Tales from the Service: A Sovereign Entrance

2949-12-21 – Tales from the Service: A Sovereign Entrance 

As we and all the spacers and service personnel defending Berkant prepare to celebrate Emmanuel Feast this week, the members of this embed team wish all our readers a wonderful holiday, whatever incarnation of that holiday you celebrate. 

[N.T.B. - May God keep you strong in these dark and uncertain times, wherever this holiday finds you.] 

While official sources with both the company and the Navy have not confirmed this, rumors indicate that the battleship Sundiver has been seen in Sagittarius Gate in the last few days. This ship, the mobile headquarters of Sovereign Security Solutions, is a vessel of Terran-Rattanai War vintage, but its rumored current capabilities rival those of any Confederated Navy battleship. One can only speculate the absurd fee the company was paid to deploy their prestige-piece flagship to an active theater of war. 

Technician Gabriel Hackett set his cup of lukewarm coffee aside and turned back to his console when it chimed. As the third shift sensor officer aboard Philadelphia, the Seventh Fleet flagship, any time the Sagittarius Gate sensor drone network picked up the gravitic disturbances created by an incoming ship’s star drive, he was notified, but most of these incoming ships were Navy supply haulers, arriving singly or in convoy. Occasionally, Incarnation ships would arrive to lurk and spy, but even these rarely proved worth a major alert. 

This time, though, Gabriel could tell in an instant the incoming ships were not cargo carriers or Incarnation snoopers. The mass profile was all wrong for a convoy, and none of the ships matched any of the common Incarnation or Confederated Navy drive signatures he’d memorized weeks earlier. The largest of the newcomers clearly outmassed even Philadelphia herself. 

Seconds after Gabriel flagged the intruders and sent an identification challenge order to the drone network, Commander Reva Shelby appeared over his shoulder. “What have we got, Hackett?” 

Gabriel pointed to the estimated mass profiles of the incoming ships. “With one big ship and a mess of small ones, it’s not Nate, but they’re not Navy either. We’d have been told to expect a battleship, and they’re not following our protocols.” 

“Who else would be all the way out here?” Shelby pointed to the data readout for the biggest ship. “That thing’s bigger than any battleship in any fleet.” 

Gabriel tapped the display thoughtfully, calling up the first blurry raw images from the sensor drones’ telescopes. The huge ship had a wasp-waisted, organically curved profile. “Reachers?” 

“If so, that would be a first on this side of the Gap.” Shelby put her hand on Gabriel’s shoulder briefly. “Let me know if they answer the challenge. I’ll call down to the Staff.” 

Gabriel groaned. He knew it would be more than two hours before the drones’ reports on any replies to the challenge signal would filter back to Philadelphia. The admiral’s staff officers would probably want to put the better part of Seventh Fleet on alert, waking thousands, possibly tens of thousands, of spacers in the middle of their sleep cycle. As Seventh Fleet contained only three battleships, any sortie against the monster ship would probably include Philadelphia herself. 

As Commander Shelby stepped away and activated her comm earpiece, Gabriel pulled up several images of the incoming ship. Each drone in the network had a different angle, and while only a few had included visible-light and radio-telescope images in their alert signals, he had enough grainy pictures to form a decent impression of the ship’s general outline. The profile was familiar, but he couldn’t quite remember where from. He could at least rule out that it was some sort of mega-hauler, at least – no merchant hull had lines like that. 

“Mr. Hackett, send any identifying data down to CIC.” Shelby didn’t wait for her order to be carried out before pacing away down the bridge’s long, broad main walkway, deep in conversation with someone on Admiral Abarca’s staff. 

“Holzmann is hailing, Commander. High priority.” The new third-shift comms officer sounded nervous, and Gabriel didn’t blame her; she was interrupting a conversation between two officers each at least six ranks above herself. 

To her credit, Reva Shelby didn’t snap at the interruption. “Put them on display three.” 

A moment later, a holographic display near Gabriel’s station shimmered and resolved into the washed-out image of a slick man in a dark non-Navy uniform. Gabriel, knowing his image wasn’t being transmitted, allowed himself a grimace at the mercenary captain’s garish attire; the black tunics and gold braid of Sovereign Security Solutions officers was more in line with Rahl Hegemony uniform customs than those of the Confederated Navy. 

“Commander... Shelby, is it?” The slick officer’s voice oozed self-confidence in a way that Gabriel instantly disliked. “Pause your plans for a general alert.” 

