Sunlord

by Ronan Frost

  "Sound the retreat!" cried Lockhart. "We've no chance!"

  The Scoipre pulled aside as the massive force blinked from jumpspace. Bright light flashed super-nova white for a second as the Hartrias warships shot past, rapidly decelerating, blurred light and lines pulling into focus. Watching through the external cameras Lockhart was stunned at the incredible potential firepower he saw amassed before them.

  "I want all scanners onto that fleet," he ordered. "Update the computer with superstructure data, spatial positioning, firepower; everything you can get. Inform General McMillan and the Federation computer systems."

  The small scout ship was blasting away obliquely from the enemy now, seemingly ignored by the Hartrias. But it was obvious that within minutes the massive fleet would trap the Berana and its two support ships.

  "Turn her around."

  Lockhart's voice was quiet and grim, barely a mutter. Subman Mitchell blinked. "I'm sorry sir?"

  The Captain snapped his head up, grey eyes like flint. "I said turn us around - now! We've got to buy the Berana some time and distract that fleet."

  "Sir!?" Mitchell was dumbfounded. "We narrowly survived a head-on assault upon a hostile planet, and you want to take us into heavy enemy fire again! Is this some sort of death wish?"

  "Negative, astrogator. Set a vector across their path, close enough to penetrate their electoshielding."

  Tech Officer Waterly was already working on the new orders as the course was set into the computer. Loriena glanced sideways at the Captain.

  "I'm not sure your ploy will work. Surely they have sensors that will be able to identify this as merely a scout."

  Lockhart shook his head. "They will not be certain. They cannot afford to risk a craft penetrating their outer shielding for the risk it may carry missiles. No, they will focus upon us."

  "If we survive," grumbled Mitchell.

  Becoming more infuriated at the subman's attitude by the minute Lockhart at last exploded. "Do your duties, astrogator, or retire to the docking bay were I can flush you out into space! Subversion will not be tolerated."

  Mitchell slammed his lightpen down upon the narrow space of the console. "No sir! I must protest against this insanity before we are all killed."

  "Security." Lockhart motioned to his right with a slight nod as the two stoutly constructed droids stepped forward. "Take subman Mitchell to his cabin and retain him there."

  The two red and white coloured droids stepped forward, camera visual units deepset into the vents of their angular heads. Mitchell stumbled back, his chair slamming backwards and crashing to the ground like an overturned turtle. The security droids moved quickly and efficiently, their three digits upon each hand clasping like the jaws of an exotic deepwater fish. Bucking and kicking futilely beneath this steel grasp Mitchell was forcibly hauled from the bridge, the door closing behind with a pneumatic hiss that immediately silenced his protests.

  The remaining crew watched the spectacle from the corners of their eye, not daring to take their attention away from their instruments. Loriena pushed a finger to her throbbing temple as she fought to monitor three different radio channels.

  "Sir," she said, Mitchell forgotten already before the approaching danger. "The Berana's engine room has been hit and the Lanceman has been critically damaged. The crew are ejecting but already she's burning up."

  "Does the General know of this threat from the rear?"

  Loriena nodded. "The computer systems have acknowledged, but I think McMillan has enough on his plate at the moment."

  Lockhart's brows furrowed. "Proceed with current course. We've got to give the Berana enough time to pull out into a defensive position."

  The Scoipre fell faster, the grey mass on the vidiscreens growing as they approached.

  "Keep us low and tight," whispered Lockhart harshly, his knuckles clenched tight upon the arms of the control chair. "Low and fast."

  Engines burning maximum thrust now the Scoipre was accelerating beyond the safety limits set by Federation technicians. Already Lockhart could hear a protesting, high pitched whine ringing in his ears as the acceleration compensators overloaded. It was then that all those aboard felt the terrible invisible hand of inertia push against their chests and face, forcing the cushions of the seats bowing aside under their weight.

  Individual details of the Hartrias fleet became rapidly clearer. Lockhart could see markings and his mind subconsciously classified the classes of ships. It seemed all available craft had been gathered into this roughly spherically shaped armada, the brick-like ramships leading the way, flanked by a deadly wall of missile gunboats. And the Scoipre was plummeting right into the midst of them!

