“Oh shit,” said Roadie, clicking off his laser pointer. “Okay, we’re gonna wrap this up real quick: don’t kill yourselves. Now get to your ships, come on!”
The pilots and crew scattered, running to their birds. Guano stood up, and in doing so, realized she was still wearing her hospital gown. “Oh boy,” she said, grinning at Roadie. “Hey, Daddy, can I go shoot people too? Please please please.”
His expression was a sour, annoyed mask as the flight crews bustled all around him. “Hell no. You’re not even dressed properly, you dumb shit.”
“I can change,” she said. “Nobody else is wearing their spacesuits. It won’t be any slower.”
“No.” Roadie jabbed his finger towards the door. “Sickbay. Now.”
Guano whined loudly, clapping her hands together. “C’mon—”
“Actually,” said Doctor Brooks, moving to stand beside her, “I think it would be really helpful to my work to observe her in action.”
There was a brief moment where Roadie and Doctor Brooks locked eyes, and she could see that there was a struggle between the two of them. One which ended with Roadie dipping his head ever so slightly.
“Right,” he said. “You’re the doctor.” Roadie looked to her, then flicked his eyes towards the hanger. “Get. I’ll make sure Flatline is waiting for you.” He held up his finger. “But he’s flying this time.”
“What?” Guano scowled. “No way. He’s a gunner. I’m a pilot. It’s … perverse.”
Roadie’s voice rose once more and that vein began to pulse. “He’s a fully qualified stick and if you don’t fucking take this offer that I’m giving you on a goddamn silver platter, you’re never stepping foot in a fighter again. Cross my heart and hope you die.”
“Take what you can get,” said Doctor Brooks, reassuringly. “I’ll observe your vitals from here.”
She pursed her lips sourly, but he was right. Any time in space was worth it. “You put the buddy in buddy spike, buddy,” said Guano to Roadie, and then hurried off to change back into a borrowed flight suit.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rogue Planet Serendipity, Low Orbit
USS Midway
Bridge
Mattis watched as the bridge crew leapt into action, the weeks of lethargy and the push of a rushed relaunch and rapid recall from shore leave thrust away in a moment.
“Sir,” said Lynch. “Gun crews are standing by for engagement orders. The Alert Five fighters are away.”
“Bring up the contact,” he said. “I want to see it.”
The main monitor lit up. There, hanging in space, was the future-human ship, its blunt, blocky nose pointed straight toward … nothing. A dark hole in space. Not a black hole—although to the untrained eye it might well have been, for a rogue planet had no sun to light it, nothing but the faint illumination of the stars, making the planet’s surface visible only by the segment of space that it swallowed.
A red beam, glowing and angry, pulsed as it pumped energy toward the surface of this strange, dark world, lighting up a patch of frozen rock, a finger of light pointing to the world.
Whatever they were firing on, the fact that they wanted to do it was reason enough to stop them. “All guns, engage that ship,” he said. “Have the alert fighters form a screen and engage anything they launch; weapons free. I say again, they are authorized to engage at their discretion.”
Lynch relayed his commands. A shudder ran through the ship as her guns spoke, the vibrations of the guns shimmying through her. Bright white streaks, angry hornets leaping across the stars, drifted toward the ship.
It was nearly a minute away from them, but if it was concerned about the incoming barrage, it didn’t seem to act like it. The ship didn’t maneuver, continuing to fire its weapon at the surface.
The Midway’s guns spoke again, and then again, sending three waves of shells toward the invader.
“Prosecuting the target,” said Lynch. “We have three barrages coming in … and the contact doesn’t seem to be dodging in any way.”
“Works for me,” said Mattis, trying to project an aura of strength and confidence, but that fact nagged at him too. Why weren’t they dodging? “What’s on that world?” he asked, pointing to the monitor. “What do we know about it?”
“Not much,” said Lynch. “It’s a rogue planet, and sensors aren’t picking up any significant electromagnetic. Running a topographical analysis…” he paused a moment. “Dammit. It’s Serendipity.”
