She glanced at the steam-covered window, pressed her hand against it and felt the dampness from her own perspiration on the glass. She wiped away newly formed droplets, creating a streak across the glass pane that allowed her to see outside.
Then she saw it. Her eyes narrowed, rage swelling inside of her as she raised her middle finger; displaying it to an enemy she'd never seen before and never known about. “Do it! End it, already! Let it blaze, bastard!”
A lone, triangular-shaped craft hovered just above her. A burst of blue air shot from its underbelly, better positioning the craft to properly end its target—Crystal. The inner portion of each wing opened as black tubes protruded out by an inch. Bursts of red, yellowish flame erupted from the tubes, and the clang of the Mech's metal rattled through Crystal’s ears. She knew she was about to experience what Hendricks had, so she closed her eyes, braced for the inevitable.
∞
The wings of the admiral's Thunderbird were tucked back like a diving eagle. An ion thruster was mounted on the tip of the craft's tail, with two ion cannons built into each wing. The aircraft was perched like a bird on the flight deck. When the admiral had arrived on deck, the scene around him was chaotic. He left his hover car on the runway as people ran everywhere, panic stricken. He raced over to several lockers stacked against one of the runway walls, opened the one designated Admiral and grabbed his gear. Two minutes later he was wearing his flight suit, helmet in hand. He ran back to his Thunderbird, ascended the ladder and then eased himself into the cockpit.
His skin tingled as a sudden chill struck at his core. The admiral started to feel what the rest of the crew and civilians obviously felt—fear, chaos, despair—and the more he watched the disarray, the more he felt he had to demonstrate the confidence that an admiral was supposed to possess. But, his confidence was leaking out of him. Then he got angry, feeling ill-prepared and nauseous.
His jaw clenched as he glanced around at the flight deck pandemonium. People were running into each other, grabbing things and then dropping them on the ground, not knowing what to do with the items anyway. Some were barking orders, but fear consumed them all, as if they had just been thrown into a pot of boiling water and doing everything they could to jump out as quickly as they had gone in.
Shaking his head, he slammed his fist against the rounded cockpit window. Hurry up, people! Get off the damn deck!
No one was familiar with any of this, and as more and more shudders and quakes occurred, the crazier everyone got. Admiral Byrd's hands started to shake as he stared at them. He had failed, somehow. He had failed his fleet, his people. Even though he hadn't the faintest idea as to who was attacking them, he still blamed himself for the unknown. He should have been on his starship, as any Fleet Admiral would have been, commanding the defense of his people. Instead, he was waiting here to be blown to smithereens along with everyone else.
People—get off the deck! If they would just clear the deck he could launch and get to his ship where he could lead a defense.
Turning off his com link, he covered his mouth with a hand and looked down. He felt like firing up the Thunderbird and gunning it out of there, but couldn't. He'd kill his own people, plus the bay door was closed.
He looked up to stare at the large door at the end of the ramp, impatiently waiting for it to open.
“Admiral,” said Eden's voice over the com link, knocking him back to the moment. “I'll be on your nine. You'll arrive safe and sound on Brigantia.”
Starship Brigantia—his starship—his home. Why couldn't they teleport people from one place to another the way they did with food items and other small objects? Why hadn't science figured that out yet? He could be on Brigantia if they'd just smarten up and be the geniuses they claimed to be.
Blame. The admiral shook his head. He was succumbing to the pressure, blaming unnecessary things for his current circumstances.
The admiral glanced to one side; Eden was in her Thunderbird, also waiting to take off. He gave her the thumbs up and turned on his com link. “Thanks, kid.” He cleared his throat. “Flight Control 21, this is Admiral Byrd, do you read me?”
Static.
Open the damn bay doors! “Flight Control 21, do you read me?! We need the bay doors open.”
“Everyone's running around, Admiral,” said Eden. “They can't open the bay doors until everyone is off the flight deck.”
