by J A Stone
“STAR IS GO!” Tawnee shouted across the ship as Danica made it into the round gunner pod. She could barely see by the light of the stars and the ambience of the Moon, Occia. Danica jumped in her chair and grabbed each strap-set, shouting as loud as she could to the cockpit.
“PORT IS GO!” Thank the Gods the plasma turrets were functional. Sight-controlled movement was down, but Danica could rotate her barrels by moving the trigger grips in the desired direction. She scanned her hemisphere until the Destiny appeared, closing in fast.
‘Barump’ the turrets vibrated but Danica’s aim was way off the Warship. Again Danica fired, hearing Tawnee doing the same from the starboard pod. The lights came on, including Danica’s sight control and redline grid. Brey’s voice followed.
“That was a hard hit boys and girls. The helium micro-compressors are down. Hold on loosely people—go Tom.” Aft thrusters ignited to maximum as the Pilot gave it everything Snowflake had, sending them barreling in wide, directly towards the Destiny.
“Gunners, we’ve got to get past her in one piece,” Fovea advised. “Forget the meat of the vessel, aim for her guns on the wings…here.” Warfell’s tactical screen displayed the Warship, highlighting the forward weapons systems.
“Got it,” Tawnee answered.
“I see it,” Warfell moved her cunning blues to the Destiny, aiming carefully and clearing her mind. She held her breath, exhaled slowly and fired…
Flashes of light reverberated through her vision as Snowflake took the second hit hard, spinning violently, caterwauling away. She flicked the gyroscope and the pod gripped its position hold, now perfectly level as the ship spun and rolled out of control. She could see the damage to the tail—not good.
“Gunners to the bridge,” Brey said with a defeated voice. “Tommy, can you level him out a bit?”
“Aye Captain.”
“Cut power, let us drift.”
“Captain? Brey!”
She rose from her chair and walked to the upper deck stairs, turning to face Warfell on mid-deck.
“Keep him busy for me, I will be right back. Hey, I’m sorry Danica, sorry about all this…” she turned again and ascended the steps somberly. The Destiny’s Captain spoke with confidence through Snowflake’s speakers.
Breana Constance Fovea, you will surrender yourself for justice. I promise you fair treatment if you do the right thing. Test me and we open fire.
Warfell stepped onto the bridge and looked her former lover in the eye. Even through a glass screen, he was such a handsome man. Her heart skipped a beat as she answered for her friend.
“She’s taking a dump. We passed around some of that protein mash and, well… Hey now Danton, you look great. So, hubby, on this world I’m a really good lover aren’t I,” Warfell nodded yes, it was not a question.
Derulio didn’t know what to say, so he said the first thing he thought of with a stupid grin and wandering, glassy eyes.
Oh yeah—a goddamned athlete—like going on black-op maneuvers, bring water.
Danica smiled deep inside, she remembered.
“Okay, I’m back,” said Brey through her com-feed, cancelling Danica’s reverie. “Destiny, do you need assistance?”
Excuse me?
“Assistance man, it’s okay friend we are prepared to offer Destiny evacuation and medical assistance, are you personally injured? Have you sustained heavy casualties?”
I don’t understand Fovea, from what?
“From this motherfucker,” Brey let loose with the quad-barreled howitzer cannon mounted on Snowflake’s shoulders, hurling dozens of six-inch armor-penetrating rounds per second, ripping holes into the ventral fuselage of the Warship as if throwing rocks through a paper lantern.
Warfell watched the Destiny eviscerated before her eyes. She didn’t feel a thing. Danton put his hand in the cage—he knew what was in the damned cage.
Aleutha, Equatorial Ionospheric Orbit
“What are we looking at boss?” Tawnee was always first to ask.
“Not good,” she tapped and typed, entering calculations as data streamed before the big brown eyes. “Vertical thrust is out—can’t fix that away from Fovea Mansion or a Federal facility. Without the verticals on the micro-compressors, Tom can’t bring him down safely. Tail assembly is damaged—I can fix that right here in orbit, but it’ll take some hours outside.”