Commander Shelby took a moment to reply, presumably allowing the obvious question of how a mercenary vessel not privy to the sensor stream from the picket network would know that Philadelphia was moments from issuing such an alert. When she did reply, it was with an icy coolness that Gabriel suspected hid as much distaste for the mercenary as he felt himself. “Your opinion is noted, Captain Drake, but your company does not control the command of Seventh Fleet.” 

Drake smiled rakishly, either misreading or ignoring Shelby’s tone. “Admiral Abarca will want to know that the ships that just arrived are ours, won’t he?” 

“I’ll tell his people you were expecting someone.” 

Gabriel glanced back at the images on his display, and suddenly saw the indistinct shape of the incoming monster in new light. Its vaguely familiar profile was one he’d seen in newsfeeds throughout his childhood. “Stars around, Commander. That’s Sundiver.” 

Drake must have heard Gabriel’s outburst, because he nodded. “Your man has it right. My boss told me to say that he’ll be along to talk with the Admiral’s staff as soon as possible.” 

Gabriel frowned at this claim; even if Sundiver wanted to send a tight-beam message to Holzmann as soon as it arrived, it would need to wait for the speed of light several times as IFF challenges bounced back and forth before the trajectory of such a transmission could be computed. How could the commander of the incoming battleship already be giving orders to his subordinates more than a light-hour away? 

Whether or not she understood the strangeness of this claim, Commander Shelby nodded. “I’ll pass that along.” 

Details

Tales from the Service: Angels at Karma

2949-12-14 – Tales from the Service: Angels at Karma

With very little movement here in Berkant, the media attention has been on Seventh Fleet for the past several days, as that fleet reported its first major offensive success. A small raiding force centered around the light carrier Trafalgar has reportedly attacked and badly damaged an Incarnation repair base in a system not far from Sagittarius Gate identified only by a catalog number in our datasphere. Apparently, the name of the planet in this system to the Incarnation is Karma, so most of the media reports have called this system the same in lieu of reporting only its numeric catalog reference code. 

While not so spectacular a victory as the destruction of the marauding cruisers which had been using this base to harry the Seventh Fleet’s position, Naval Intelligence expects that the damage to the base will severely restrict Incarnation operations in the area for at least a few months, as any damage and wear to their ships can only be repaired at the Incarnation’s home yards, estimated to be at the far side of the Sagittarius Frontier region, two hundred fifty light-years more distant. 

The strangest detail of the Trafalgar raid on the system commonly known now as Karma is one that, in all honesty, I did not expect permission to report. Nevertheless, perhaps doubting its reliability, Naval Intelligence has not restricted this account of one of the strike pilots participating in the operation. 

The first time a silver shape flitted across his peripheral vision, Rewaju Dexter thought it a stray reflection off the hull of one of his squadron mates. As the nine Tarantula strike bombers in his formation were moving in a tight formation, it wouldn’t have been unusual for one of them to come into view ahead of his cockpit as they cautiously adjusted their positions relative to their leader. The sensors revealed only the wan signatures thrown off by his eight compatriots, and those only because they were so close. 

The second time he saw the flashing movement of some foreign object, Rewaju turned his head to look hard in that direction. There was nothing there visible to his eyes or his sensors, but he felt a shiver begin to crawl up his spine. He’d heard and read plenty of accounts of spacers running into strange things in the dark of the Sagittarius Frontier even before war had come, and he certainly didn’t want to have that sort of run-in while his rig was laden with several tons of heavy ordinance. 

Frowning, Rewaju flicked on the intercom connecting him to Archie Zawski, occupying a seat four meters behind him. “Hey Zawski, take a look to port for me.” 

There was a long pause, presumably caused by the ordinance tech doing as instructed. “I don’t see anything, Dexter.” 

Rewaju frowned, calling up the hull cameras on his consoles. “Thought I saw something on visual.”  

According to the bomber’s passive sensors, there shouldn’t have been anything there to cause the flashes, and that made him worry. The Tarantulas were heading for an enemy installation at high velocity but with their drives disengaged, hoping to avoid notice until the last possible moment. If they had picked up a stealthy tail, it meant a lethal reception waited ahead. 

“It’s the dark playing tricks on you. Sure as all hells does that to me if I let it.” 

Rewaju grunted by way of reply, continuing to scan the darkness ahead of him. The only visible star was the system’s primary, already a yellow-orange disk big enough to require the smart-glass lining the inside of his viewpanels to dim its glow. Other than the symbols denoting the positions of the unseen planet ahead and target which orbited it, and the three green indicators representing the locations of the three Tarantulas ahead of his own, nothing else appeared in his view. So far from the star, something would have to be highly reflective to throw off a flash like he thought he’d seen, and anything that reflective would also show up on the sensors. 