“I think you mean coincidence,” said Mattis, focused on the thin streaks as they drew closer and closer to the enemy ship.
“No—the world. It’s a gambling hub called Serendipity. Basically a series of casinos all linked to a fusion reactor, lit by floodlights and warmed by heating systems, and not much else.”
Good information but not useful at the moment. On the main monitor, the bright streaks that were the first wave of the Midway’s gunfire screamed towards their target, veering slightly to the left.
Veering? Were the dumb explosive shells changing course? No. The target must be maneuvering. Mattis smiled a little bit to himself. “I guess they noticed us,” he said. “Draw us closer and have the subsequent barrages adjust for their heading changes.”
Lynch, in a very uncharacteristic move for him, stammered slightly as he responded. “S-sir, the … the target ship isn’t moving.”
Was he really going insane? Mattis watched, incredulously, as the rounds continued to drift, veering off course. They sailed silently past the enemy ship, and out into the black.
The second wave did the same.
“Analysis,” said Mattis, his fists balling by his sides. “What the hell is wrong with our guns?”
“It’s not our guns,” said Spectre. Since the battle had begun Mattis had forgotten he was here. “The future-human vessel is using its gravimetric drive to repulse the rounds as they approach, in lieu of moving.”
There was something in the man’s voice which suggested that—although he wasn’t entirely aware of this, maybe—he might have suspected this was a possibility. “Okay,” said Mattis, his patience wearing thinner than an atom. “Tell me how we defeat it.”
Spectre shrugged helplessly. “I have not been able to determine a weakness in gravitational lensing; if one exists, I do not know of it.”
Well that was helpful as a bag of shit. “Then what good are you?” Mattis spat, and then reigned in his temper. It would not solve anything. “Okay … okay. Get the fighters in there. We’ll soften them up using our strike craft.”
“Aye aye,” said Lynch. “Alert Five craft moving in, designated Wing Alpha. Other wings to follow.”
Mattis watched the swarm of his own fighters fly through space toward the future-human ship, and he wondered what other tricks this new vessel might have up its sleeve.
And how long the ten thousand or so gamblers, casino workers, and other people on the cold surface of Serendipity had to live.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rogue Planet Serendipity, Low Orbit
USS Midway
Hangar Bay
Guano was the last to arrive at the hangar bay despite sprinting out of the ready room still tugging on her boot. Luckily she remembered to clip it on before stepping into the depressurized area.
The hangar bay doors were already open. Scrambles were always tough; procedure was disregarded, everyone got sloppy, and the main goal in her mind was getting to her ship as fast as humanly possible.
As she ran up to her ship—her movement was more of an awkward waddle given her bulky flight suit—she saw two figures standing by. One had FLATLINE written on their helmet, so no prizes who that was, but the other had their back turned.
“Hey,” said Guano, touching her radio as her voice wouldn’t carry in the vacuum of space. “C’mon. You, get to your ship.”
The pilot turned around. “This is my ship,” said Frost. Roadie’s gunner.
“You’re gunning for Flatline?” she asked, incredulo
usly. No way the CAG’s gunner would seat up with her gunner … that would be one hell of a demotion. It didn’t make sense.
“No, of course not!” said Frost, her chirpy and ever-happy tone grating on her nerves. “Of course not. I’m flying for him.”
Guano glared at Flatline who simply lowered the reflective visor on his helmet.
“Wait,” she said, eyes widening as the truth dawned. “You … you replaced me? With a gunner?”
Flatline said nothing, pulled open one of the panels on the side of her ship and pretended, extremely unconvincingly, to be working on some last minute adjustment.
“Hey,” said Frost, putting her hands on her hips. “I’m a pilot too, you know! I’m trained to do this.”
“You’re trained to fly in an emergency,” said Guano, shaking her head and hoping the gesture could be seen through the thick suit. “Get your own useless bastard. This one’s mine. My ship. My gunner.”