“Okay, we cannot land, that’s not good,” Warfell stated the obvious.
“What else?” said Tawnee. Brey sighed.
“Without the tail assembly, we cannot enter an atmospheric air mass and fly on a foil. Without the vertical thrust, Tom will be forced to plop us down in a lake or slide to a stop on the grasslands outside the mansion walls.”
“What—I will what?” Tom jerked.
“It’s that or stay up here forever,” Brey answered with mock dread.
“We would have to choose mates I suppose,” Snowman moved his eyes to Danica. He actually wasn’t worried—the boss was too confident.
“Knock that shit off,” Warfell countered.
“Sorry. Boss is the Tibor-glide functional?” back to business for Tom.
“Oh yeah, it’s literally part of the hull.”
“I can land him on the surfboard,” Snow shot his eyes to Brey. “I can do it!” Brey tilted her head a touch and furrowed the brows.
“That’s never been done Tom,” Robert leaned in, growing serious because he saw the gleam crossing over the boss’ face. “Guys? Every time I object I’ve been right.”
“Look, I’ll bring him in slow, pitch the nose high, focus the magnetic reverb forward-ventral and bring him down on a stall,” the stunt pilot grinned, shooting his head to each crewmember, though only Brey and Bigfoot understood—it was a chancy move. Robert leaned back shaking his head no, waiting for them to give in…good luck!
“Okay,” the eight footer said at length. “None of that is possible without Snowflake’s dorsal fin. It can’t be done half-ass either, the negative G’s will be tremendous coming into and holding the stall. I’m really good with a cutting torch, but I don’t have a suit.”
“We’re fixing that as soon as we hit land,” Danica added, mostly to herself.
“I can affect repairs. Thank you Robert, we have work to do. Tom, I need the diagnostics again,” Fovea rose, leaving for the bottom deck to suit up and gather her tools.
“I’m pretty handy boss,” said James to Brey’s back.
“Naw, Tawnee knows what I need,” the pixie commented over a slim shoulder before plunging down the steps.
Tawnee rose to a proud stand before James, her insane admirer. She held out her hand, gently touching James’ cheek, something she never did.
“Sweetie, will you help us?” she asked as if from a true friend, wow!
“Wow!” said the Assassin with shining, bejeweled eyes. Then James covered the hand with hers and held it still, the green eyes changing from love-locked to calculating. Tawnee’s hair stood on end.
“You don’t have to charm me to get my help Tawnee—I’m committed to the Foveas, always have been,” James let go and rose, now looking Tawnee in the eyes, two faces with identical tribal-black tattoos inches apart. A tense moment passed…
“Oh-my-God-you-are-so-hot!” the words just burst from James’ mouth followed by an impetuous smile—her rational adult mind quickly subdued by the passion-driven child consciousness.
Tawnee sighed, almost cured her. “Thanks, let’s get this done,” she stepped around James.
“She wants me so bad but her girlfriend is below deck—awkward!” James related to Warfell, Snow and Bigfoot in a loud singsong.
Tawnee stopped cold on mid-deck, thrusting her brown eyes shut for a hot second, raising a balled fist to her waist. She took a deep breath and kept moving, swearing under her breath.
“James, we need to talk honey,” said Tom.
“Shut your dick holster.”
“Good talk,” the Pilot shoved his face back in the screen.
“He’s stronger than before,” she was correct. With Bigfoot’s muscles, they fabricated custom support beams and brackets, welded in place tight by Tawnee and Brey.
“Aye, we did good,” Robert ran the avionics for the hundredth time, himself quite satisfied.
“What about the Moorian Federals?” James asked.
“That’s the best part; Dad has been appearing to President Sovari. I am the best weapon they have against Tibor and they all know it. He is working on a deal for all of us, for our amnesty.”
“Sweetness!” said Tom from the helm. “So we can land without recourse?”
“Yes, just land,” Brey patted her Pilot’s shoulder and Tom took a deep breath.
Aleutha, Fovea Mansion
In Tawnee’s absence, a devout loyalist to the Fovea family, an old Dwarven man named Magnus maintained Fovea Mansion.