“Hey, did I ever tell you about the-” 

“About the critter that tried to eat you at Cold Refuge? About fifty times.” Rewaju smiled. Zawski was an old hand as far as strike crew went; he’d first seen action at the Battle of Cold Refuge more than ten years previously. Most people didn’t last a decade running strike operations, even in peacetime; it was a service for young hotshots, among which Rewaju was happy to count himself. Zawski was as close to a greybeard as any squadron ever had flying; most spacers did only one or two terms as strike crew before they transferred out, washed out, or bought the plot. 

“Er... Yeah, that.” Zawski paused to recover from the perpetual shock of remembering that he’d already told his most interesting story far too many times to the same audience. “Well it started just like – woah!” 

Rewaju saw the flitting silver shape this time with more than the corner of his eye. A sleek object smaller even than his Tarantula zipped past on the port side, passing them from behind and vanishing into the darkness ahead in an instant. None of his sensors seemed to mark the object’s passage. 

“Dexter, what in all creative hells was that?” 

“No clue, Zawski.” Rewaju frowned and manipulated the cameras again. “That’s at least the third time it’s passed us.” He cursed the radio-silence order he and his fellow pilots were under; the only radio call anyone could make was the call to abort the mission, and he wasn’t sure it was time to do that quite yet. 

“Or maybe that’s the third one.” From the sound of his voice, Zawski didn’t like the implications of his own conclusion. “Nate drones?” 

“Nah, we’d have picked something up if one of their machines got that close. It’s got to be some sort of natural-” 

The explanation died in Rewaju’s throat even before it had emerged. A glinting silver object appeared almost directly dead ahead of his cockpit where nothing had been a moment before. He’d seen that teardrop shape and featureless silver hull before, but only in recorded holos and stills. 

“Are...” Zawski found his voice first. “Are we looking at what I think we’re looking at?” 

Though he could plainly see the craft, Rewaju still saw no indication his Tarantula’s sensors had detected it. Even when he pointed a camera directly ahead, its feed showed only a rectangle of empty space. Somehow, this only solidified his certainty as to what it was. “What’s an Angel want with us?” 

As if by answer, the comms section of Rewaju’s board lit up. Cautiously, he flicked open the channel and flashed his forward running lights; he couldn’t send radio transmissions, but he could listen. 

“Human vessel of war, do not take undue alarm.” The grating, electronically generated voice of the Angel pilot of the craft ahead filled Rewaju’s ears, and belatedly he connected Zawski’s station to the sound as well. “We do not intend to interfere with or participate in your efforts.” 

“I don’t like it. If they don’t want to join us, and they don’t want to stop us, why are they here?” 

Rewaju considered his tech’s question for several seconds. The only reason for several Angel craft to shadow the Tarantula formation beyond participating or interfering with their efforts he could think of was to use their attack as cover for some other activity, though what that activity might be he couldn’t begin to guess. “They want to get away with something while everyone’s looking at the pretty fireballs.” 

“Hmm. Maybe.” Zawski spent several seconds considering alternatives. “You don’t think we’re so lucky that whatever they’re doing will hurt Nate, do you?” 

“Doubt it.” The only times in recorded history the Angels had participated in military affairs, it had been to prevent Sol from being occupied by an alien force; a war between one group of humans and another probably seemed like a silly sibling squabble to them. 

In the blink of an eye, the silver teardrop shape ahead vanished once more, as if it had never been there. Still, the sensors showed nothing. 

“Bastard probably didn’t go far.” Zawski grumbled. “What business do they have on a dustball like Karma?” 

Recalling all the centuries-old stories from his own home-world of Planet at Centauri of Angel sightings in the mountains, Rewaju chuckled. “Whatever it is, our grandchildren will still be guessing.” 

“Unless we buy the plot on this run, Dexter. Then nobody’s going to be guessing.” 

Rewaju rolled his eyes and didn’t gratify the comment with a reply. He had a feeling both he and Zawski would make it back to Trafalgar alive this time. After all, the Angels didn’t show themselves unless they wanted to; having someone survive to report their presence was undoubtedly part of their scheme. 