He pounded the glass again, knowing that Eden was making sense, although not wanting it to be true. If they opened the doors, all of the people scrambling around would be sucked into deep space. Squeezing the control stick as hard as he could, he did everything within his power to control himself from tearing everything out of the cockpit.
A crackle came over the com link and a tense voice spoke. “I'm sorry for the delay, Admiral. The flight deck is now clear. You're free to ride.” The bay doors opened and the scene outside made the Admiral's jaw slacken.
Thousands of triangular craft were zipping by, shooting yellow-reddish flames followed by bolts of laser fire blasting gouges into two of the starships that he could see in the distance. And one of them was his starship, Brigantia.
The starships were many miles away, but because of their size they looked much closer, as if he could reach out and touch them. They were as big as small cities, housing nearly ten thousand personnel in each of them. They were cigar-shaped and equipped with immense ion boosters and hyper drives built into their sides. He could see them exchanging fire with the attackers, destroying some, but missing most.
“Thrusters,” muttered the Admiral. Instantly, the Thunderbird's ion thrusters were purring like a kitten. “Lift.” The Thunderbird rose five feet off the ebb flooring, hovered in position, ready for takeoff.
He looked again at Eden, then nodded his head, pushing the throttle forward. Within seconds, he was out of Matrona and heading for what he surmised to be a heavily damaged Starship Brigantia—his baby.
“Hard right!” yelled Eden.
The admiral pulled the control stick to the right, barely missing another Thunderbird being chased by an attacker. Before the admiral could assist, the fleeing Thunderbird exploded. The enemy had struck its mark.
“That was Watney, Admiral,” said Eden.
The admiral gritted his teeth. Watney was just a boy, barely eighteen.
Eden and the admiral lit up their ion boosters, propelling them faster through space, flying in a zigzag pattern toward Brigantia. Just ten seconds into the flight, the admiral’s sensors beeped, indicating that one or more of the enemy had weapons locked on him, then unlocked, then locked again. Over and over again the sensors beeped, making him wonder if his Thunderbird's HDC was malfunctioning.
Seeing Thunderbirds and attacking craft whiz by, he quickly realized that he was moving in and out of the enemy cross-hairs, even though they weren't necessarily targeting him.
“Eden, are you still with me?” Looking at his HDC, he saw her Thunderbird signature by his side. He knew she was there, but needed to know how her mind was faring.
“I'm with you all the way, Admiral.”
Two of the attackers looped and steadied themselves in front of Eden and the admiral. At first, they were far away, or so it seemed. When the admiral discerned that they were closing in on them much faster than expected, he yelled, “Split!”
The admiral veered one way and Eden the other. The enemy flew by, giving Eden and the admiral a sudden advantage—an advantage that the admiral couldn't risk. He had to get to his command chair on Brigantia. His Thunderbird, although fast and deadly, was no place for a career admiral. He flew for fun, never thinking he'd actually be using one for combat. But then again, he never thought any of his pilots would be in real combat, either. He was only a couple of miles from his starship. He'd be there in less than fifteen seconds.
A crackle came over the com link. It was Lieutenant Brigger hailing from Brigantia. “Admiral, you are clear for landing. Bay 17, Sir.”
A beep other than the weapon's loc
k sounded in his cockpit. He ascertained that it was a warning. He was headed toward an unopened bay.
“Negative, Lieutenant, the bay is closed. Get that thing open!”
“Affirmative, Admiral. Pull up immediately, bay doors jammed, unresponsive. I repeat, pull up!”
Admiral Byrd pulled back hard, almost colliding with the massive starship. An explosion occurred just in front of him, making him wonder if some part of his ship had struck Brigantia, but he quickly realized that it was another Thunderbird. He flew through the fiery blast, causing a sudden pulse of heat within his cockpit. A moment later, everything cooled to normal.
Coming around and veering just above Brigantia, he saw an enemy ship pull around behind Eden, shooting laser-like projectiles at her.
“On your six, Eden!”
“A little late, Admiral, I see him.”
He pulled around, slipping behind the triangular craft chasing Eden. “Weapons lock.” he said. “On my mark, you break left.”