  In those few moments Lockhart was suddenly sure the computer had made a calculation error, for it seemed they were heading directly for the five-hundred metre tall side of a battleship, their own size suddenly belittled by the space-going giants. The scout craft started to rock beneath his feet, the g-forces becoming worse now, as they punctured the Hartrias' outer electro-shielding.

  Lockhart knew enemy fire would begin within moments.

  Three thousand and eighty kilometres away General McMillan struggled to remain upright as he grasped for the arm of his chair, the Berana tilting sideways and shaking the crew. His thick grey brows knotted as his attention caught upon the overhead radar.

  "Whit in the name of the Eighth system aye they doing?" he cursed.

  His aide ignored the incoming damaging reports for the moment. "It's the Scoipre, sir. It's Captain reported they were trying to hold off the Hartrias."

  "Brave bastards," McMillan muttered, "but they dinnae have a chance. Flight Coordinator, order oor Minnow squadrons into sector five."

  "You're pulling them out?" asked his aide.

  "We do it noo before we're pulverised!" He glanced to a side console, scanning the screen of digits in an instant. Something cold touched deep inside his heart and he knew that the Lanceman was totally destroyed - all communication lines severed. It would be lucky if a handful of crew had survived the fireball. "Keep the Ki to oor starboard," he said, referring to the remaining flanking warship. "As soon as the Minnows huv blasted a way clear we get oot of here."

  In the control pit operators worked rapidly and with forced military calmness at keyboards and others spoke into small microphones, relaying the orders through the massive bank of computer and mechanical systems.

  "All communication with the Scoipre has been lost," came the word from the control pit.

  "The scout has brought us little more than a few seconds," grumbled McMillan. He knew without doubt that the Scoipre's crew has suffered a quick death at the hands of the mighty armada.

  The General's aide stood at his superior's side, eyes narrowing. "Sir, that Hartrias warship is not advancing."

  McMillan paused, rediverting his attention back to the Urisa and the Rplore. In a few moments his seasoned mind had picked an irregularity from the picture he saw.

  "Yiv picked it," he grumbled. "Something's nae right about the way their just sitting thar." McMillan savagely combed his beard with two fingers in a subconscious motion. "Wan of them is damaged - it has tae be!"

  "Reports did indicate the class five warship did not launch any Sova's or fire any shots."

  "Then thae's it!" cried McMillan. He punched a button on the arm of the control chair. "Engine-master - cancel thae last order. I want us back intae combat." McMillan then spun to the flight coordinator, motioning sharply. "Get all available resources ontae that class five warship - she's without shields - it's just ae facade. If we ken get close enough we'll sink that bitch with ae single shot. Flight-Coordinator; are the SX craft ready?"

  "Updated orders," said Robinson. "Sector forty two, speed one-eighty."

  Richael cursed beneath the plastic face plate of his flight helmet. "I thought we were retreating!"

  "Negative. New commands-" Robinson stopped as a click over their headphones heralded a communication from the flight leader.

&nbs
p; "Flightman five kappa, this is squadron five leader," came the gruff announcement. "I want your ship at my starboard side. Advance to my bearing."

  "Yessir," snapped Richael, hardly having time to comprehend the fact that he had been promoted to the Flight Leader's side. Then realisation struck home: most of the squadron had been destroyed. Surviving by pure luck he was now one of the remaining few needed to flank the leader's side.

  Seconds later Flight Leader Schiever's craft bobbed into their portside view display. His craft was blackened with laser fire, the block markings denoting it of Federation origin practically burned away. But the battered Minnow still handled agilely as Schiever fired a quick forward thrust and spun his craft in a perfectly executed barrel-roll.

  "Wingmen five kappa and epsilon, stick close to me. I've just received a scrambled message from the Berana - we're launching another offensive."

