***
Wing Commander Smith's music choice had become very familiar to all of those that had graduated fighter school with him, and now those that called Floater their home berth. So it wasn't strange to hear one of his 'classics' come thumping out from his cockpit, him hmm-ing and bump-ing right along with it.
“Oh! Let's go!” He sang along, putting more power into his fighter's engines as he was pushed back into his seat.
“Steve walks warily down the street, with the brim pulled way down low. Ain't no sound but the sound of his feet, Machine guns ready to go.”
He checked his weapons, cycling his railgun, opening his internal racks and priming his external ones.
“Are you ready, hey, Are you ready for this? Are you hanging on the edge of your seat? Out of the doorway the bullets rip, To the sound of the bea.”
The targeting computer lit up the Dreadnought he was closing on. He eased up on the throttle, lining up his holographic aimer with the shield generators. He couldn't help but grin. Sometimes the timing is just perfect, he thought.
“Another one bites the dust!”
He hit the first shield generator, swinging and shooting the next, he turned backwards, firing his engines to cut his forward thrust.
“Another one bites the dust.”
Another shield generator fell prey to him as he fired a series of short sprint missiles.
“And another one gone, and another one gone.”
His thrust had caught up with his forward momentum powering him back in the direction he'd come from and on to the next target.
“Another one bites the dust Hey, I'm gonna get you, too. Another one bites the dust,”
“Smith will you shut the hell up?” Heston himself said over the radio.
“But it's a classic!” Smith said, the song still continuing in the background.
“That it might be, but keep it off my channels. Listen to it in your own brain box,” Heston said.
“Alright CAG,” Smith said, sounding rather put out.
He cut the music to external channels and kept singing to himself as his next target came into range. Missiles spewed from his internal and external blossoming int nuclear clouds. The enemy’s PDS came online, the lumbering lasers couldn't depress very well. Something that Smith was going to use to his advantage. Though it meant he had to be low. Very low, less than ten meters off of the armour of the ship. Shuttles came in, thumping against the ships, harpoons and mag clamps pulling them to the surface.
“Good luck, Commandos,” he said, opening a channel to Connolly.
“What?” Connolly said, not sounding all that pleased with Smith's call.
“Good luck there, grumpy,”
“Thanks,” Connolly grunted, his shuttle probably hitting a ship. Smith turned his MEF. The thing could turn on a pinhead, momentum wise. Well...Newton was kind of a dick in that area.
Thrusters and main engines fired as Smith shifted targets, accelerating for a Battle Cruiser.
“Got to go!”
“Ughh, but it's so boring out here.”
Smith got a warning. It seemed that some ships had anti-fighter missiles. He swerved and flickered his engines. Firing decoys and spinning, with a flick of his thumb he went from piercing rounds to explosive buckshot rounds. The scatter hit the remaining missiles on his trail. With flick of his wrist and foot pedal adjustments he was facing the right direction.
“Sure doesn't sound like it. Keep yourself alive, flyboy,” Connolly said, cutting the channel.
Smith glanced to his squad's readouts.
“Alright, Devil Dogs! Let’s go get that nice juicy Battle Cruiser,” he said, marking his intended target by looking at it and giving a combination of clicks with his mecha’s finger balls.
Green lights cascaded down the left side of his visor and he reversed his fighter, his thrusters fighting his inertia. A wing carrying onto another ship racked the Battle Carrier ahead of Smith. He turned his speed down. One could only gauge speed by the counters in space. Going a hundred thousand kilometers an hour and ten an hour could look the same. Carats came together, shield generators being marked in different colors as the fighters in Smith's squad designated the targets for their pilots. Short sprints flew from his external racks. A blinking light telling him that he was dry as he expelled the remaining weaponry in his internal racks. He raked the hull with his rail guns hitting anything that looked like a threat.
“Alright, let's get back to the barn. I'm out,” Smith said, humming along with a new song as he really put his foot down, heading to the Free Fleet which was just coming over the second enemy fleet.