Magnus began his career in Aviation, first as a pilot and later in drafting and design. The hangar bays at the mansion were his domain, but he gladly assumed control of the entire property and staff in the absence of Brey and Tawnee.
The Aequitas Caelum manifested to Magnus first with instructions for receiving the wounded Vapor-7 before continuing on to Moor and President Sovari.
Less than an hour later, Magnus stood on the greens with thermal binoculars watching the V-7 booming in like an asteroid.
“Too fast Tommy-boy, you need to dampen with those ailerons.”
“Copy that base,” Snow answered, adjusting his yaw in a side-to-side motion to slow airspeed. Brey extended the slotted wing flaps to widen the wingspan.
“It’s a tight apron,” said Bigfoot with sweat dripping from his forehead. The grasslands were closing in quick—filling the visual horizon with green.
“You got this Tommy-boy, increase your surfboard posterior thirty-five, ventral fifty-percent,” Magnus was cool and calm despite the knowledge of the V-7’s weight, and what could very well happen. He vowed to improve the Tibor-glide system. Magnetic waves are much weaker inside a planetary air mass, requiring vertical thrusters or a landing strip to set a ship on deck. Floating down all the way on a surfboard would be a technological breakthrough.
“Airspeed five twenty and dropping,” Brey related. “Six thousand feet.”
“Shadow speed is still over six-hundred, pitch that nose just a hair Son—point seven five,” Magnus raised a touch of concern beneath his voice.
Tom pulled back on the yoke gently.
“Hold him steady Son—lookin good,” now Magnus was jogging a perpendicular path—just in case.
“Okay everyone, we’re gonna pull up at the last second and pocket the wind just above the grass so hold on, two thousand feet,” Brey advised her crew. Warfell gripped her chair arms tight but kept her shining blues wide—scared shitless, yet never as excited.
With less than eighty feet absolute altitude, Snowman pulled back forcefully as Brey pulsed the magnetic rappel to maximum and then cut the aft thrusters…
Beneath them, Magnus hit the deck hard from the sudden wave of displaced air. The hundred and fifty foot Snowflake shot his nose upwards at the last second and rode the airfoil the final fifty feet, thudding the vessel on its belly.
Snowflake bounced awkwardly but stayed in the air, the magnetic docking lifters quickly evening the distribution, settling the craft approximately ten feet above the grass as flight systems wound down to silence.
Magnus got to his feet with a very rare smile across his weather worn face.
“DAMMIT SON YOU DID IT!” he shouted.
“Yeah he did,” Brey patted her Pilot’s shoulder and squeezed it tight.
“Do you have beers? I think I would like a beer,” said the Snowman.
The bullpen hatchway opened and Tawnee leaped clear of the floating craft first, squeezing the grass with her hands and rolling around on it. The rest of the crew followed.
Fovea Mansion, Brey’s office
Danica Warfell walked in with Tawnee and Robert, admiring the private study. Brey sat at a massive wooden desk before a screen, typing away. Behind her were books in rows, stacks and piles. The walls were polished oak, adorned with ancient weapons, shields and armor from past civilizations on Aleutha.
Seated across from the diminutive woman with long brown hair was an Ambassador from Parliament. As they approached, the two sat up. Brey walked around her desk and clasped hands with the Ambassador.
“Thank you Sir, please offer a spoken gratitude for me?”
“I shall Miss Fovea, ah! is this the crew of the Snowflake?”
“His Gunners and Navigator and it’s just Snowflake, no third person boat name.
“Very good, I will see you in the sky Captain,” the Ambassador bowed to leave graciously passing Magnus at the threshold. Brey waived him in.
“What’s the plan boss,” Tawnee sat down on a sofa.
“Okay,” Brey hopped on her desk and sat swinging her legs. “I have been drafted with the rank of Captain. Snowflake will be on the Vanguard of the Armada. We sail on Tibor in just a few days so I need to ask everyone if they are in.”
They nodded, of course.
“Goes without saying Captain,” Danica spoke for Tawnee and Bigfoot. “Do you fly Magnus?”