  Richael pushed the joystick away from him as his craft spun to follow after the Flight Leader. Keeping a tight arc they pulled around the hull of the Berana curving above like the curved surface of a planet. From this distance Richael could make out the flushed sensors, cannons and a multitude of other smooth bulges in the side of the massive warship, shadows cast long and sharp in the pristine of space. Then they flew through the terminator line caused by the Berana and were suddenly in the light, the blazing sun small with distance but still shedding considerable illumination.

  "Time to put that flight academy training into practice, boys." Flight Leader Schiever's voice crackled a little with static as they passed through the electro-shielding of the Berana. "I've just punched a garbled computer sequence through to you."

  Richael flexed sweating fingers beneath the fabric of his flight gloves. "Navigator, what are the orders?"

  Robinson studied his computer console as the message was decoded. "It looks like some sort of spearhead stealth attack," he reported "We're to escort a team of Black Ships."

  His attention almost entirely devoted to controlling the ship Richael only nodded absently. He knew Black Ships was the name given to newly designed and newly constructed space craft, kept under a shroud of secrecy accessed only by those of high rank.

  "The Skeeters new design," continued Robinson. "SX-10 Bladeships. Looks like some sort of bomber."

  "I see them," muttered Richael. They were moving fast now, so fast the side of the Berana was a blur of detail, and pulling away from this web of shadows were three gloss black shapes dwarfed by the backdrop of stars. The Bladeships accelerated quickly and merged paths with the three Minnows.

  "Accelerate to point oh three," commanded Schiever over the intercom.

  "Course set and accelerating," obeyed Richael. Silently, like darting sharks sniffing prey, Sova ships converged. Richael swept a glance over the instrument panel, checking everything, every instrument and dial, knowing any second they would hit enemy fire.

  It came suddenly. An invisible net of crossfire rocked his small craft, shields falling instantly into red. The brief respite whilst under the Berana's protection was shattered as Sova-1 fighters plummeted from all three dimensions.

  Instinctively Richael accelerated, positioning himself into a tighter formation. Plasma streams grazed his starboard jets, the instrument panel lighting up like a Christmas tree.

  "Holy shit!" Seconds later most of the red flashing lights blinked off as auto repair systems rerouted power. Richael pushed left on the joystick, relieved that the Minnow responded to his pressure. But there was no time for an exhalation of relief. Richael only saw metallic flashes before a wall of Hartrias fighters swarmed about.

  Panic bored through his mind like lunatic screaming down hospital corridors, flooding his senses with adrenalin. Richael threw open the safety plate and ran a gloved finger down the row of buttons underneath. Six guided torpedoes erupted from the underside of the Minnow, curving away in separate directions leaving twisted flame streaks in their wake. Suddenly it had seemed the cockpit of Minnow had been turned upside down and the hull of the Bladeships loomed on a collision course.

  Richael had no time to pull out of the spin. Not thinking twice he broke radio silence, bawling at the top of his lungs. "Incoming! Dive right dive right!"

  The Minnow still spinning crazily he fell through the three Bladeships just as they slid sideways. There was a bare metre separating ships as Richael's Minnow plummeted through.

  His mind still spinning Richael managed to apply reverse thrust, pulling the Minnow out of its spin, firing his lasers as he pulled around. Buffeted wildly he barely managed to avoid a blanket of enemy fire as it shot by underneath.

  "Dammit to hell, wingman - cover me!"

  Glancing at fore radar Richael saw Flight Leader Schiever had been separated from the three Bladeships, leaving them open. Richael accelerated upwards at a rate that pushed his jaw painfully into the back of his head, realising he had no more torpedoes in store. Grimly narrowing the focus of the laser he prepared to cut into the swarm of Sova-1's that had enclosed Schiever.

  His knife-edge thin beam sliced through the lower wing of the nearest Sova, severing metal. Instants later a cloud of oxygen billowed out, the wreck sparking blue before the fireball engulfed it. Oblivious to the smokeless explosion Richael dived through the spinning wreckage, carving another Hartrias fighter in twain. A plasma blast burnt off his top scanners, the upper bank of screens blinking into blackness. Richael immediately compensated, instead using his manoeuvring jets to spin the craft one eighty degrees, waiting until the last millisecond to fire the main thruster engine.

