by Mars Dorian
He laughed but it sounded more fake than printed beef flavor.
Rosco ignored it. “My mission was to initiate contact with an alien life form.”
Now Slayton’s laughter shook up the bridge. Unlike before, this one sounded real and ugly.
“Tellride, you don’t really believe that Daystellar is giving you this multi-billion credit ship and equipment to travel to the butt of the solar system so you can get cozy with some creepy shit-critters.”
Rosco licked the inside of his top teeth. The Sunblood captain knew something that he didn’t, and it was scratching his ego. Maybe he was bluffing, but something told Rosco the man wasn’t.
“Tell you what. I’ll let you return to your Daystellar overlord and you let me board this planet with my amigos. I’m not gonna ashen your aliens as long as they don’t interfere,” Slayton said.
“Interfere with what?”
“Captain, what are you doing?” Ming said from her left pod.
He answered with a whisper and covered his mouth. “Believe me; this is how you deal with cartel crackers.”
Rosco swapped focus to the avatar on the screen.
“Slayton, I downed your distillery and I’ll rip your freighter a new one. This is a planet with a sentient species and thus off-limits to pirates. You already lost an expensive vessel. Think about the money.”
Slayton sucked the spit from between his teeth. “Oh, the privateer playing the moralizer now?”
“I’m making you a fair offer. We can all get out of this alive.”
Slayton coughed up a tired chuckle. “No wonder the government shills fired you. You’re downright delusional.”
“I’ve called for backup. ICED and Daystellar forces have been notified of your trespassing.”
Now Slayton cracked up so hard he had to wipe the spit from his lips.
“Pffft, with which signal? This entire planet and its orbit are jammed thanks to our satellite array. You couldn’t even send a fart to your friends.”
Rosco regretted his last word choice. The Sunblood captain was too clever to fall for an empty threat, and now he steered around the conversation.
“Tellride. You smashed up my asteroid pretty good and got fired for it. Call it quits with me, and you get to live another sol on your red soil of shit. This game’s too big for your VR-abused brain. Real space fight comes with no 'do-overs'.”
He forced an artificial pause into the moment. “Go or it’s game over.”
He began to count down.
“You have twenty seconds of thinking time left.”
73
Reality check.
Rosco had pulverized the Sunblood’s Burrn facility and even though Slayton could escape, the merc faced something far worse than death: cartel punishment. It was no coincidence that he was in charge of invading the exoplanet, Rosco thought. It was his penalization for all the Burrn he’d lost to Rosco’s Titan torpedoes. And judging from the many new scars on Slayton’s already battered face, it was clear the cartel still practiced torture to lecture its members. Anger and Burrn abuse made for a violent revenge cocktail.
Slayton was in for the terror.
Tellride was going to give it to him. “I don’t know what your plan for this planet is, Slayton, but even if you set up base, ICED will eventually arrive with a fleet big enough to fry your freighter. Come on now, for the sake of this conversation, pretend to be reasonable. Do you really think colonial forces will let you invade a planet with sentient beings? Not even your burrned brain can be that rotten,” Rosco said.
Slayton’s grimace squeezed, which made his face uglier—if that was even possible.
“The colonials can suck moon dick. First come, first served.” Slayton paused. “Ten seconds left. Just for once, Rosco, blow your ego and do the right thing. It’s not about you anymore.”
His hologram winked at Brakemoto and bowed with a sharp grin. “A pleasure to meet you, miss. Did you know you were signing up for a mission led by a bona fide sociopath?”
She shielded his vision from the avatar.
“Five seconds,” Slayton said with eyes back on Rosco, “choose life or limbo.”
Rosco smiled.
“I choose victory.”
74
Slayton’s scratchy voice abused the comm. “It was a beautiful ship. Daystellar’s as morally corrupt as any megacorp, but they sure know how to build ‘em pretty ladies.”
He saluted goodbye to the Vanguard crew.
“Oh well. With our yield, we’ll buy our own.”
He vanished into the pixel void.
