“Buckle up,” she commanded.
I stepped into the room with her, and the door closed. By the time I was done securing myself to the wall, the Star Marque quaked, and the intense feeling of increased G-forces crashed upon me. The pressure kept my back flat against the wall. I glanced over to see Blub tucked into Sawyer's jumpsuit, his body flat against her stomach, his little eyes bulging.
I hadn't finish battening down Sawyer's machinery, and the moment I heard the crash beyond the door, I cringed. The room would be wrecked, but it was hard to think about that with the pressure crushing me against the wall.
Unlike the starfighter simulation, the pressure didn't last long. Within ten seconds, the ship eased into its new speed, allowing me to breathe easy.
“That was different,” I said.
“Gravity dampeners,” Sawyer muttered. “They help stabilize the G-force inside the ship.”
“Why don't we have those on the starfighters?”
“The fighters are nothing more than eggshells made of thin, steel alloy around as much weaponry as possible. Even the life-support system is half of what it should be, barely better than an enviro-suit. A gravity dampener would take up too much space and add unnecessary weight.”
Sawyer unbuckled herself from the wall and opened the door.
“Wait,” I said. “Is that why the asteroid wrecked me in the simulation? Thin defenses?”
“Obviously.”
She released Blub from her jumpsuit—the fish spun in the air like a confused balloon—and hustled to the many computer screens that lined the far wall. All her equipment had smashed into the opposite wall, leaving her workstation intact.
I unfastened my safety belt and walked into the room, my attention drawn to the screens. Each one displayed the cockpit of a starfighter. Quinn jumped into hers, followed by Lee, and then Mara.
“You should get to your fighter,” Sawyer said.
“Won't it take thirty minutes to reach the corsairs?”
“More like twenty now, but you've got to be prepared. You'll launch once we get in range. It's now or never for a preliminary system check.”
I nodded and exited the room, somewhat in a haze. The mounting mental pressure made it hard to focus. I was about to enter an actual fight. Not a fight with fists, but a fight in the dead of space, wrapped in an eggshell. One wrong move and it was all over.
When I looked up, I stood in front my starfighter. I opened the hatch and slid into the cockpit, my heartrate interfering with my breathing. I thought I was over this, but reality had a way of adding an extra edge of seriousness that couldn't be simulated, no matter how many practice runs I'd breezed through.
The hatch closed, sealing me in the darkness of the fighter. The interior gripped my lower legs and held me tight. When the lights flickered to life, I flipped the diagnostic switch and watched the numbers run across the main screen. A small piece of me hoped there was something wrong—something that couldn't be fixed—an excuse for me to avoid the situation.
Another piece of me hated that I would ever wish for something so craven.
The side of my screen flashed the pilot assignment. It read:
SF-1 [Captain]: Endellion Voight
SF-2 [Subcommander/Starboard Leader]: Quinn Lee
SF-3 [Starboard Fighter]: Adachi Mara
SF-4 [Starboard Fighter]: Nelya Advik
SF-5 [Port Leader]: Yuan Xun
SF-6 [Port Fighter]: Noah Jevons
SF-7 [Port Fighter]: Humphrey Lee
SF-8 [Support]: Clevon Demarco
SF-9 [Open]: Unlisted
SF-10 [Open]: Unlisted
Eight of us. And I was in Starfighter Eight. I had never had a lucky number before, but right then I knew what it was going to be.
“Attention, starfighters,” Endellion said across the comms, her voice cold and smooth. “Our scanners have detected the targets ahead. We're to incapacitate two rebellion light cruisers. Each battleship has point-defense systems that rival the Star Marque's, and the distances have been programmed into your flight computers.”
I took a deep breath, remembering my training.
Point-defense systems were torpedoes and lasers used in close quarters against smaller ships. At a far enough distance, anything could be dodged in a starfighter, but when up close, the torpedoes traveled so fast that a starfighter pilot wouldn't have the time to react. Not only that, but the point-defenses were automated, meaning they were triggered by proximity and not by the unreliable hands of people.
Get too close to a starship, get destroyed. Guaranteed.
Endellion continued, “Each cruiser has a missile-barrage weapons-hold. The Star Marque will get close, open fire, and then be forced to retreat.”
I took another deep breath, trying to remember every detail we'd learned in our tactics training.
A missile barrage was meant to finish the fight the moment it began. A scatter burst of a few hundred warheads blanketed an area of space like a shotgun blast, inflicting as much damage as possible to a larger ship. Starfighters could weave through the barrage. In theory.
“While the Star Marque retreats to a safe distance, the starboard leader and their team will destroy Cruiser A, and the port leader and their team will destroy Cruiser B.”
