Where were the Argus pilots, dammit? What was taking them so long?
The Phantom formation converged on the station and began rotating, each of the ships firing its heavy lasers.
The laser beams turned into a wall of fire that knew no obstacle along its path. The energy charges sank into the station's hull, striking up fires, then slid along, ripping through it, blowing up the outside fixtures, scorching the docking pads and slicing through cables and pipework, leaving nothing but fissures breathing fire in their wake.
The freighters en route to the docks began to scatter. Some even attempted to attack the slowly rotating Phantom formation but were immediately destroyed by return fire.
Instinctively grasping the enemy's potential, I shuddered realizing that the station was doomed. Nothing or nobody could delay its undoing. A few occasional and uncoordinated fighter launches would change nothing. Soon the station's hull would collapse, starting a chain reaction of decompression in all the outer layer of modules.
There was no way you could stop the Phantom Raiders. I'd only just started to integrate into this new world and now it was coming crashing down around my ears!
Why hadn't Argus heeded my warning? What had they been waiting for? I'd given the pilots plenty of time to get to their ships and-
Suddenly the station rotated faster. I glimpsed one of the ancient transport tunnels that both the Mechanics and Engineers had been toiling in all this time.
In all honesty, I couldn't understand why they would want to restore some useless service tunnels. The next moment, it all clicked into place.
The mouth of the restored magnetic hub pointed directly at the center of the Raiders' formation. Its ring accelerators, freshly renovated and modernized, gleamed intensely. The station's correction engines kicked in, stopping its rotation.
I would never have thought the Engineers would have turned a transport channel into a weapon!
The station shuddered, losing its orbit parameters. Five juggernaut steel slugs, each weighing hundreds of tons, accelerated to an unthinkable speed, shooting out of the makeshift electromagnetic cannon and hitting the Raiders' formation head on.
The first impact destroyed their inner control sphere. The second and third ones grazed the sickle-shaped wings, plasmifying about thirty enemy ships. The remaining rounds overshot their target.
The enemy's laser beams faded. The spatial formation of the hundreds of ships was now falling apart. Some of the craft collided, filling space with clouds of debris. Not a single Phantom Raider had had the chance to self-destruct, so sudden and shattering was the station's response.
* * *
I was still in shock from these rapid developments when the station resumed its unhurried rotation, engaging its space defense systems.
Argus had withstood the first strike. I could still see cloudy jets of decompression everywhere but at least the station was in one piece. We'd repulsed the surprise attack. The surviving launching pads began flashing, propelling hundreds of fighters into space.
They shot down about a dozen of the nearest alien ships, disabled and disoriented, signaling the start of a massive space battle.
It wasn't a pretty sight. The enemy chose not to restore their formation; instead, they headed toward our Condors in ones and twos. Heavily armored, Phantom Raiders with their ten-megawatt shields were a force to be reckoned with.
A battle broke out. Laser beams strobed in all directions, criss-crossing, fading and blazing again. Tracers of missiles punctuated the dark. A multitude of thrusters burned bright as the ships banked, circled and zigzagged through space, chasing down their targets. Power fields pulsed as many a ship erupted in blinding flames.
The two armadas passed through each other. Only two thirds of our pilots made it through the Phantom Raiders' loose ranks.
Immediately the battle disintegrated, breaking up into countless skirmishes swirling through space like wheels of fire. The station's guns began engaging section by section, firing volleys at separate targets while trying not to hit our own ships.
The Phantom Raiders were a cut about the station defenders. They were better armed and protected, and their maneuverability lay way beyond human endurance. Even when ducking our especially daring assaults, they still managed to fire their heavy lasers at a turret or a docking pad they'd barely glimpsed in their sights. They'd then bank avoiding a head-on, shaking off the pursuit in a series of intricate maneuvers amid the station's outer structures before resuming their attacking courses.
The battle lay below me. It took me ten seconds — fifteen at the most — to analyze the situation. I'm not joking. Between the mind expander, the metabolic implant and the Founders' neuronet I hosted, they must have unlocked a new height in my thinking and perception levels. Faced with an emergency, my brain seemed to work in a different way somehow. I might end up regretting it later but at the moment, I was able to instantly grasp and evaluate the entire picture.
The Phantom Raiders were trying to force their own tactics onto the station defenders, surreptitiously trying to get closer to the sections where defenses were already down. I could hear the station's yet undamaged guns fall silent as they had no targets left in their fields of fire. Tails of swirling debris marked the enemy's rapid progression. Our pilots in their Condors and Raptors must have realized that they were being pinned down to the station — but the enemy kept them engaged to make sure they couldn't do much.
The ball of fire kept shrinking, the ships' maneuvers growing briefer and faster. I watched as more and more human ships exploded, destroyed, in the chaos of decompression discharges which clouded the station's molten outer structures. I could see the whole picture — but the others couldn't. Each was too busy with his or her own target, the station's ragged outline hindering their fields of vision while the swirling wheel of fire was already upon the station.
The two ancient frigates restored by the Engineers' clan were still sitting in their hangars, crewless. The station's factions had failed to come to an agreement regarding their use so now they were useless — at the exact moment when they were needed the most.