Details

Tales from the Service: The Kingfisher Melee

2949-12-07 – Tales from the Service: The Kingfisher Melee 

While I have had a number of requests in our inbox asking us to speculate in greater detail what the Incarnation fleet is doing at Hallman, I don’t think it’s reasonable to do so at this stage. Simply put, we don’t know much more now than we did a few weeks ago when we spoke to Captain Kirke-Moore and Colonel Durand. Both sides are using the skirmishes here to test new tactics and weapons, but the need for a testing ground can’t possibly be the only reason the Incarnation has invested so heavily in this offensive. 

That the ultimate goal is Berkant itself seems obvious, but given that the planet is entirely evacuated at this point except for a strong garrison, and even the farming machinery that tills the fertile Berkant soil has been removed, there seems little immediate value in the place. 

This week, we continue from the account of Vitali Borja, one of the first pilots to fly the new Kosseler-derived Kingfisher Gunship into battle. 

“Lead, how do you want to do this?” Lieutenant Tollemache’s calm, clear voice broke the silence as the squadron closed in on the battle ahead. The frigate Gottfreid Muraro was the only participant visible to the naked eye, but its wild evasive maneuvers and the molten-orange clouds of railshot thrown up by its batteries hinted at the multiplicity of its foes. 

“Like we practiced, Two.” Commander Roubio sounded excited, and for once, Vitali didn’t blame his commander’s exuberant energy. The few dozen Coronachs ahead wouldn’t know what hit them; the sleek new Kingfisher gunships most of the squadron had been equipped with hadn’t been used in battle before. “Make them come to us.” 

Vitali slid his hand along one display and switched his controls from cruise mode to combat mode. Unbidden, the status indicator for Fisher Four, his wingman, appeared next to his own in one of the secondary screens. Like the older Magpies, Kingfishers were not meant to fight alone; an isolated gunship could be quickly outmaneuvered and cut to pieces by agile opponents like the Incarnation’s Coronachs. “You with me, Four?” 

“Right behind you, Three.” Rocco, the pilot of Fisher Four, sounded tense, and his tone sobered Vitali up a bit. They would be outnumbered two to one at least, and their Kingfishers weren’t really optimized for tangling with Coronachs, but they could hardly be expected to avoid the innumerable interceptors on the battlefield. Kingfishers’ real prey was supposed to be the Incarnation’s more valuable, less common bomber, the so-called Jericho, but to get to those targets, one always had to slice through a swarm of agile Coronachs. Today, they would merely be proving the Kingfisher’s ability to do the latter, more dangerous task. 

“Fisher Squadron, this is Muraro.” The frigate’s skipper sounded young, inexperienced, and terrified. In theory, her ship could tangle with twice as many Coronachs for much longer than it had been under attack so far, but being under fire and relying on theory for one’s safety was a comfortable experience for very few spacers. “You’re on our boards. We’ll clear your approach.” 

A moment later, the frigate spun on its axis and a new cloud of glowing railshot erupted from its side, forcing a trio of Coronachs to break off from an intercept course with Fisher Squadron. Coronachs, with their fragile frames and close-range plasma weapons, were easiest to fight if kept at a distance. 

“Landon, Patel, start marking your targets.” Networked with the gunners on Fisher Four as they were, Vitali’s gunners could fire complex patterns of railshot to herd enemy inteceptors into the path of a pre-planned killshot from the other gunship. If the enemy got too close, the gunships’ heavy plasma weaponry could vaporize a Coronach with a single direct hit. 

“All gunners, weapons free.” Commander Roubio’s grin was fully audible over the audio channel. “Kingfishers, stay close.” 

Even before their leader had finished speaking, the railguns on all the Kingfishers began to spew railshot ahead, creating a cloud of murderous ferroceramic projectiles to lead the way into the melee. This, Vitali knew, was not intended to kill the enemy, only to open a path for the squadron. The killing would mainly take place as the squadron slashed through the circling Coronachs, and as those same enemy ships pursued the gunships. 

The six Magpies still attached to Fisher Squadron slowed and fell back as the new rigs accelerated. Vitali didn’t envy those pilots or their gunners; their role in the battle was mainly to watch and only to intervene if their experimental compatriots got into trouble. 

“Two incoming! Damn, how did they slip past the net?” 

Vitali heard the computer’s siren wail as a Coronach targeting system locked onto his ship. With a reflexive flick of his wrist, he rolled to starboard and engaged the lateral thrusters to juke in what he hoped was an unexpected direction without slowing his forward progress. Behind him, the plasma cannons cracked out a reply to the slashing Coronach’s bow cannon, and then it was over. The intercepting Coronach made a desultory pass against Fisher Seven, but by the time it had recovered from this, the whole squadron was past it. 

