* * *
Torglet’s Throne
“There are only eight ships,” Torglet said, grinning from ear to floppy ear. “We have one more than that. Who cares if some of them are bigger? We have a secret weapon.”
“Are you sure you want to use it?” asked his intelligence officer. “We only have the two of them, oh Kingly King.”
“What do you mean, am I sure?” demanded the pirate king. “We destroy their lead ship and that carrier with them, and we can take them. The fighters will have nowhere to go. They will lose the will to fight.”
“Well, we better launch the weapons now, then,” the intelligence officer said, “because they’ve launched over one hundred fighters against our sixty, your Exceptional Exception, and I detect another ship near the gate.”
“Do it,” ordered Torglet.
Below and on the port side, the bay door on the old battlecruiser slowly slid back more, opening an even larger section with an unheard screech felt by the flight crew members in their suits through their magnetic boots. The door had never been opened that wide as far as any could remember.
Seemingly on their own, the programmed weapon engines ignited, and the two craft shot out of the bay. They were the only Wrantle Darts they had. King Torglet had been holding them back as prized possessions for years and ensured his subjects kept up their maintenance. When they took off, the bay suddenly had a lot more room for fighters.
The two missiles—both only slightly smaller than shuttles—turned, separated, and headed toward their programmed targets. Once they were safely away from the ship, their incredible shields came up. They might have been older models, but they were still a pair of the most-feared missiles in the galaxy.
The Wrantle Dart was known as a one-shot ship killer, capable of blowing through shielding and dealing serious damage with its many powerful warheads. Their shielding and scrambling programs kept them safe from defensive lasers, and even anti-missile missiles. Rarely did the Wrantle military let them get out of their possession, but on occasion they could be purchased…or stolen from someone who had acquired one.
Torglet was confident his little kingdom would defeat the eight ships coming his way. “Helm, prepare to take us under on the pass so we can rake their underside with the lasers. Wait until we get off a volley of missiles. They are almost in range.”
“Yes, oh Strikingly Stink…uh, Striking one,” answered his pilot.
Those giggles.
* * *
Desert Wind
“Task Force Alpha, launch missiles at will and fight your fight,” ordered Captain Opawn over the command network.
“Launching twenty,” the weapons officer announced. “Range to main weapons in four minutes. We should get off another full launch before that.”
“Keep them flying, Lieutenant,” Mayla directed.
She was looking at the same screen her tactical officer had pulled up, her mind racing as she noted her task force ships’ locations, weapons, and shield status. Occasionally she’d switch her small screen over to see the incoming and outgoing missile status. Her tactical officer had multiple screens and kept an eye on all of them at once. Three eyes would be pretty handy right about now, she thought.
“Ma’am!” shouted Garlonk, “We have a major problem!”
Standing, Mayla asked, “What is it? What do you see?”
“Something I never thought I would see,” admitted the tactical officer. “The only reason I recognize it was because it was something so unique they taught it as a lesson in Tac Training on Caldivar. There are two Wrantle Darts headed our way. They will impact in four minutes, and one of them is on course straight for us.”
“Squat! Ship killers!” shouted the task force commander. She had studied them as well, in a course titled “Battle Changers” at the Academy on Tretra. The Wrantle had them, and it had been decades since they were at war with the Fingal, the race they’d been designed to defeat. Their shielding would keep the shotgun missiles from being effective.
“Helm keep us straight on; that’s our strongest shielding, although I don’t know if it will be enough. XO, alert the emergency repair teams, start clearing unnecessary crew from the fore decks. We only have minutes!”
* * *
Diamond One
“Sir!” the tactical officer called out, “the system shows what I have identified as large Wrantle missiles heading toward the task force.”
Without hesitating, Urlak stood and ordered the helm to increase to maximum speed and move ahead of the carrier. He didn’t have time to explain to his young crew; he only knew he had to place his squadron between the ship in its charge and those ship killers.
“If we survive, I will explain,” he said in a resigned voice. “If.” Suddenly he reached for his comms. “Combo Special, this is Diamond Squadron.”
* * *
Combo Special
“Do it,” ordered Captain Elscritch to his pilot.
Having heard the rapid explanation of what was headed toward the flagship and carrier, Elscritch ordered his pilot to move directly in front of the larger ship above his. Without hesitation, the large blue Yalteen at the helm entered the commands, and everyone on board felt the tremendous G-forces as the powerful engines kicked in and pushed it past the recommended forces for most beings. It moved past the larger ship and shifted up in front.
Almost too late, the front end of the light battlecruiser was struck by the Wrantle Dart. Almost. The entire ship was rocked by the incredible explosion. Consoles sparked, and emergency lighting sputtered. Captain Elscritch unbuckled his restraining harness, stood up from the command chair, and watched as his crew unbuckled, moved to reboot systems, and put out sparks on several smoldering consoles. Some moved to secondary systems and initiated startup.
“Get me a status as quick as you can,” he ordered. Clack! his strong beak snapped in frustration. He spread his feathered wings slightly as he leapt off the raised dais.