“Aye, Admiral!”
The admiral, not one easily impressed, couldn't help but notice the precision and beauty in Eden's flying. It even seemed like the attacker was impressed too, but how the admiral would know that or why he'd even think that, baffled him. This whole situation was baffling. Who were the pilots of these attacking craft? Why were they so hell bent on destroying his fleet, his home, his family?
Steadying the control stick, he trailed the attacker. Closing in, his hands started trembling and his trigger finger weakened.
“Anytime, Admiral!” interrupted Eden, feeling pressured because a fighter was shooting at her.
The admiral blinked, doing his best to clear his mind, to let the blur of the moment slip away. It didn't work. Everything worsened, and what was once a fighter in front of him became a mental fog. He cleared his throat. “On my mark.”
“I've got to get this bogey off my back, Admiral–I'm ready!”
The admiral's hands felt like putty, shaking all the more as his breathing raced, making it difficult to concentrate. Shaking his body, doing his best to get himself back in order, he finally spoke, “On three.”
The enemy ship in front of him shot several blasts at Eden, causing her to twist and pull up.
“Two.”
Admiral Byrd tightened his grip on the control stick, readying his finger on the trigger.
“One.”
Sweat dribbled down his forehead, down his eyes to the tip of his nose where it dangled.
“Break left!”
Eden's Thunderbird broke left, just as Admiral Byrd pressed the trigger. Large round ion phasers shot from his Thunderbird’s ion cannons—looking like hundreds of blue dots chasing each other into space. They missed as the attacker broke to the right.
Missing the target wasn't supposed to happen—it wasn't even an option. Stunned, he let go of the stick, accidentally hitting the top of the cockpit window with his hands. He quickly grabbed it back again. Letting go of the control stick wasn't protocol, either.
“I missed!” he yelled.
“I know, Admiral, I'm coming around!”
The admiral looked out of the cockpit window encompassing him. Destruction was everywhere. Maneuvering around it, let alone fighting in it, seemed nearly impossible, even though it was happening.
“He's on your six, Admiral. Pull up!”
What? How? As if it would help, the admiral pushed his feet into the floor board as he pulled back on the stick, looping upward. He looked straight up, seeing his attacker coming into view, and then watched as his adversary became a cloud of fire and debris. He saw Eden's Thunderbird flying through the flames and felt a sudden rush of adrenaline as an eerie sensation of the jitters grabbed hold of him. “Thank you, Eden.” His voice was breathy and shallow. Death had just knocked at his door.
Eden's voice came through the com link. “My pleasure, sir. Although, we do have another problem.”
Tell me something I don't already know, Eden. “What's the problem?”
“We have inbound...” she paused, then coughed, clearing her throat. “I don't know what those things are, but they’re entering our space, sir. Coordinates one-one-seven, just coming around planet Lumus.”
Yes, two blips, no—four blips filled the flight radar on his HDC. The admiral looked in the direction of the coordinates, his eyes straining to see through the battle explosions. Several reddish, pyramid-like ships were coming around the planet like triangular suns. “Those are massive,” he responded, his voice low and monotone.
“Admiral,” said Lieutenant Brigger. “We see several large ships coming our way. Orders, sir.”
“Are the bay doors operational?”
“Not yet, sir.”
A fireball lit up the area in front of him. He quickly changed course, looping and twisting his Thunderbird as he saw Eden down another fighter.
“How many fighters do we have out here, Brigger?” asked Admiral Byrd.
“All of them.”
All of them? From the admiral's first battle observation, he had assumed that less than half of the pilots were in flight.
He swallowed hard, zigzagging his craft toward Brigantia. “Where are they, Lieutenant? I don't see that many Thunderbirds out here!”
Brigger's voice was quiet and heavy. “Most of them gave their lives for the fleet, sir.”