Smith cast an eye to his plot as shuttles were coming down like angry bees on a bear. He kept out of their paths as he saw missiles launch for a shuttle. He threw off all his decoys, getting all but one missile that glanced the side of the shuttle. It tumbled, correcting itself sluggishly and bringing itself down on the Battle Carrier Smith had just raked with fire. More small defensive missiles were rising from the second fleet. It seemed that they didn't trust Foshunti either. There was no other reason to have those missiles other than to hit fighters and small space craft. PDS systems fired, a few getting lucky. Missiles piled into shuttles leaving a muted fireball as lasers crossed, catching anything unlucky enough to be in their path. Fighters that flew too far off the enemy ships deck were being hit now the enemy was recovering. Smith looked away, he was powerless to do anything.
“Floater deck chief, this is wing one two, coming in for R and R,” he said, his voice duller than normal.
“Come in on pod three, transmit fighter data,” the controller told him.
Smith did so, taking his flight to his assigned pod. The catapult system had been changed around to catch the fighters, slowing them, instead of shooting them out the other side. The fighters would be pulled on a conveyor into Floater, as they moved to pod one they would be hooked up to fuel and ammunition tubes. Weapons techs would take their old external racks at one point, down the line another group would add them. It was like a pit crew turned into an assembly line. It would have interested Smith usually, but now even with only two and a half minutes full reload and refuel time, he was wishing to be back out in the black making a difference.
***
“They've betrayed us!” Wasta said, getting out of his seat and snarling. The Dashuna was a natural predator, and he and his people kept to a strict code of honor which had stopped them from committing atrocities on one another. A low birth rate had made them come together against any and all intruders. They had been some of the best allies to Foshunti. Wasta was their Prime.
He was all red and purple scales, he had three lower limbs for incredible speed, and two upper arms that unlike the Kuruvians were not only strong, but able to do delicate work.
He looked like an Earth snake, his neck opening slightly in outrage and the implied challenge to his honor. His eyes which could look forwards and sideways firmly forwards.
“Sit,” Foshunti said. Wasta looked at him in askance, getting riled up.
“Maloti, tell all ships that they are to follow the orders of the Commandos. Also, get me a channel to Salchar,” Foshunti said, probably looking a lot calmer than he felt. He looked to Wasta who was still in pissed-off mode.
“He trusted us, now we have to trust him,” Foshunti said.
“We have a channel.”
Salchar's bridge was a hive of organized activity. People were talking into their implants, moving to stations their fingers and variety of limbs moving to feed their commander the information he needed, as well as keep the ship operational. Foshunti could see the level training that these people had undergone. It showed in the way that they conduct themselves.
“Captain Lord,” Salchar said, looking to Foshunti before doing something on a side screen around his chair.
“You've landed forces not only on the second fleet but my own. I was wondering why? And if this succeeds it's just Captain,” Foshunti said.
“
Very well, Captain. I'm getting myself some peace of mind. You've kept to your side thus far. Now with my Commandos aboard your ships they can make sure that nothing bites us in the ass, at least until we take the remainder of your fleet. Have your people move to their own quarters, except those that you need to carry out operations on your ship,” Salchar said.
Foshunti knew he was being tested. This man was clearly not on the side of the Syndicate, he'd given him the half of the fleet that was loyal to Lady Fairgate and he'd descended on them like a wrathful force.
I wonder where he kept those fighters hidden. Foshunti thought as he nodded.
“Very well. You have proved that you can be trusted. I will do as you say,”
“Thank you, Captain. Hopefully, sometime soon we can have a talk face to face,”
“Indeed,” Foshunti said as Salchar cut the channel.
“Maloti, make sure that the Commander's orders are carried out,” Foshunti said.
“He is boarding our ships, it is an affront to us,” Wasta said, his voice deadly.
“We have a bare trust with them. These measures will go to cement that trust. While you might be Prime on your planet remember who commands this fleet,” Foshunti said.