“Sir, I’m still up,” called his defense officer from deep inside the ship in the defensive bridge. The comms were crackling with static. “Forward shields at four percent, port and starboard at eighty and seventy-two due to the bleed over. Rear shields undamaged.”
“We’re still in it!” shouted Elscritch with a loud clack of his beak to emphasize it. “Begin turnover, we will fight this one backwards. We have good momentum. Unless they have more of those darts, we will end this quickly. Weapons, prepare to fire the aft cannons as soon as you are up. Tac, keep me updated on the shield repairs, and helm, drop us back below Desert Wind.”
* * *
Diamond One
“Squadron, brace for impact,” called Captain Urlak moments before the Wrantle Dart struck the shielding in front of his ship.
The explosion rocked all four ships and sent them off course, breaking the overlapping connection the oscillating shields had, pushing them out and away from each other. All four ships had severely damaged shielding, but none had been penetrated.
“The status, if you will,” inquired Urlak.
“Sir, shields at twenty-one percent all the way around. She held out,” answered a grinning lieutenant.
“Helm, contact the other pilots. Get us back in formation,” Captain Urlak ordered, proud of his crew, as repair technicians already had panels to the shield generators open. “There is retribution to be had. I do not like the way our charge was almost destroyed. It will not stand.”
The entire bridge crew was grinning, with small, sharp teeth showing in each face. They would show these pirates the Diamond Squadron and its Kashkal crews could take a blow, shake it off, and come back with a vengeance.
* * *
Windswept
Captain Evelyn Stacey leaned back in her command chair and exhaled heavily. She knew if Captain Urlak and his Diamond Squadron hadn’t pulled in front of her ship, it would’ve been devastating. The fighter carrier had strong shielding, but not strong enough to take a blow from a Wrantle Dart. She watched the four
smaller ships come back together on her small screen.
“Tac, what’s the current status of our fighters?” she asked.
“Ma’am,” the tactical officer answered, “flight operations reports two damaged fighters headed back to dock, and all others are easily defeating the Nullgrip fighters. The two that were damaged each have confirmed kills.”
“Good,” Evelyn said. “Let’s get the rest handled and get them back to safety. I have a feeling the big boys are mad, and those pirate ships are in the path of their anger. I don’t want any of ours caught up in it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered with a slight smile.
“Have them all refuel and stand by once they dock,” Evelyn said after a moment’s hesitation. “We’ll send them out to lock on the damaged fighters for prisoner rescue and salvage. Some of them can be repaired, I’m sure.”
* * *
Torglet’s Throne
“Sir,” the information officer said in a shaky voice, “the Darts hit ships, but not the intended ones. The ships they did hit are still coming.”
“What do you mean, they are still coming? They…”
Torglet never finished his question, as fourteen missiles, having penetrated the defensive lasers, hit the forward shields of the old Wrantle battlecruiser. Already weakened from previous blows by missiles and the cannons of the light battlecruiser, nine penetrated, and the resulting explosions set off a chain reaction that split the ship into three large pieces. There were few survivors that made it to life pods. The rest of the pirate fleet suffered similar fates. The fighters were so outgunned and outclassed, they never made an impact.
* * *
Salvage Title
Near the Nazrooth Gate
“Dude,” Clip exclaimed, “that was a close one. Do you see these statistics on the Wrantle Dart? Do you?”
“I see it, I see it,” Harmon answered. He was slumped back in his command chair, his hair ruffled from running his fingers through it, relieved his fleet had taken no real damage, other than shields and some damaged fighters. “If I’d known the stupid Nullgrip had a couple of those, I’d have brought more than one task force. I didn’t know.”
“Captain Opawn and her task force succeeded in accomplishing the mission, Harmon,” Jayneen said. “She’s very good, and she’s surrounded by strong officers and crews.”
“I know,” admitted Harmon, “and she asked that we not interfere so she could use this as an experience-gaining mission. She knew she could handle the ships they faced with ease.” He sighed and said, “Let me call her.”
“Desert Wind, Salvage Title,” Harmon said, engaging his comms with a video call.
“Harmon,” answered Mayla. He could see her on the small screen located on the arm of his seat. There were still wisps of smoke floating in her bridge. “We’re ok. No fatalities in the task force, and damage we can repair. Evelyn is fine, too. I knew you’d want to know that right away.”
“Mayla,” Harmon said, still shaken up. “I’m sorry, if I’d known they had those ship killers, I’d have come in with the whole fleet. Squat!”
“There was no way you could have known,” Mayla assured him. “My task force needed to know we can handle ourselves. The last two training exercises back home seemed to deflate them a little. We didn’t fare well on the first, and the second was a tie. We needed to do this mission on our own.”
“Well, about those,” Harmon admitted. “The other task forces had a little more intel than you did.’
“I knew it!” accused Captain Opawn. “You let them cheat…or cheated for them.”
“I had to!” Harmon laughed. “Jayneen said they had less than a ten percent chance of outmaneuvering you and winning. You’re too good.”
“Well, if Jayneen said that, I guess it’s ok,” Mayla said after a moment’s thought. “I knew something seemed off. I’m glad it helped build their morale and let them gain valuable training.”