“Aye, Miss Fovea has me at the Attawa’s helm now that Snowflake has been repaired and outfitted for battle.”
“The Attawa is a heavy Armor Gunship—all business man,” Brey added with a grin.
“That’s it? Front line in a space war?” Bigfoot asked, the constant voice of trepidation.
“Well, not quite,” Magnus laughed.
“Yeah—I gotta plan,” Brey grinned like the little devil she sometimes was. “Come with me and I’ll tell you when we get there.”
“Where to?” Danica asked.
“To go see my baby of course. Tom and James are already on board logging provisions and checking diagnostics. Robert, Danica had a suit made for ya.”
Bigfoot grinned wide. “Really?”
Warfell lost her breath to the sight of Snowflake standing tall in the middle of the expansive hangar, white superconductor plating shining in the fluorescent lighting. She noted the ceiling was already retracted, ready to go. The boot-falls sounded with a reverb as Captain, Navigator and Gunners approached their craft.
“He’s so beautiful,” Danica said, touching the landing pads.
“Yeah he is,” Brey bounced with excitement. “We fixed the reboot problem on the plasma turrets and rebuilt the micro-compressors from the ground up. Dorsal fin is all new as well. Magnus and I are working on a way to improve and boost the Tibor-glide system for future landings…welcome aboard.”
The bullpen hatchway ramp lowered and Warfell walked up. Welcome home, her thoughts as she moved down mid-deck to the living area where the Aequitas Caelum floated solemnly, waiting for them to arrive.
Welcome home, all of you, the Spirit spoke Danica’s mind again, but she rather did not mind this time.
Brey held her hands aloft for silence and attention from her crew.
“Are you guys feeling skippy? Cause you’re really gonna like this.”
Flotilla Formation Orbit, Anastasia, Ana’s seventeenth Moon
“Men, women, I am so proud of all of you,” President Sovari’s deep voice resounded over the coms on every gathered vessel; seventeen Warships, eighty Fightercraft, three Command Gunships and six armed mobile hospitals. “Never abandon a war having fallen my brave Knights—they asked for this—now it is time.”
“This day, we sail for Tibor. We shall pound our fist once upon the door and then break it down. Your Captains and Commanders will now brief individual orders for each vessel. I am here with you aboard the Trident, clear a path and I will personally land on Tiborean soil to take Chancellor Atria into custody…good hunting my heroes.”
“That’s bull
shit, he’s still on Aleutha!” James stood, scoffing at the com-feed.
Brey held a palm up for silence and proudly surveyed her crew.
“Our orders are to lead the forward attack—the fist on the door, but…” she smiled.
“But we will be,” Warfell began, hoping she was really going through with it.
“On the surface, sacking Atria’s palace and arresting the Chancellor, decapitating their chain of command, ending the conflict, saving thousands, perhaps millions of lives in the process,” Brey looked each crewmember in the eye.
Danica paused, love welling in her heart for this woman. She was so proud of her partner.
“I love you Boss, that’s the right move,” Warfell nodded her approval.
“Wait a minute, Missus Brey how do we know Atria is even there for certain?” Bigfoot had to ask.
“We have a Ghost Robert—keep up,” Tawnee interceded with a pat on the massive shoulder, the hand stopping to squeeze one of the muscles. “Damn dude.”
“Oh yeah that’s right, we have a Ghost!” Robert smiled.
Tibor, Southern Continent, Palace of Chancellor Atria
Atria sat before a series of screens highlighting tactical maps and grids. Officers, soldiers and security agents hustled throughout the complex preparing the defenses and carrying out orders.
‘You’ll be safe among the Advisors and Generals’ they said. Atria laughed to himself, lending his attention to the ceiling for a brief moment. His home was a fortress, initially built as a defense castle, the walls were thick and reinforced. He had a battalion of Tibor’s finest stationed throughout, enough munitions and supplies for an extended siege—everything he might need.
“They’ve assembled an armada in a formation orbit around Anastasia Sir,” said one of the Field Marshalls.
“Launch the fleet,” Atria closed his wrinkled eyes.