“For how long? He will take it from you,” Wasta said, indicating Salchar.
“So what if he does, if it will finish this war?” Foshunti said. If Salchar proved himself, he was given the authority on behalf of the Dovark people, to assist Salchar in any way possible. That included telling him about resources that not even Wasta knew about.
“It is dishonorable,” Wasta said, his neck fluttering again.
“Keep this talk up and I will take you up on that fight you wanted,” Foshunti said, his voice cold as Wasta looked to him in alarm. He looked away quickly as Foshunti's cold eyes stared into his own. Foshunti had kept the last statement so quiet that no one other than Wasta could hear.
The Dashuna had the wisdom to not comment, his anger quickly cooling.
It's more like a damn nursery than a fleet, Foshunti thought, shaking his head at the ridiculous issues he had dealt with.
***
Santos waited as the Commando techie broke into the airlock's controls, the doors opened and people piled in. The temporary electrostatic field emitters came to life, allowing the airlock to open fully without losing air. Commandos thumped down into gravity filled hallways, and for once Santos didn't hear the cries of incoming fire, or see the enemy, or here the reports of weapons fire as he crossed through the electro-static field.
Instead he got a report coming in through all bands on the internal comms of the Talhalla. He opened it in an offline portion of his operating system, just in case it was a virus. It listed all of the personnel on the ship as well as their location. Ninety percent were in their quarters, he saw and he pulled up the names of the two platoon leaders with him.
“Check and verify this list,” he ordered as he received an incoming message from another Commando group on another one of Foshunti's loyal ships.
“Sir, I've just got a message detailing all of the positions of the crew. What am I to do?”
Roughly translated to mean 'should I rip walls apart for cover'.
“Check that the list is valid. Stay alert,” Santos said as he changed to his leadership net.
“Report in if you have been given a list. If you have, check the ships as planned to confirm it. Be respectful, but if anything happens, put it down hard,” Santos said. It seemed most of his people had gotten a list by the number of green lights flashing on the left side of his helmet. He contacted Vort. In Sook was probably too busy coordinating shuttles and fighters.
“Commander Santos?”
“Vort, pass this on. Foshunti's loyal forces have given us lists of his people's positions. We're checking to see that they’re valid, I will report back when we have ships cleared. Also, can you tell me if any of the ships have jamming going on?”
Santos waited just moments.
“No. Not these ships. Only the second fleet has jammers blocking the Commandos there,” Vort said.
“Thanks.”
Santos cut the channel and opened his visor, chucking a piece of gum into his mouth and chewing. The stuff seemed to calm him as he moved through the halls behind the first group. He had the feeling he wasn't going to run into any issues. Still, they checked every corner, quickly moving to the bridge that was buried deep in Talhalla's systems. He felt the need to rush, to clear the ship and post his people in secured and vital positions. He knew that Bok Soo was definitely not having such an easy time.
Santos checked with his commanders again. None of them were having issues, and there was still no jamming, which showed him something.
“Slow and steady Commandos. We rush this and we won't be any use to Bok Soo,” he said as he saw his own people speeding up and taking more risks.
***
“Incoming!” The Commando in front of Bok Soo said as plasma scorched where they had been.
Bok Soo twirled his plasma shotguns, racking a round with their lever action. He was on one of the second Fleet’s Dreadnoughts and moving was hell. He had a full blueprint of the corridors, but he had no idea what was in the walls before he ordered some techies to open them up. They had run into environmental systems, optical wire bundles and a plasma conduit. Thankfully, safety systems had come online. Unfortunately, three Commandos had died as a result. His people were hacking stations to get Intel, but it was slow going and they were still largely bogged down.
He shifted next to the wall from which the Syndicate forces were firing, putting his gun around the side, putting rounds into his enemy at point-blank range.
His gun clicked empty, he reloaded by reflex and ran for the other side of the corridor.
