“You’ve been disenfranchised, Captain. Orders no longer come from you or any other officers aboard.” Yacoby’s fingers tightened as he strode closer. “Remove your weapon and lay it on the floor. Carefully.”
“I won’t.”
“Do as I say or watch someone else die. The intention isn’t to indiscriminately kill Confederacy personnel, but don’t mistake my reluctance for a lack of resolve. I’ll do whatever is required.”
“Are you actually delusional enough to believe the crew of our frigate will follow your commands?”
“They’ll follow any orders that come from the bridge. I only need to claim you were wounded and no longer able to fulfill your duty.” Yacoby brought his other hand higher to steady the one holding his weapon and elevated the barrel until its muzzle aimed for Genevieve’s face. “Whether you’re around to witness the change in leadership is your choice entirely. Now lose your sidearm.”
“You goddamn coward.” Genevieve lowered one hand and unbuckled her holster, removing the handgun with deliberate care and releasing its grip while in a half-crouch. “Satisfied, you bastard?”
“Kick it away.”
She whacked one boot into the weapon and knocked it skittering across the floor.
“All guns, reorient on the Sentinel and fire at will,” he demanded.
“Gunnery, you will not obey this madman’s orders.”
Yacoby stabbed his firearm toward the weapons personnel as spittle slathered his chin. “Open fire on the Elathan flagship or I’ll begin killing you one by one.”
Genevieve saw the fear crippling her bridge crew, their faces flush and sheathed in sweat, their panic-stricken minds incapable of responding. They willingly faced death during a pitched battle, yet the sight of an active and potentially unbalanced shooter standing on the deck was an altogether different scenario.
She sidestepped closer to Yacoby, staring into his hateful eyes though keeping his marine accomplice in her peripheral vision. “Keep that damn thing pointed at me. There is only one way you’re getting what you want, and that’s through me. Intimidate my people and I’ll give you nothing.”
“Then maybe I should shoot you where you stand. That’ll end the resistance on this bridge.”
“How can you do this, Noam? You’re a damn good officer, a loyal officer. This isn’t you.”
“You’ve known me for five months. That doesn’t give you special insight into my mentality or justify criticizing my allegiances.”
“How much is Triaxus paying to ensure your mutiny? What was the agreed-upon price for you to spit in the face of your oaths and betray your comrades?”
“You think I’m doing this for money? That I’d destroy everything I’ve ever known for wealth? This is about the Confederacy! You’ve commanded us to fight alongside independent worlds and turn our guns on Authority warships. I’m the one preventing our colleagues from dying.”
“Your murdered those marines in cold blood.”
“Destroying Confederacy vessels is any different? You can be complicit in hundreds of deaths but somehow keep your hands clean because you didn’t personally fire the shots?”
Genevieve thrust one hand toward the viewport and fleets beyond. “Those are rogue Confederacy warships. Eliminating them as a threat to peace is our sworn duty. We don’t make the expedient or comfortable choice in tense situations, and we never evade what’s necessary. If you can’t understand that, then you have no business wearing a Confederacy uniform.”
“I have no business? You were learning how to read while I fought in the Aeolus Expansion Conflict. You were still in grade school when I watched friends and comrades asphyxiate or burn to death fighting in yet one more unnecessary struggle. What do you know about military service and loss?”
“I know you’re dishonoring their sacrifice with this insanity. They died for the Confederacy and its citizens, but now you’re spitting in the face of everything they stood for.” Genevieve narrowed her eyes, making certain the unwavering resolve she felt reflected on her face. “This is my mission. This is my ship. And this is my crew you’re threatening. Stand down.”
“I’m sorry, Genevieve. Truly, I am.” Yacoby clenched his jaw beneath a finicky twitch seizing one eye. “If you won’t submit, you need to die.”
Genevieve caught movement from the corner of her eye when a crewmember from gunnery lunged over a console and charged the traitorous marine standing guard. Footfalls alerted Yacoby, who turned and leveled his firearm as the brave, unarmed crewman hammered the marine and collapsed among thrashing limbs.
Her mind a blur of subconscious instinct, Genevieve dived across the deck and stretched with one hand for her discarded weapon. Fingers enclosed around cool metal and she raised the sidearm at Yacoby, tightening her grip on the trigger. His own weapon aimed for Genevieve even before she bounded higher into a crouch and found herself staring down his waiting muzzle.
