Onslaught shouts. “Throat, your plan is sound. Adjust vector, and prepare to burn!”
“Aye-aye, old friend!” Throat replies cheerfully.
“As for you two? Listen up...” Onslaught proceeds to lay down our plan for taking the cruiser. I don’t know if I’m aroused or just nervous…
Either way, I need a shower.
PRE-BATTLE REVELATIONS
There’s nothing to be done about the loose fitting training clothes I’m wearing. My ass cheeks are exposed. My chest is all but flopping out. I smell like dried blood, and charred fabric. Nice, right?
Kyle isn’t much better off. His clothes are in tatters also. Thankfully, there was an old-school sewing kit in the berthing area of the fighter. Seems odd that four thousand years after humanity first colonized another star system, we would still be using sewing kits. It seems odder still that two ‘human weapons’ know how to use it. But we do. Military skills come in all forms. Making hasty repairs to clothing is one of the many obscure skills we’ve been taught. Keeping the elements from becoming your worst enemy is just as critical as marksmanship. You can’t fight if your feet fall off from frostbite, after all.
Repairs completed. We wash our tattered g
arbs in the sink, and we each take a shower. While I wait for my clothes to dry, I help Onslaught get cleaned up with an old dish towel, and some liquid hand soap. Why bother cleaning him? Easy. His senses are one of his most powerful weapons. Removing the caked-in blood and gore from his snout and outer extremities, will help him focus on new scents, so he doesn’t have to focus on filtering out the old smells from the new. The more he can devote his brain to focusing on the present, the more efficiently he can kill.
Everything is a weapon. Every insignificant detail adds up to a mosaic of combat readiness. Even an infantryman’s short cropped haircut is a weapon. It not only allows for the proper fit of his or her helmet, but it prevents the spread of lice, and other diseases. It also keeps their hair from being snagged on branches, or preventing an enemy from pulling back their head in order to slice their throat from behind.
Even five millennia after the first use of combat boots, they are still fastened by laces. The laces can be used to strangle an enemy, set a snare trap for survival, or even be used to turn it into a bolo in order to toss a wired antenna over a high tree limb. Thus extending the range of their coms.
A soldier can spend twenty, thirty, or forty years on active duty, and still not master every trick in the book. But a War Master can master most of it in their initial century of training. Thus, we earn the title. For thousands of years, our ‘warrior cult’ has operated in this way.
Most War Masters serve about five centuries after their training. Some, as many as eight centuries. But sooner or later, aging takes us all. We can’t make use of med-nano to preserve our bodies like the rest of humanity can. But even still, we live far longer. The average life-span of a normal human can range from one hundred fifty, to over two hundred. Ours is just shy of a millennium if we’re lucky.