The admiral bit into his lower lip, nearly pressing his upper teeth all the way through. “That's more than two thousand pilots dead?” The question hung in the air unanswered. He felt like letting go of the flight stick, allowing his Thunderbird to take him wherever it wanted to take him. If, in such a short time, the fleet had been decimated this badly, there was little chance of survival. At this rate, during the course of an hour, the last of his civilization could be wiped out of the cosmos forever.
“Bay 17 operational and open, Admiral!” shouted Brigger. “Free to land!”
“Thank Guild!” hollered Eden. “I've got your six, Admiral. Take the lead and land your bird.”
∞
I'm still on Lumus. Who painted me so lucky?
Crystal stretched her limbs. As a rush of blood rose to her face she felt her head pound, and then it started to ache. I must have blacked out. Rubbing her aching head, she felt a jostle. She felt her Mech being lifted and rested at an angle. She was hanging diagonally, with the heel of her Mech's feet touching the ground. Someone or something was holding her Mech by its shoulder. She looked up, unable to see anyone through the round ceiling of the Mech's head.
Suddenly, she was moving and her Mech's feet were dragging on the rocky ground. Someone or something was pulling her. She looked out the windshield, seeing the all too familiar red mountains that she’d learned to hate during her long tenure on the planet. Where in Star Guild's name am I being taken? Then she looked down at her Mech’s feet, seeing how shredded and battered they were, scraping across the ground and shooting sparks during the process.
“Open com link,” she muttered, but her Mech's HDC didn't respond.
She sighed, fearful of becoming, of all things, some kind of a prisoner. If this faceless enemy wanted to show itself to her, then so be it. She'd scratch its eyes out until it screamed for mercy, or screeched whatever sound it used for that.
She exhaled loudly as she cracked her knuckles and glared out the window. Angrily, she punched her leg, then squeezed her pants tightly and twisted them, unconsciously trying to tear them. She wanted to break something. “Bastards! All Bastards!” She released her pants and grabbed her auburn hair. She was going to die and she didn't even have a photon pistol to defend herself. She wanted to hide or run away, but couldn't escape the cockpit unless she wanted to have a heart attack or brain death. The gravity on this planet was five times what a human could sustain. She cursed the planet and punched the window, but then wiggled her achy fingers a moment later.
For what seemed like an hour, she stared at her Mech's feet. She just wanted freedom…or to see her boyfriend again. But, who was she kid
ding...that relationship ended six months ago.
Abruptly, a shadow loomed over the ground, a shadow she'd seen countless times—it was from the dome of the warehouse roof where the Mechs were stored and her Mech's feet suddenly went from scraping against rocky ground to sliding across the smooth surface of an ebb floor. She was definitely on her way into the warehouse.
Crystal watched the light transitioning from daytime to shadows as the large doors shut behind her. Passing through the second set of doors, she watched them shut as steam rose from the artificial change in gravity, and knew she could safely exit her suit at anytime. For a moment, she tested that idea by unstrapping her standing harnesses and reaching toward the ceiling where a button unlocked the dome of the Mech. But, she stopped her finger an inch away from it. Maybe she needed to wait it out…to first think of a plan.
A jostle and a clank sounded somewhere behind her, and by the way her Mech was now being positioned, it was being laid on its back on the warehouse floor. As soon as the steam from the gravity change cleared, she looked out the window. She was in Mech Bay, a place she had been thousands of times before.
She heard a pound against her Mech's dome. It sounded like metal on metal and she remained still. It would take very special and very strong tools to open the Mech, unless they blasted it like they had done with Hendricks, poor soul. The question then floated into her mind. Why am I still alive? Do they want to experiment on me or something? She looked around for a knife, or any kind of a blade. She squeezed her hands into fists. She was just a Mechie and they weren't authorized to carry such items while operating a Mech.
The pounding against the Mech continued. She covered her ears and closed her eyes. The sudden urge to fight drained away. She wanted anything else, even suffocation, as long as she didn't have to see who was doing the pounding. She could wait in here and waste away as her Mech's air tanks emptied. She reasoned that it would be a better death than the torture she was sure to experience. She almost laughed. She'd been watching too many holovids.
The Veil Rising Page 2