Cracking thunderclaps erupted in the confined bridge when each gun fired.
*
Clara dived to starboard and rolled into an ascent above a Delbaethi corvette swarming with Triaxus starfighters. Plasma from her wing-mounted cannons clipped one hostile interceptor and Clara snapped into a steep descent when her console warned of a targeting lock against her.
Leveling the Stiletto brought her behind a flight of Confederacy starfighters registering as older model Scimitar interceptors. Clara held one forefinger on the trigger, placed an enemy within her crosshairs and squeezed.
Nothing happened. She released and depressed the trigger again, though knew this was a premier starfighter maintained in pristine condition. Yet her weapons refused to function and no alert or explanation flashed across her visor.
“I can’t fire!”
SAFETY REGULATIONS DO NOT PERMIT A CONFEDERACY STARFIGHTER FROM USING WEAPONS AGAINST OTHER CONFEDERACY VESSELS.
She broke away from her pursuit and approached a cluster of Elathan warships. “I’m getting mighty irritated at all these frigging Authority safety features.”
Clara felt no surprise to learn Confederacy starfighters faced tighter regulations and procedures than their Elathan counterparts, even if the knowledge did frustrate and annoy.
She flew over the spherical hull of an Elathan corvette and dived once beyond a narrow wing jutting toward the stern. Plasma lashed to either side of her cockpit in blinding sheets of sapphire, forcing Clara into a corkscrewing ascent that took her beneath a crippled frigate glowing from hull breaches. A warning indicator ignited on one console and displayed a hostile Confederacy Stiletto pursuing her starfighter.
“They aren’t following the damn protocols!” she barked.
THIS VESSEL HAS LIKELY BEEN CLASSIFIED AS A TRAITOR AND IS PERMISSIBLE TO DESTROY.
“Can you do the same for them?”
I LACK THE COMMAND AUTHORIZATION. FRIEND/FOE IDENTIFICATION IS DECIDED BY CAPITAL SHIP COMPUTERS AND TRANSMITTED TO THE FLEET.
“Those Confederacy warships are firing on each other.”
CAPTAINS ABOARD CAPITAL SHIPS CAN OVERRIDE THE SECURITY PROTOCOLS, BUT STARFIGHTERS ATTACHED TO A FLEET OR GARRISON FACILITY ARE ENTIRELY RELIANT ON TARGETING INFORMATION PROVIDED BY THE FLAGSHIP’S COMBAT INFORMATION CENTER.
She wrenched to port and rolled beyond the forward-mounted command bridge on an Elathan frigate. “I need you to scan the battle for Triaxus signatures and transponders.”
SPECIFICS ARE REQUIRED FOR AN ACCURATE SEARCH.
“You’re looking for Berserker-class starfighters broadcasting as Whirlwind, Sandstorm and Tempest squadrons.”
YOU ARE FAMILIAR WITH THESE SQUADRONS?
“They murdered my friends. Now I’m sending as many to a fiery death as I can.”
CONNECTING TO ELATHAN FLAGSHIP SENTINEL HAS YIELDED PARTIAL RESULTS. SANDSTORM AND TEMPEST SQUADRONS ARE ENGAGED WITH ELATHAN UNITS OPPOSITE THE TRIAXUS NEBULA-CLASS BATTLECRUISER WRAITH. WHIRLWIND SQUADRON IS NOT PRESENT.
“Two squadrons is enough for now. Transfer their identi
ties and locations to my targeting computer and mark those as priority.”
Schematics appeared on one terminal, each one representing a starfighter in either squadron. Minimal information was available, though known location and distance were provided.
“Change my transponder registry and broadcast the update to all Triaxus starfighter squadrons.”
WHAT DO YOU WISH TO BE KNOWN AS?
“Corsair Nine. I want each one to realize who’s hunting them the moment before they die.”
Clara deviated away from the relative safety afforded by Elathan warships and rocketed toward the Triaxus cruiser Wraith and its starfighter escorts.
An unknown communication channel opened in the cockpit, filling her helmet with a cultured woman’s dulcet voice. “This is Twin Moons Squadron Leader to friendly Confederacy Stiletto. Am I speaking to Flight Lieutenant Clara Aylett?”