“That’s why I’m promoting you to rear admiral; I cheated and let them beat you, and you’re concerned with their morale and training. I’m sure as frost glad you came with us to Salvage System.”
“Me, too,” she admitted, smiling sweetly. “Oh, I’m still going to tell your fiancé what you did to our task force in training.”
“I gotta go,” Harmon said abruptly and signed off.
Harmon looked over at Clip and Zerith. Clip raised both hands, looked down as if to stop anything coming at him, and turned to walk away.
“Yep, you are in deep ssquat my friend,” Zerith said. He polished a spotted apple on his coveralls, took a bite, and walked off the bridge, following Clip.
Harmon could hear Big Jon hissing in laughter behind him near the lift.
“Laugh it up back there,” Harmon said, propping his head in his hand on the arm of his seat. “Just for that, you’re going with me for all the politic talk on Nazrooth, Sergeant Major.”
* * * * *
Chapter Three
Six Months Later
Bolts’ Headquarters
Banktown, Planet Salvage
The commander of the Bolts sipped his coffee, careful not to burn his tongue. Captain Nathan Brink winced because it was still too hot. He leaned over to the side of his desk so he could see the private sitting at the duty desk out front through his office door. From her hairstyle he could tell it was Private First Class Zarmlon.
Her white hair was cut into a three-inch mohawk, showing most of the light purple skin on her head and a couple of dangling earrings. Only those in initial training had to follow the ‘buzz cut and no jewelry’ rules unless they were in the field training. He should’ve known he’d have to wait longer to drink it. When she pulled duty, she always brought it straight to him as soon as it finished. Always in a hurry, those Pikith. She sure picked up that trait from that half.
Zarmlon was half Human and half Pikith. Not many races in the galaxy could interbreed with humans successfully; the Pikith were one of the few that did, but unlike full Pikith, she had the prominent feature of human outer ears, allowing her to wear earrings. The short hair the Pikith females wore, as opposed to the long-haired males, helped to show them off.
He couldn’t fault her, because bringing the commander a cup of coffee in the morning wasn’t part of her assigned duties, so he was grateful. He realized she did it because it was ready, and when it was ready it was time to drink it. Right then. Now. Go! Go! Go! A trait of the Pikith race that was a double-edged sword. One had to be mindful of it when leading them.
A Pikith was not one to assign to scouting duties, but if you were looking for troops to lead a charge, they were the first to volunteer. There was a reason most of them in the Bolts were tankers. They wanted to be out front from the onset of a battle, and they fit well in the tanks due to their natural slenderness and light mass. Their body type was similar to that of a human teenager, with surprising sinewy strength. The PFC sitting at the desk had the muscles of a strong human woman, while still maintaining a trim physique.
With a sigh, he set his cup aside to cool and looked back at the screen on his desk. He was trying to figure out the best way to reorganize his unit. They’d taken loses during the last mission on Barlat, but after seven months, they were now well beyond the numbers they’d left the system with last time. Including the prior service enlistments and the troops fresh from initial training, the Bolts now consisted of three hundred and eighty members.
Outside, where Nate wished he was, it was a beautiful day on Salvage, the newly colonized world in the Salvage System. Well, not really new. It was being recolonized after more than twenty-two hundred years. The sentient race, the Grithelaons, who had originally inhabited the planet, had died out from a cause of their own making when a biological weapon accident had ended them and caused the Bith to close the planet’s gate.
System President and Commander of the System’s Forces Harmon Tomeral, with his associates and the help of the first actual artificial intelligence in the galaxy, had managed to
get the gate reopened. The colony had many advantages over a traditional new colony, with a space port and several other critical pieces already in place, and it was growing at an astonishing pace, allowing his unit to do the same.
Nate changed a couple of things around on the screen, added an item, leaned back, and smiled. Two battalions of one hundred and seventy-five each, not including the thirty members of the Peace Monitors, a small unit of law enforcement and investigation troops. There was also the specialty platoon. What he was looking at was not quite a regiment-sized element. At the rate it was growing, though it soon would be.
“Sir?” PFC Zarmlon asked from the doorway, getting his attention.
Nate looked up and noticed right away something was wrong. She had a puzzled look on her face and was actually standing still. She glanced back over her shoulder to the front door and looked back at him, hesitant to say anything else.
“What’s wrong, PFC?” he asked, standing.
“Sir,” she said in one breathless, fast-paced explanation, “First Sergeant is not here. He’s out with the trainees, but you have someone here to see you. Not someone, something. I mean not a thing, but someone. Several someones. I would have invited them in, but I don’t think they can fit through the doorway, and it’s big enough for Specialist Laytrook, and she’s a Yalteen. I mean, she’s not the biggest Yalteen in the unit, but she’s pretty good sized. We hang out together downtown and pick up guys. Sometimes, not all the time. We don’t date the guys in the Monitor Platoon; we never know if they’re on duty or out for a good time. They’re kinda sneaky that way. Ummmm, forget I said all that. What do you want me to do?”
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