“Connection cut,” eQuip said.
“Thanks for the clarification,” Rosco said.
Ming spoke up, “What in the world were you two talking about?”
“Basically showing off our dick sizes. There’s no reasoning with cartel mercs. Pre-talk is a means to intimidate and taunt the enemy.”
“Left rear hull weapon lock-on detected. Enemy freighter is launching a missile,” reported eQuip.
“Only one? I’m disappointed.”
“Estimated time of impact: T-minus five minutes, forty-two seconds.”
“They’re still testing the waters. Even a Burrner like Slayton must be suspicious of a single prototype taunting his military freighter,” Rosco said.
“Impact in T-minus four minutes, thirty-two seconds.”
“Can the point-defense handle their caliber?”
“Yes. Intercept probability: ninety-eight point four percent”
“Good enough.”
Rosco’s voice sounded steady, but every one of his body cells brimmed with energy. The old adage from ICED still rang true—underestimate your enemy and you seal your demise. The Sunbleeders didn’t become of the biggest cartels in the solar system by chance. Cutting business expertise and fast-hitting military measures crowned their status.
Rosco breathed on red alert. “Doctor Brakemoto, tell our alien allies to stay on standby. I don’t want to spoil this moment. We just have this one chance.”
With her left hand ready on the datapad, Ming nodded. Rosco hoped with every fiber of his being that his new allies wouldn’t wait until the very last second. The tactical screen showed the single incoming torpedo. The second the point-defense laser targeted the projectile, it burst apart.
“That was fast,” Rosco said with a smug smile.
eQuip sounded less confident. “I didn’t even launch the laser, sir.”
The enemy projectile split apart into a hundred little missiles swarming toward the Vanguard. Slayton’s acid voice boomed through the comm.
“Looks like our little torpedo made love during the journey. Welcome its offspring.”
Orbital armor-piercing swarm missile; the Daystellar crew’s panic upped several notches.
Rosco hissed. “Take ‘em down.”
Four point-defense cannons activated on each side of the Vanguard’s rear and produced invisible high-frequency beams that ablated the surface of the incoming projectiles. eQuip updated the takedown rate.
“Ten percent down. Twelve point five percent. Fourteen point five percent. Sixteen percent.”
The grid of the tactical screen showed the decreasing distance of the remaining splitter-projectiles.
“Twenty-two percent down. Remaining projectiles impact in T-minus fifty-five seconds.”
Of course it wasn’t that easy. The merc’s biggest advantage was their illegal customization. War with the cartels was like Schrödinger’s box—you never knew what you were going to get.
“Evasive maneuvers.”
Yeltzin closed his eyes and disappeared into meditative nirvana. Ming sweated over her datapad and waited for the captain’s signal.
“Should I give the sign?”
“No, not yet. We’re still too far away from the freighter.”
He addressed his cybernetic XO. “eQuip, activate the 75mm rapid projectile emitters and shoot those little suckers when they enter close range.”
“Trackers smackers,” th
e engineer said out of nowhere. “Little rockets want to make love to our hull.”
Rosco shrugged. “Well, then this is going a one-sided romance.”
The Vanguard’s turrets fired into the void. The main screen depicted the laser beams of the point-defense as green bars while the shells of the turrets glowed as little dots on the tactical screen. The ship’s auto-targeting was stellar; eQuip steered the ship while supervising engineering and tactical. “Sixty-eight percent down. Impact in T-minus fifteen seconds”
“Give me more g,” Rosco said.
“The planet’s gravity is pulling us in, sir. We need to three times the energy feed to escape its slipstream.”
“Then feed it.”
“Eighty-five percent down.”
Rosco pressed his body into his seat and braced himself for a direct hit.
“Ninety-three point five percent down. Impact imminent.”
A space-quake shook up the ship. The Vanguard’s adaptive interior design counter-balanced the vibrations but Rosco could feel them creeping through his skin-tight gear.