I knew of course that alone I wouldn't last a minute against a Raider. Still, I couldn't remain a passive onlooker.
I accelerated, simultaneously sending commands to the drones while switching the mind expander to broadcast its data to the station network, sharing my vision of the situation with everyone else. I saw a Condor followed by a trail of incandescent gas from its damaged reactor's cooling system. The pilot persistently banked, trying to shake two Raiders off his tail. I caught one of them in my sights and appraised its signature. Its shields were barely glimmering at two megawatts at most.
My drones flew on either side and at my rear, forming false targets.
The distance between us kept steadily shrinking. I switched my four lasers to continuous fire mode and blazed away. The Raider's shields collapsed. Yes! Two tracers sank into its body just above the engines, at the exact spot marked by my target indicator as vulnerable. A ball of fire welled up straight ahead. I banked just in time to avoid all the debris while noticing the fiery gas trail again as the downed Condor was trying to hightail it away from the station. I fell in behind him, hurriedly scanning both hemispheres in search for the other Raider. Where was he now?
He's behind me! Closing in, shooting down two drones in the process.
I threw the ship sideways into a widening spiral. Predictable, I knew — but so did the Raider.
All the drones were downed. A scanning wave of radiation surged over my ship — I was in the crosshairs. It felt akin to skin tingling. I went into a hook turn. Too late.
The raider closed in. I could see the frontal slopes of the ship's armor, complete with its laser gun ports: the heavy one in the middle and six medium ones in sloping nacelles on both its sides. I fired everything I had. His ten-meg shield caved in but only slightly, swallowing up the damage. Too late to swerve out of its way.
A missile soared overhead,
hitting the shield in a flash. Then another. The Raider's shield was now in the red zone. A third missile turned it into a ball of fire.
I swung round, forcing the engines into overdrive, maxing out the Gs as I tried to scramble as far away as I could from the Phantom Raider's possible self-destruction zone.
"2017, follow me," I heard as the Condor flew past, still followed by its fiery trail. The pilot must have stabilized the reactor if he thought he could rejoin the battle.
I scanned his number. Liori! The merc girl I'd met earlier!
I mirrored her maneuver. Now both of us were moving away from the station, restoring our shields and reloading our weapons. We then both turned round to face the battle.
They'd received my message. The surviving station defenders fought their way out from under fire and repeated our maneuver, moving away to allow the defense systems to do their job.
Shit. So few of us left. 90 ships, the subsystems reported impassively.
The Raiders were a hundred and fifty. They split into several groups of different sizes most of whom had switched to assault mode, their heavy lasers ripping the station's armor open and wreaking havoc on their way, leaving nothing in their wake but mangled heaps of metal and clouds of decompression. All the others came straight for us all.
"Zander, keep right behind me," Liori's voice rang through my thoughts. "I'll disable the shields and get out, then he's all yours!"
"Got it!"
She attacked — seemingly head-on, strafing from side to side to duck the constant laser beams that barely grazed her shield. She was one hell of a pilot. I still had a lot of learning to do to be able to maneuver like that.
She slid past mere feet from the Raider. Both their shields billowed out, destroying each other. The Raider swung round, exposing its aft.
Fat tracers ripped through its armored hull, spewing fire. I banked away. The Raider sped up, maxing out its Gs.
In a blinding flash, it self-destructed.
I scanned both hemispheres.
The numbers of the station defenders kept dwindling. The battle continued with mixed success. We'd kicked the Raiders' ass good and proper but the station was a sorry sight. Enormous gaping holes were framed with sections of decks forced outside by internal explosions; mangled docking pads drifted in clouds of gas and ice crystals; debris floated everywhere you turned.
I found Liori and moved closer to her.
We couldn't change anything anymore. No amount of valor or piloting skill could make any difference. If it continued like this, the station would soon begin to fall apart.
We rejoined the battle. This time we chose a group of Raiders coveting one of the hangars. I still had the two proton torpedoes with remote controlled explosive devices, so we changed our tactics. I took the lead and fired both, then waited until they were a mere three hundred feet away from the Raiders. Then I sent a mentally activated command.
Two blindingly bright spheres of transparent blue scorched and seared the station's hull, deactivating the enemies' shields. Liori overtook me and shot down two of the enemy ships. The nearest pilots joined in the assault. Together we ripped the Raiders group apart. Only a few managed to flee the scene leaving their fiery trails of incandescent gas behind.
This wasn't victory yet, not by far. The remaining Raiders — about a hundred still — turned their attention away from the station in order to get rid of us first.
* * *
The battle ended unexpectedly.
The Founders' frigate, fire-damaged but still functional, powered up its engines and exited its docking hangar.
My earphones vibrated with triumphant cheers. We watched as the other frigate left its berth. Messages flooded the network with the sensational news: apparently, the Pilots' clan had seized both ships. The Engineers were furious but we, we celebrated.
Beams of stationary lasers sliced through the dark. The frigates' plasma generators and heavy pulse guns fired in automatic mode. In a matter of minutes, the Phantom Raiders had lost half their force. The surviving ones left us well alone and charged onto the Founders' frigates.