“Where’d the other one go?” Rocco called out. 

“We bagged him.” Tollemache’s reply, as cool and matter of fact as if she’d been talking about passing the salt-shaker in the mess hall aboard the carrier, made Vitali smile. 

“Gunners, watch your timers.” 

Vitali glanced up to see the bulk of Muraro already looming large ahead. Commander Roubio’s assault run took them on a tight pass along the frigate’s aft quarter, and in the heads-up display within his canopy glass, orange indicators already bracketed several Coronachs which would pass within range, indicating the ire of his gunners. As the timer crawled toward optimum weapons range, Vitali gripped his control sticks, listening for the wail of another target lock, and praying that his rig would emerge on the other side of the fracas in one piece. 

Details

Tales from the Service: The Kingfisher Trial

2949-11-30 – Tales from the Service: The Kingfisher Trial 

Despite numerous skirmishes here in the Milian system, the Incarnation fleet stationed at Hallman has yet to make a move toward Berkant. The Fifth Fleet picket line has suffered a number of small vessels damaged and destroyed in these skirmishes, but no major warships have been removed from the fleet’s order of battle, while it’s expected that at least two of the Tyrant heavy-cruiser analogues sent to probe the fleet screen have been damaged sufficiently to render them not suitable for future combat. 

Of course, the enemy fleet at Hallman has at least thirty-five ships of that type remaining in good order, and a number of auxiliaries, including troop ships. Admiral Zahariev’s staff indicates that they think this force insufficient to defeat Fifth Fleet in open battle, but also worries that Hallman is a trap, and does not want to go on the offensive until more intelligence is gained. A few scouting flights have been made (Tales from the Service: Watching Hallman), but the enemy is increasingly learning to keep these prying eyes at a safe distance. 

With the civilian population of the system largely evacuated, and extensive ground-side defenses on Berkant, there seems little reason to remain on the defensive, but Admiral Zahariev seems to be taking a methodical approach. I for one don’t blame him; if the enemy retreats from Hallman, they open themselves up to a disastrous rout in open space, and if they remain, their fleet remains pinned down and incapable of taking the offensive elsewhere. 

As reported last week, a few squadrons in Fifth Fleet have been equipped with the new Kingfisher strike gunship; this sleek, high-tech war machine built with the assistance of Kosseler designers is meant to outperform enemy strike formations in ways the rugged, dependable Magpie could not. There have also been rumors of a revised Magpie variant being tested in less active theaters of the conflict, though most likely the two projects are intended to be complementary rather than competing for the same role. After brief training cycles with the new machines, I am told that the first Kingfishers saw action only a few days ago on the Milian skirmish line, and all indications are that their first taste of combat went quite well. 

Vitali Borja scanned the cockpit displays in his new gunship rig. Only nine days before, he’d ferried the shiny new Kingfisher gunship from a fleet tender, and though all twelve of the new rigs had been out on training exercises every day since, he still hadn’t gotten used to the streamlined displays and their adaptive holographic control surfaces. Every time he sat down, he still looked for the bank of switches and buttons that controlled the startup sequence of a Magpie, instead of focusing on the main display, where a series of virtual controls and timing indicators would walk him through the sequence. 

Fortunately, the one thing that had survived a mad Kosseler engineer’s fixation with adaptive controls was the twin-stick piloting arrangement common to most strike rigs. Vitali couldn’t imagine going into a fight without the feel of physical triple-axle control sticks, and the controls of the Kingfisher felt all the more solid for being some of the only hardware controls in the entire cockpit. 

“Dorsal guns are go.” Cadeyrn Landon, one of Vitali’s gunners, snapped his attention away from the feel of the inactive controls. Vitali could tell the phrase “dorsal guns” was still new to Landon, who’d previously operated the single portside quadmount turret of their Magpie. Now, he had a battery of four weapons to manage – two rapid-fire railgun mounts, and two high-tech but short-ranged plasma cannons. 

 “Ventral guns are go.” Sandeep Patel, a squadron rookie with only a few dozen hours of combat ops, had taken to the arrangement of the new Kingfishers far more quickly. “Ordinance bay is go.” Vitali had high hopes for Patel; he was a natural in the gunnery role, but he needed a few more missions of real combat to knock the green off. 

“Flight systems...” Vitali scanned the board and started the warmup sequence for the twin gravitic drive units that would hurl his craft through space at speeds he preferred not to think about too hard. If the inertial isolation system failed during a combat maneuver, he wouldn’t really have time to think about it before he was reduced to a gritty pink paste anyway. “Flight systems are go. Onboard datasystems are go.” 