Frost frowned and checked a display mounted on her wrist. “It says you’re not on the flight roster.”
“Because Flatline’s flying and I’m gunning for him,” she said, even saying the words making her feel dirty. “Just … just go away. We got this one.”
“Okay,” said Frost, raising up her hands and taking a step away. “Jeez, Guano … what the hell’s gotten into you?”
Never, ever, did Guano think she would be happy to be getting into the gunner’s seat. She swung her leg up over the ladder and practically ran up it to the secondary cockpit.
At first sight of it her smile faded. The thing was cramped. Even smaller than her regular cockpit … and almost bereft of controls. It had just a simple set of screens for instruments, and a twin-handled control column fitted with a smaller screen for the gun. She’d done her training in it, as expected, but she never realized it was so small.
Still. Her pride would simply not accept that gunners had anything other than an easy life. She slide into the cramped space, wiggling around to get comfortable.
“Okay,” said Flatline, “this … this is a bit weird.”
“Yeah,” said Guano, reaching around and thumping him on the back of the helmet. “That’s why you were being so weird to me, avoiding visiting me in hospital, and—and generally being such a weirdo.” She knew that a combat prelaunch sequence was not the place to have this argument, but dammit, she was angry. “You could have just told me, you know.”
Flatline squirmed in his—or rather, her—seat, the pilot’s seat. “Let’s talk about this later, okay?” he said, a faint whine in his voice. “C’mon. We’re missing all the action.”
With palpable reluctance, Guano focused on the prelaunch sequence. The ship lifted off, away from the deck, hovering for a moment before zipping out of the open hangar bay.
“Woah,” said Guano as Flatline jerked the stick around. “Calm down there, buddy. You’re all over the place.”
“This is harder than it looks,” said Flatline, steering the nose of the ship toward the hostile future-human ship.
“Funny that,” said Guano, completely unable to keep the venom out of her voice. “It’s almost like I told you so about four hundred billion zillion times: our job is really, really hard.”
He didn’t answer, seemingly focusing on flying the ship. My ship! She had to keep reminding herself. Fortunately, Flatline seemed to get it pretty quickly … and soon they were racing to join the last of the fighters who were well on their way toward the hostile contact.
Guano unlocked the console for the gun and swung the turret around experimentally. She aligned it to the rear of the ship, pointing the barrels into empty space. Now, how to remove the safety….
The gun went off, chattering as it sent a few rounds flying into space. She almost jumped out of her skin.
“Hey, you remembered to check it before you had to use it.” Flatline smiled proudly at her over his shoulder. “Nice work.”
Guano realized her fingers had been hovering over the firing button. Apparently the twin triggers were extremely sensitive. Carefully, and certain she was white as a ghost, she pulled her fingers back. “Yeah,” she said with as much strength as she could manage. “No worries. We’re all good here.”
“A’right,” said Flatline, and she felt the ship accelerate. “We’re almost back in formation.”
Guano let him do the flying and checked her instruments. The ship’s computer displayed blue diamonds all around her, friendly fighters, and the big red square of the hostile capital ship. She swung the turret toward it, and as the gun got closer, the square got narrower. Since the ship wasn’t moving, all she had to do was point and shoot.
And summon the battle fugue.
She took a deep breath and watched as the first wave of fighters, the Alert Five ships, swarmed around the future-human vessel, and she tried to bring herself into the same mental state she had been in previously. To bring out the calm, the precision, the perfection.
C’mon brain, don’t fail me now…
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Rogue Planet Serendipity, Low Orbit
USS Midway
Bridge
The group of fighters, lead by the Alert Five craft, swarmed over the future-human ship. It continued, almost defiantly, to fire its weapon, pulsing as it pumped its beam, crackling with energy, into target planet. The ships were visible only by their navigation lights; with no star in the system, there was no ambient light at all to reveal them.