Liori turned her Condor toward the nearest docking pad that still seemed intact. The gaps in her damaged hull streaked crimson.
"Get in, I'll cover you!"
"Thanks, Zander!"
My reactor went into overload. My ship's batteries were empty, the ammo stocks depleted. My emotions went into an overdrive. I couldn't even tell the number of Raiders I'd shot down — three for sure and possibly two more. I'd have to check the logs.
Molten scars were cooling down on my ship's hull. There were several air leaks — nothing important. Once I was back in dock, they'd quickly patch me up.
Liori docked. Her Condor disappeared in the haze of the power field.
Just about time I did the same. The two frigates, already much the worse for wear, were commencing a twin assault maneuver, accelerating in pursuit of a small group of Phantom Raiders that attempted to flee the scene.
End of story. The nearest docking pad was mine.
I turned around, glimpsing a few groups of small ships almost out of the scanner's range. Signatures: unidentified. They flashed past, disappearing in the direction of the station's uninhabited sectors which were crammed full of old breach holes, allowing anyone to get on board.
Outlaws?
In all honesty, I had more important things to do. I had to weave my way amid mangled steel beams, dead deformed ships and enormous chunks of the station's hull which rotated slowly past.
I struggled to steer the ship into the pad. Only now did I realize how this brief melee had drained me.
My hands were shaking. My state of fatigue was deafening. I was hungry as hell. It looked like both the reflex enhancer and metabolic corrector had simply burned me out.
I spent a few minutes just sitting there listening to all the messages, trying to piece together the whole picture. My mind refused to accept the scope of these latest developments.
I unbuckled and stood up, keeping the helmet on. I had no idea if there was any breathable air left inside.
I contacted Charon and Arbido. They were beside themselves with worry.
I had survived. I'd survived my first real melee!
At that, my emotions died on me. Fatigue enveloped my body. I could barely shift my feet. The corridor was airless. Luckily, the elevators still worked.
Wish I could say the same about the station. It was agonizing.
Everywhere you turned you saw fire and impact damage tinted by the crimson emergency lighting. The station was dying. Judging by the messages, a few Raiders had managed to flee, disappearing into the asteroid belt. The two Founders' frigates hijacked by the Pilots' clan weren't in a hurry to dock, taking up defensive positions some two light seconds away from the crippled station.
* * *
Events kept unfolding — rapidly, dramatically and irreversibly.
I finally made it to the personnel deck and cleared the airlock. They still had atmosphere in there, even though the lights kept flickering. I could sense frequent vibrations.
The room I was renting had its own airlock. It too seemed to be sealed — undamaged. We were safe for the time being. Still, my anxiety kept growing.
I entered the airlock and activated the emergency locking protocols.
The inner hatch slid aside. Charon's lanky figure hurried toward me. He gave me a hug, peering through my visor.
"I'm fine," I slapped his shoulder. "I've made it back."
I collapsed into the massive chair which alone was capable of supporting the weight of my armor. Arbido shifted from one foot to the other nearby. He looked pale and anxious. I bet! The world was coming down about his ears and he didn't even have a spacesuit his size. How could we have known that something like this would even happen?
"Cool down, man. You can wear my old gear in the meantime. It's a bit big for you but that's the way it is. Charon, can you help him? You too will need to suit up."
Th
e station was shattered by secondary explosions. It was in turmoil. Losses were mind-boggling. The Pilots clan had lost half their craft. Their authority was on the rise but their strength had been seriously depleted. The Top100 list kept updating: thirty-seven of the best pilots hadn't returned to base. Fifty more personalities of considerable weight and power had disappeared during decompression. Their fate was unknown.
The network was in chaos. There were no safe respawn points left. Founders Square was overtaken by vacuum, radiation and cosmic temperatures. Same applied to the whole of the Market Deck. The survivors feared new attacks, this time from the Dargians, Wearongs, the Kamresh and the Outlaws.
Everyone already blamed both the Mechanics and the Engineers for the chain of secondary explosions which continued to destroy the station. They in their turn didn't bother to qualify it with an answer, explaining it away by the age of the equipment.
The station's economy had collapsed. Groups of looters were sighted on the Market Deck. The corporations had called off their drones to protect their own property. This was new to me. Apparently, all law-enforcement mechanisms belonged to the corporations.
This had turned out to be an event and a half.
There was no water. The lighting panels were barely glowing. The air regenerators were still in working order but how long would their accumulators last?
I was at a loss. And angry. I tried to put myself into the Admins' and developers' shoes. Why would they need such a disaster? Had the players had the choice of ten stations protected by a squadron of NPC-flown craft, I could understand. But they'd just destroyed their entire game world! Had they decided to play God or something? Or had they destroyed the location the way a spoiled child crumples a failed drawing? Well, give us a chance, then! Offer us an alternative!
Somehow I didn't think that anyone would like a game dominated by other races dooming humans to a miserable existence. But it was certainly heading that way. The Mechanics and Engineers had to bring the situation under their control, or...
Edge of Reality Page 19