“Five percent went through. Starboard surface layer penetration. Second hull coating remains stable. Comm array long-distance antenna broken. Overall damage: eight point seven percent. Auxiliary repair activated,” eQuip commented.
Damn.
A warning shot that almost extinguished their light. Slayton wasn’t screwing around.
“Did that tickle you? It ain’t Christmas at the colonies back home, but given our long-term friendship, I’m gonna make an exception. The next gifts will blow you away.”
Rosco ignored the Sunblood captain’s throwaway one-liners.
“XO.”
eQuip beeped. “The freighter’s speed remains steady. It is releasing three E-class harpies.”
“Is that all, Slayton? Where’s the rest of your armada?” He faked a face palm. “Oh yeah, that’s right—we took them down on the ground.”
Slayton sounded peeved for the first time. “I’m gonna wipe that smile from the shipwreck you call face and wrap it ‘round your crew’s organs before I sell ‘em on the black-market.”
“How do you know I’m smiling if the comm’s audio only?”
“ICED shills are all alike. Doesn’t matter that you’re a privateer now. That stench of government devotion still reeks through your gear.”
“Sir, maybe it’s smart to not tease our opponent.” Lieutenant Yeltzin answered from his seat.
Ming agreed. “He’s right. Picking a fight with a ship of that size is suicidal.”
Rosco listened patiently to his crew's comments. “Trust me on this one.”
Ming wanted to add something but Rosco leapfrogged her. “Doctor, these are criminals who wouldn’t find the word integrity with a tracking device. Besides, an aggravated commander is a careless one.”
“And a dangerous one,” Ming said with falling intonation.
Rosco trained his eyes on the tactical screen and the Vanguard’s position on it.
eQuip’s defensive routine took charge. She chose an arching route parallel to the incoming military freighter and increased the g's. The strong gravitational forces of the exoplanet were still pulling at the Vanguard—exactly the way it was supposed to.
“Ships incoming in T-minus twenty-eight seconds. The freighter is launching multiple homing rockets from its main pods,” the Newtype said.
Both Ming and Yeltzin looked up at their captain like kids waiting for their guardian to do the right thing. He closed his eyes and tuned out the turmoil. Remembered the words that M once told him when he was facing adversaries during the training.
Remember, Rosco, the pressure makes the pilot.
75
Even many thousands of kilometers away, the exoplanet’s gravity still pulled at the Vanguard, which meant the ship needed an excessive amount of energy just to fight the gravitational forces. eQuip offered to chose a trajectory, but Rosco said no. The fusion reactor was being pushed to the max. It was all part of the plan.
“Enemy fighters launching homing missiles.” eQuip updated.
“Clusters?”
“Hullbreakers. “
Rosco observed the tactical screen. Red dots spew from the triangles depicting the fighters, ten in total, rushing at the Vanguard with relentless thrust.
“Fifty rockets and counting.”
The tactical screen drowned in trajectories and projectile markers. The swarm of hull-breaking explosives targeted the most important components of the Vanguard.
“eQuip, accelerate to three g's and find me a trajectory that’s parallel to the freighter’s main thrusters. Doctor, when the distance decreases to approximately five thousand kilometers, give the go ahead to our alien allies. The trick won’t fool them for long so we have to make every second count.”
“Understood,” both women said.
Rosco crossed fingers in his mind. He wasn’t playing with fire anymore; he was playing hellfire on a first generational leaky nuclear reactor. But despite the Vanguard’s state-of-the-art tech, it was no match for a military capital freighter in terms of firepower. Rosco’s wits were his only effective weapon against the merc menace. He flicked another glance at the tactical screen. The onslaught of rockets decreased their distance to the Vanguard to two thousand kilometers. “eQuip, where’s the point-defense?”
“Firing on all fronts, sir, but there are too many rockets. Targeting is overwhelmed.”
“Twenty-two percent destroyed,” she said.
Way too slow.
“Incoming.”