“You two!” He pointed to a beader crew. “You hold it, you fire and help them,” Bok Soo said as the team got close to the wall he had come from. They braced and fired the beader. They could only fire in short bursts or be pushed backwards.
“Now, move it, Commandos!” Bok Soo said as his people used the covering fire to cross the corridor.
Taking a ship meant taking vital positions faster than the enemy could reinforce them. He checked his plasma shot guns. They were his favorite damn toy. He had got them from a Commando turned weapon smith on Parnmal. He tapped the battle axe that rested across his back.
“You better be sending some good ole fashioned luck this way Henry,” he said to himself, hearing shooting as the Commandos smashed into another enemy group.
Nearly at the friggin engineering, he sighed, chewing on his gum as he looked at his display. The Syndicate jammers were crap, but there was still enough of the damned things that they were making communicating through the ship an issue. Outside the ships was impossible. A Commando got winged as they turned a corner, but his buddy jumped to the other side, grabbing him and hauling him out of the line of fire. A Chaleelian by his armour, mostly the elongated helmet for their snout, fired at where the rounds had come from.
“Grenades?” he asked over the close area radio.
“Fuck it, it's a Dreadnought. She can take it. None in engineering, though. And no one tells Resilient or Eddie I said a god damn thing!” he warned, sure that got a few unseen grins. Plasma grenades went off and as the Chaleelian swung the corner, a Sarenmenti and Kuruvian followed to assist.
“Clear to the door. We're at engineering, need a techie,” the Chaleelian said.
One scampered from the rear.
“How you doing, Commando?” Bok Soo asked the trooper that had been winged.
“Been better,” a female Sarenmenti grunted.
“Rest up and get some hell fire into you. You stay here and keep a watch, follow us as we clear,” Bok Soo said, the last for her buddy that had saved her.
“Shotgun or charge,” the techie announced.
No one appeared to have a shotgun.
“Alright, I'll blast the bloody thing down. You four, continue around and link up w
ith Commander Banelish's squad,” Bok Soo said, indicating the four at the rear he wanted to go.
He moved up to the group that were covering the techie.
“Ready boys and girls?”
He held his shotguns out at the pair of bolts on the double doors. He shot the top ones, cycling the shotguns around as he lowered his hands and stuck two more balls of plasma into the lower bolts. He cycled his guns again as he kicked the doors with all of his might. They went flying, hitting and killing the gun crew that had set up too close to the door. Bok Soo charged in. His left leg still on full power launched him up and into the rafters of the cavernous engineering hub. He put one shotgun in its holster as he grabbed something sturdy looking.
He looked down on the amazed gun crews, which were doing their best to face in three different directions. He fired at the closest, the Plasma burning into the unarmoured Syndicates. It seemed that Salchar and Foshunti's surprise hadn't given them enough time to even get their mechas on. He cycled the shotgun, his ammo counter going down until he hit empty. He dropped toward the floor, grabbing his other one as he released the mag on the shotgun and smacked it into the waiting mag on his leg. With one flick of his wrist it was reloaded, he continued around a corner towards the gun team that was still standing. He heard the reports of rail guns as indicators in his mecha halted his progress. He pulled back, covering outwards. Moments later a barrel was pointed at his visor.
“Best to lower that,” Bok Soo said, sounding slightly amused as the Chaleelian did so.
“Sorry, sir,”
“No problem. At least you assessed the situation before shooting. Otherwise I'd be having quite a few issues.” He pointed to the Kuruvian. “Go help the wounded Commando out there would ya? The rest of you, let's secure this position. There will be a squad here in two. You lot will be staying here as they advance through you and on to the next objective.” These people had been going hard since entry. It wasn't far, but close quarters fighting was damned tiring. He was the CAMC, so being tired was an impossibility. He opened his visor, spitting his now flavorless gum and putting in another piece. God that smells like shit, he thought, closing his visor as the air recycler went to work getting rid of the smell of burnt metals, plastics—and charred flesh.
Free Fleet #03 No Rest for the Wicked Page 28