Vitali also ran a quick diagnostic on the beam cannon built into the Kingfisher’s nose, though he didn’t bother to report the results to his compatriots. The bow cannon, controlled by a trigger on one of his control sticks, was the least important weapon on the whole rig, especially in combat against nimble Incarnation Coronachs. 

Vitali glanced at a screen to his left, and hurriedly reached up to tap a yellow control there, which immediately switched to green. “Fisher Three reporting a green board. Awaiting launch clearance.” 

“Roger, Three. Hangar depressurization is ongoing. You’ll be second in the launch order.” Fidelity’s hangar ops chief, the silky-voiced Commander Amalberti, stood silhouetted in the hangar observation deck as she replied over the squadron’s comms channel. “Head out on vector two-zero-five, one-ten.” 

“Two-zero-five, one-ten.” As Vitali repeated the instruction, one of the secondary screens lit up and displayed a wireframe of Fidelity and the indicated course vector leading away from the hangar doors. He didn’t know if the onboard computer had loaded the course from the carrier’s datasystems, or parsed the radio transmission, and it didn’t really matter. 

Across the hangar’s broad deck, a launch platform lifted a sleek Kingfisher several meters above its fellows, allowing it to gently nudge forward and upward against the pull of the carrier’s A-grav. As soon as it lifted off, his heads-up display marked it as Fisher Two, Lieutenant Tollemache’s rig. The Kingfisher turned to orient itself with the elliptical maw of the still-closed launch doors. Tollemache probably didn’t have clearance for the rapid-launch she was lining up, but Vitali doubted anyone would reprimand her for the maneuver on a combat mission. 

When the bay finished its depressurization and the doors yawned open, Fisher Two surged forward, passing out into open space before the big armored iris had opened all the way. Vitali couldn’t help but be impressed; the Lieutenant’s rig had cleared the doors with less than two meters to spare on either side. For that needless risk, the squadron executive officer might earn a reprimand from Commander Roubio, but Vitali doubted it would be a terribly forceful one. Roubio had a soft spot for daredevils. 

With a bump, the platform carrying Vitali’s craft began to rise, and he decoupled the landing gear latches. With the slightest nudge on the sticks, he brought the Kingfisher off the rectangle of hangar deck and oriented it with the doors. Another nudge, and he sailed through into the infinite black of interplanetary space. Milian, the local star, drowned out all others, though the adaptive viewpanels dimmed its fierce light considerably. He set the autopilot, then sat back as the craft oriented itself on his authorized departure vector and began accelerating away from Fidelity. 

Within minutes, all twelve Kingfishers and six Magpies of Fisher Squadron had launched and formed up behind Fisher One, Roubio’s rig Bluetail. Vitali slaved his helm controls to the squadron commander’s channel, then checked his systems one more time as Roubio led them all away from the carrier and toward the fleet picket line. 

“Stay sharp, everybody.” Roubio still, Vitali suspected, thought that phrase improved morale, even though everyone else thought it archaic and meaningless. “Two flights of Coronachs are harassing one of the picket frigates up ahead.” 

Vitali winced; even with the fire support of a frigate, their sixteen gunships would be facing at least twenty of the enemy flyers, possibly as many as thirty. For their first action in the new rigs, those were hardly ideal odds. 

“What caliber of pilots are we expecting, Commander?” Tollemache, cool and collected as always, interrupted the incomfortable silence that ensued after their leader’s announcement. 

“According to the frigate’s estimates, these guys are average at best. No Immortals.” 

That, at least, was a relief; Vitali and his compatriots hadn’t yet tangled with the rare but all-but-unbeatable bionic super-pilots the Incarnation sometimes employed, but they’d all heard stories of squadrons who had been bested by one or two of these elite strike flyers. If the Coronach pilots ahead weren’t particularly skilled, and Fisher Squadron stuck to the tactics it had been working on for the last week, the fight would be at least slightly in their favor. 

“You’d think they’d find something soft for us to cut our teeth on.” Landon grumbled on the gunship’s intercom. 

“They probably did.” Patel replied before Vitali could reprimand the comment. “We’ll be fine, Cade.” 

As the smart viewpanel magnified infinitesimal flashes ahead to show a wildly maneuvering warship being chased by a swarm of darting pinpricks that could only be Coronachs, Vitali hoped the rookie was right. 

Details
  • You are here:  
  • Home
  • Tales from the Inbox