“I read you, Twin Moons Leader. This is her.”
“I heard there was an Elathan pilot traipsing around in a borrowed Authority interceptor. My instructions are to make contact and offer you support as needed.”
“Appreciate the assistance,” Clara replied.
“Don’t mention it. You’re a combat veteran with the 51st Tactical Wing?”
“Fifteen years in Starfighter Command.”
“Then it’s damn good to have you flying out here alongside us. Twin Moons Squadron was only inaugurated seven months ago. Aside from me and our Flight Lieutenants, your years of experience practically matches the entire squadron roster combined.”
“Sounds as though you were pressed into service against Delbaeth too early.”
“Didn’t have much choice. We lost Corsair Squadron entirely and Brazen was badly mauled on a mission in Toraigh. Veteran units are spread thin defending our colonies, facilities and construction yards. Command wasn’t long from putting training squadrons into the field.”
“I’ll do what I can to help your pilots, though you’d be wise to keep them at a distance from enemy warships.”
“I’ll take the suggestion under advisement, but I’m bound to our orders for better or worse. Speaking of orders, form up. You’ve been assigned to me. I’m transmitting Twin Moons protocols and secure frequencies to your starfighter.”
“Negative, Leader. My mission is the Triaxus squadrons.”
“Ours too. You want to destroy Triaxus folk, we’re the ones doing it.”
“Understood. Connecting my flight systems to your computer and exchanging data.”
“Welcome aboard. Twin Moons Six lost his wingmate to a stray cannon blast. You’ve just volunteered for the role.”
“I’m not here to shepherd anyone else.”
“And I’m not requesting. You’re still Elathan military, meaning you fall under my command. Link up with Six and keep the lad alive.”
Clara gritted her teeth and uttered an inaudible groan under her breath. “Acknowledged, Leader.”
“Your temporary call-sign will be Twin Moons Thirteen. Until the end of this engagement you’ll retain your rank of Flight Lieutenant.”
Clara veered to port and descended in relation to a marker on her canopy indicating the current position of Twin Moons Six. She accelerated through anti-missile fire and hurtled beyond an Elathan gunboat targeting one Confederacy warship, until green crosshairs appeared on her canopy and zeroed in on the starfighter she sought.
“Twin Moons Six, this is Flight Lieutenant Aylett serving as Twin Moons Thirteen and your temporary wingmate. Break off from your present pursuit and fall into line behind me.”
“I copy, Lieutenant.”
She felt an ache of sorrow lance through her heart as he spoke. His voice sounded young, still tinged with nerves and prone to cracking. The kid might not even be old enough to legally buy alcohol, yet his government demanded he fly in a warzone against experienced adversaries with frightening piloting abilities. Too irresponsible to be given control over his own body, old enough to die for his planet far from home. The discrepancy would be laughably comedic were it not tragic for all involved.
Clara checked schematics on the sensor screen and was pleased to see her impromptu wingmate slip into position behind her starfighter.
“Maintain your trailing distance on my starboard side, Six,” she instructed. “No deviations unless I order you to break. Your responsibility is to monitor my starfighter and guard against rear attacks.”
“I understand, Thirteen.”
“You’re clear to fire on hostiles if you have the opportunity, but not if the choice conflicts with your primary objective.”
Clara accelerated toward the Wraith as the Triaxus battlecruiser engaged an equivalent Quasar-class Elathan warship. Superheated slugs of molten metal fired in titanic broadsides, a punishing duel between the opposing juggernauts conducted with brute force rather than strategy. Shielding collapsed and hull plates detonated into warped, melted shards suffused with crackling electricity from ruined systems.
Starfighter squadrons based on each cruiser warred in the vicinity, diving beneath the mighty warships and crisscrossing over their surfaces. Clara surveyed her targeting computer and aimed for a cloud of starfighters consisting of Elathan Marauders and Berserkers from Tempest Squadron. She plunged into the chaotic formation and discharged plasma at hostile starfighters crossing her path.