  The Sova-1 caught under the roaring fission engine was scorched black, paint peeling away from bodywork like melting putty. Caught at an angle it spun, all sensors and instrumentation burned away in an instant, leaving the Hartrias pilot inside blind and directionless.

  Richael spun again, laser still firing: just in time to see Flight Leader Schiever's craft explode in ugly mess of jagged flame.

  "Schiever!"

  His hoarse cry went unheeded. A flare of strong emotions flushing his face Richael spun hard, savagely wrenching the controls. He found targets in quick succession, suddenly unheeding of safety and caution.

  Then he saw the Bladeships and he dropped towards them, knowing that they were close to the Hartrias mothership now. The planet loomed huge below them, a great blue sphere of light and solidarity.

  Richael flew like he had never done before - his life placed on a razor's edge were the slightest mistake would mean death. He no longer cared now. His forehead ached with concentration, knowing that it was not courage that drove him this far but deep rooted fear. Here death was instants away.

  Then, parting away like a curtain, a gap in the wall of Sovas revealed two Hartrias motherships. The Federation ships blasted with maximum acceleration, the three Bladeships and a single Minnow penetrating the outer defences.

  Blue flame streaked out slowly from the Bladeships as homing missiles were fired. Momentarily stunned Richael counted at least thirty missiles blasting away.

  "Bloody hell," he grunted. "That goddamn Hartrias ship is going to feel that."

  There was no response from his navigator as Richael was aware of a sudden silence. "Robinson - get me an update."

  Still headphones remained silent in his ears. "Robinson? Where the - " Richael stopped as the video screen to his left displayed an image of the rear of the Minnow. It was through stunned eyes that Richael saw the entire nav panel had blackened, Robinson's ashy corpse propped erect inside the tight flight suit. It took long seconds for the fact to register itself in Richael's head, his pulse thumping heavily in his temple like primitive drums.

  The fire came so quick he had no time for conscious thought. He turned his eyes to the fore viewport in time to see the flash of dull yellow laser fire milliseconds before it carved the Minnow like a gutted fish. The Hartrias mothership, half of its bulk billowing yellow and black explosion as missiles hit home, fired last desperate shots.

  Richael pulled his hands away fro
m the flight controls as electricity surged through the metal, filling the cabin with an incredible stench. White hot pain ripped through Richael's mind like fish hooks as flames took ahold and shock waves rippled through his seat. The auto eject blasted, flinging the burning cockpit away as the Minnow burst into pieces.

  Richael screamed and held his hands before his eyes, fingers splayed, knowing he could not do anything yet trying desperately to push away those terrible flames.

  He remembered nothing more.

  * * *

  Staring directly into the burning lights, his feet rooted to the ground, Shaun watched as the craft descended lower, a thrumming beat shaking the air. Landing pads extended fluidly and swung into contact with the swamp as the craft's weight settled upon the thick mud.

  Shaun made no attempts at camouflage, knowing infra-red sensors would surely be upon him. He could only hope that there were no external cannons trained likewise. The dazzling landing lights pivoted downwards as the whale-shaped space craft nestled between shadowy tree limbs, exhaust jets steaming. When Shaun stumbled forward from his shelter he held the minigun in a mud encrusted grasp behind his back, the other arm shadowing his eyes as afterimages blotted his vision. Although knowing the minigun to be a small defence ingrained self preservation instincts told him to not throw away what little advantage he may have.

  "Put down your weapon."

  Shaun hesitated, trying in vain to make out the outline of the craft as the voice boomed over the loudspeaker.

  "Who are you?" he asked, valiantly retaining his weapon.

  "A friend. Put down your weapon and step aboard before your foolishness brings a delay that will bring unwanted company."

  "The pyrons?"

  "Heat sensors are tracking a reptilian presence." The voice over the loudspeaker paused. "Your puny gun is no match for this ship, if that is what you are thinking, but I would prefer it if you discarded it before you step aboard."

  "Who said anything about stepping aboard," retorted Shaun. "You didn't answer my question."