No doubt the future-humans were doing the same thing to this strange rogue world as it had done to Zenith. Mattis didn’t know why, exactly, they were attacking this planet—it couldn’t have been a test; they already knew their system worked—but he also didn’t care. If they wanted to do it, he wanted to stop it.
“Status on the strike craft?” he asked, watching the swarm shoot at the future-human ship, the streaks of their missiles and flashes of their guns highly visible against the dark backdrop of the unlit world.
“Alpha Wing reports that their weapons are largely ineffective against the target,” said Lynch, in a tone which suggested that this was not an entirely unexpected outcome. “Their guns are struggling to penetrate the thick hull, and their missiles … well. Strike craft are typically outfitted to fight other fighters. They’re not carrying torpedoes.”
Fair enough. Truthfully, Mattis had hoped they would be something of a distraction, if nothing else, but the future-humans seemed fixated on their work.
As he watched, the planet’s surface rippled. If they were going to do something, they would have to do it soon.
Think, Mattis, think … there’s gotta be some weakness. Some way we can force them to pay attention to us.
“Gravity is a weak force,” said Mattis, more thinking out loud than actually giving an order. “Those shells took an awful long time to turn. So let’s not give them that time.” A plan of action solidified in his head and he gave it voice. “Yeah. Okay. Lynch, let’s get in nice and close. I want to see the whites of their eyes. Blast that skunk from point blank range.”
“That … would work,” said Spectre, tilting his head curiously. That man always seemed to just lurk in the background like some kind of cat, forgotten.
“As Commander Modi might say,” said Lynch, “I concur. But the risks of them aiming that thing at us—”
“Do it,” said Mattis to Lynch.
“Aye aye, sir,” said Lynch, and worked at his console. The image of the hostile ship grew bigger in the main monitor and the image resolution sharpened as it came into focus.
“Pull the fighters back,” said Mattis, taking a deep breath. “And ready torpedoes. We’re going to nuke that son of a bitch.”
Chapter Thirty
Rogue Planet Serendipity, Low Orbit
Deshawn “Flatline” Wiley’s Warbird
Guano tried desperately to bring out the battle focus. Or fugue. Or whatever it was. She lined up her gunner’s crosshairs on an incoming ship and squeezed the trigger. The gunner’s station sounded so mu
ch louder from the back; vibrations from the ship’s cannons shook her little seat, but the rounds flew true, splashing off a future-human fighter, seemingly to minimal effect.
“Nice shooting,” said Flatline, jerking their ship all over space. The fighter she’d hit disappeared into the battle, and she ignored it.
“Keep it steady,” said Guano, lining up on a new target. It flew beneath them before she could fire.
“Since when have you ever kept it steady?” Flatline pulled the ship up, and Guano squeezed off a few more shots at a new target, missing it completely. “You’re always so rough.”
Guano scowled and held down the trigger, sending a spray of fire across space, white-hot tracers streaking toward the enemy. The stream of cannon fire blasted one of the future-human ships to pieces and it burst, silently, in the void of space.
A flash of red light half blinded her. A future-human ship darted over her head, strafing them from above. The ship rocked as Flatline tried to avoid the incoming fire.
An alarm shrieked in her ears. “Damn, we’re hit,” said Flatline, a measurable spike of panic rising in his voice.
“I can fucking see that,” said Guano, swinging the turret around wildly. Right near the base, a dozen ominous black holes leaked white gas into space, the outer rings glowing red hot. The closest was only a half-inch away from the turret’s canopy. “They nearly got me.”
A signal chirped in her ears. “All wings, priority alert. This is Roadie. Withdraw to the Midway.”
“Confirmed,” said Flatline, practically squeaking the words. He swung the ship’s nose back toward their home base. “This is Flatline, RTB.”
Damn. Guano watched as the battle retreated away. All she had to show for it was a single score and a busted ship, their fighter belching smoke as it leaked away its atmosphere reserves.
The Last Dawn: Book 3 of The Last War Series Page 13