Clara rolled into a steep dive, skirting the Elathan cruiser’s hull as massive cannon emplacements erupted to either side, and emerged tailing a Triaxus starfighter. The Berserker slipped beneath the cruiser when Clara riddled the vicinity with plasma and she snapped her Stiletto in pursuit. Her target veered between projecting communication and sensor arrays, forcing Clara to fire in tentative bursts lest she accidentally damage a vital component on the warship. She clenched her jaw and exhaled a frustrated hiss, holding her fingers on the trigger and anticipating her adversary’s flight path.
Reacting on blind instinct, Clara thrust her starfighter into a lateral roll to starboard and clenched her fist, propelling plasma on a straight trajectory as the Berserker swerved around one antenna. Her shot struck the Triaxus starfighter’s fuselage behind its cockpit and penetrated in an explosive detonation.
“Damn that was a nice shot, Lieutenant,” uttered Twin Moons Six.
“No unnecessary comments. Focus on your task and don’t waste breath.”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
Clara climbed past the Quasar cruiser’s banks of glowing engines, fired an opportunistic shot at the closest Triaxus starfighter and broke to port when another Berserker caught her in a targeting lock.
“Hostiles on our stern,” Six declared.
“I see them. Transfer discretionary power to rear kinetic buffers and maintain velocity. Watch for crossfire from converging hostile starfighters.”
Clara whirled upward and around the Elathan cruiser’s bridge, thrusting her starfighter amid a barrage of batteries. Their pursuers fell away, not daring to enter a killing field targeting all Triaxus vessels. A friendly Marauder exploded in a hail of shrapnel ahead and Clara surged through the dissipating fireball with her cannons spitting plasma. The shots punctured the tri-engine of a Triaxus starfighter with a spurt of sputtering flames and smoke, wrenching the Berserker into a violent spiral that crashed against the Quasar’s hull.
An unnerved voice laboring to remain calm broke the silence over their squadron frequency. “This is Twin Moons Eleven. I’ve lost my wingmate and have two hostiles on my tail. I can’t lose them.”
Clara accessed her tactical display and located the assailed pilot. “Eleven, this is Thirteen acknowledging. We’re closest to your position and altering course to intercept. Come to heading six-one-three and increase acceleration.”
“Copy that, Thirteen. On approach.”
“Redistribute kinetic buffers, Six,” Clara instructed, “and stay close to me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Clara descended beneath the mammoth capital ships and glimpsed Twin Moons Eleven weaving a despe
rate dance as Triaxus starfighters bombarded the fleeing Marauder. She oriented her weapons and snapped off a long-range shot, forcing one hostile to cease firing and slew sideward. Clara tightened her jaw as the distance closed and unleashed a frenzy of azure needles, blowing holes through the hull until its fuselage was torn apart. Plasma streaked outward from Twin Moons Six and vaporized the second adversary into glinting atoms. Expanding gas clouds circled with scorched fragments faded away to blackness as their starfighters arced through and looped around.
“That was too damn close,” exclaimed the shaken pilot. “Thanks, Thirteen. You too, Six.”
“Be careful out there, Eleven. Thirteen out.” Clara banked to starboard and softened her tone, eyeing the status indicator representing her wingmate. “That was fine piloting, Six.”
His voice remained subdued, though held a trace of pride. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“We’re heading back into the fray—”
A communication from the Squadron Leader came over their encrypted channel. “Twin Moons Thirteen, abandon pursuit and come about in Crestfallen Formation.”
“Negative, Leader,” responded Clara. “Sandstorm and Tempest Squadrons remain an effective fighting force and are targeting our warships.”
“That’s a direct order, Lieutenant. Targeting computers report critical damage was inflicted on the Wraith’s command tower. We’re the spear tip that’ll break the cruiser. You wanted to inflict suffering on Triaxus; this is your opening.”
“I copy, Leader. Forming on your trajectory.”
“What secondary armaments does your fancy Stiletto have?”
“Ten Vanguard baryonic missiles.”
“Arm the warheads and link to dual-fire.”
“Understood, Leader.”
Clara followed commands and reoriented with the surviving starfighters of Twin Moons squadron, slipping into position to the rear of Flight Three and descending until she held a clear line of sight beyond the leading ships. The squadron held formation and arced to starboard, leveling their bow-mounted weaponry at the Triaxus Nebula-class battlecruiser Wraith. A darkened gray surface decorated with alternating black and gold stripes awaited.
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