The arm and leg-rests of Rosco’s seat wrapped around his limbs—a sign that the ship expected a direct hit. The bridge’s architecture swallowed the vibrations, but the 3D avatar of the Vanguard, shown on his side display, flickered in orange and red. Bad news.
eQuip announced the damage report. “Signal for Alpha and Gamma turrets lost. Hull penetration on the rear side: seventeen point five percent. Comm array out of commission.”
Damn. Massive damage on every level. One third of the ship’s weapon systems were down already, and they hadn’t even fired one shell against the true target. Ming grimaced; even Yeltzin seemed to forget to tell his face about the teachings from the verse.
Didn’t matter; only one weapon system did—Rosco’s mind.
Ming’s voice pushed. “Sir, do you want me to send the signal?”
“Not yet, we have to get closer to that ship.”
“With all due respect, sir, we won’t survive entering its close range.”
“We have to. Distance to the freighter, eQuip?”
“Approximately eight thousand, three hundred and twenty-one kilometers.”
“We need to get closer.”
“Incoming missile launch.”
The fighters fired a new volley of fire-and-forget missiles. They launched everything they carried.
Yeltzin shifted around his pod-seat. “Sir, we need to take care of these fighters before the next batch penetrates our hulls.”
“Eighty-twenty rule, Lieutenant.”
“What?”
“Twenty percent give you eighty percent of the result. Old management rule from Earth, works wonders for tactical combat.”
“Sir, I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Then trust me on this one.”
Yeltzin nodded with a disturbed glance. It looked to Rosco like the lyrics of the verse weren’t helping him out in a pressure situation like this. The hostile projectiles ripped through the void. Rosco watched the route eQuip had calculated—a half-circle leading to the parallel vector of the Slayton’s main thrusters at the rear. Rosco wiped his hands and became one with the moment when the enemy captain’s call flickered on the top-right corner of the main screen.
“Incoming hail,” the Newtype said to him.
“Ignore it, eQuip. The primary focus of the point-defense is the hull-breaker missiles. Only when they’re taken out must you focus on the swarm, do you understand?”
�
�Yes, sir.”
“Sir, that’s suicide,” Ming said.
Rosco wished she’d shut up. “No, it’s crisis management. The swarm missiles are too weak to penetrate our hulls. Their only reason is distract our point defense so the hull breakers can slip through. Old, but useful tactic.”
She kept quiet and turned to her side display.
“Be ready.”
“Missile impact in T-minus fifty-three seconds. Twenty-one percent down.” eQuip reported again.
If more than thirty percent came through, the crew was going to have a date with space debris.
“Distance to the freighter?”
“Four thousand, two hundred and eleven kilometers.”
Perfect.
“Doctor, give the signal.”
Before Rosco finished the sentence, Ming sent her pre-drawn hieroglyphic sentence to the alien allies. The captain hoped they delivered on their part of the promise, because if they didn’t, it was time to say goodbye.
76
There was nothing on the screen except enemy projectiles yelling, death, death to the Vanguard crew.
Rosco’s fear mixed with rage, a cocktail that burned through his lungs and shot out in the form of fluent cursing. “Where are my illusions, Doctor?”
“I don’t know, sir, I’ve sent the signal. It’s up to them.”
Shouldn’t be, but that was the deal.
The remaining point-defense sentries of the Vanguard unleashed their high-frequency beams, but they were overwhelmed with the onslaught of missiles.
“Thirty-two point four percent of enemy projectiles down. Remnant impact in T-minus twenty-two seconds.”
Come on, Rosco mumbled, give me double and we’ll survive this barrage.
The Sunblood military freighter increased in size on the main screen. The Vanguard’s approach vector neared the right coordinates, but without the alien help, this was going to end in a kamikaze attack. The frustration flooded Rosco’s veins and blurted out his mouth. “Where the fuck are my illusions?”
Ming’s face flushed with quiet desperation. She mouthed a silent I’m so sorry, sir, but Rosco was tired of excuses.
It was a trick.
Those damn snake critters on the ground sacrificed his crew and ship to the Sunblood syndicate.