“Understood,” Quinn said.
“Heard,” Yuan replied.
“The enemy has starfighters of their own,” Endellion said. “Clevon and I will handle the enemy fighters. Any questions?”
“No, Endellion,” the others answered in unison.
I couldn't find my voice.
The diagnostics finished, clearing my starfighter for combat. All systems go.
“Ready?” Endellion asked me through the one-on-one comms.
“Let's do it,” I said.
Every stressful minute we waited took a year off my life expectancy.
I closed my eyes and focused on regulating my breath. The haze persisted, clouding my mind no matter what I thought of. Time passed like a dream. I opened my eyes, and already we were within minutes of our target. It wouldn't be long now. I grabbed the two side-sticks and flexed my fingers.
“Thirty seconds ‘til engagement,” Endellion said.
“Disengaging,” the computer intoned.
My starfighter detached from the Star Marque. With muscle-memory precision, I pulled away from the docking port. Five seconds after I departed, red dots filled my screen. I took in the information like only a genetically-modified human could.
Two enemy ships, one labeled A, the other B. 250 inbound warheads. A single cargo ship. 20 enemy starfighters.
Only seconds to make my decisions.
I hit the speed and charged toward the open battlefield of space. Waves of warheads—shells half the size of my fighter—rolled toward me, so numerous and scattershot that I had to maintain a steady hand to dodge everything. 3 degree tilt. 20 degree increase. 15 degree decrease. Each motion happened so fast it barely registered.
4Gs. 5Gs.
I had three hyperweapon bolts and twenty torpedoes. Not much, so I needed to make them count.
“Prepare to engage,” Endellion said. “Overshoot them.”
“Got it.”
“Clevon.”
“Yeah?”
“Let me see what you're capable of.”
My display screen highlighted the 20 enemy starfighters, as well as the invisible line between safety and the point-defenses of the two enemy cruisers. Endellion thought we could stand against ten to one odds? I didn't like the numbers—and they messed with my resolve—but I found solace in having accelerated faster than everyone else in the training simulations. It would be my biggest advantage.
With gritted teeth, I punched the speed, ready to see what a real starfighter could handle.
At 6Gs, I closed in on a group of five enemy fighters. They spread out and whipped around, coming at me from different directions. They were going to flit around and strike, or they were going to corral me into another fighter,
so I amped up the speed once again.
7Gs. 8Gs.
So much pressure. Please, Lucky Number Eight, don't fail me now.
My vision grayed at the edges, but the enemy fighters couldn't keep up—they accelerated at half my rate.
“Demarco,” Sawyer said, her voice a sweet relief. “You can't maintain this. You'll pass out if you continue.”
9Gs.
I looped around and opened fire on the enemy fighters. Five torpedoes shot, but only two enemies hit—the red dots vanished from my screen. Three enemy fighters fired at me, and I spun to avoid any collision, my body reacting to the information with near-instantaneous reflexes. I shot by them and curved back fast, no doubt taking them by surprise with my precision at such speeds.
I fired five more torpedoes as I streaked past, hitting another two enemy fighters. I clenched my teeth so hard I thought they would break.
The moment I flitted around, I spotted a cluster of debris heading my way. I dodged most of it, but a large, spinning piece of hull sailed into my path.
Noah's fighter swept from the side, launching torpedoes, blasting the clutter, and clearing my path.
“Don't die on the starter rock,” he said over our personal comms.
The G-force pressure prevented me from giving him an adequate reply, but his comment got me chuckling, even if it hurt.
A second later, an enemy fighter flew into Noah's range. I launched in Noah's direction and fired one of my hyperweapon bolts accidentally. The radiance of the shot stunned me—a star fragment's worth of light—and it vaporized the enemy fighter without stopping. I never should have used something so powerful for a small fighter, but I barely gave my attack thought.
And the enemy fighter hadn't been fast enough to dodge. Nowhere near fast enough. He had turned slightly, like he had wanted to dodge but didn't have the reaction speed needed. I could see it now, like a fight in the death pits on Capital Station.
But I didn't have time to congratulate myself. All my attention was drawn to my flight path. Every obstacle came at me like a bullet, due to my continually-increasing speed. I dodged, tilted, swirled, looped, and turned. My screen lit up with two new targets.
“These are the enemy starfighter leaders,” Endellion said. “They're keeping the Port Team from their target.”
She raced after them, her celerity on display. I pushed to keep up, watching as the G-force increased at decimal points, like the plasma engines were struggling to add more acceleration. I almost matched Endellion, but she accelerated along with me.
9.5Gs. 9.6Gs. 9.8Gs.
No other fighter could touch us. But the longer I went, the worse it got.
I reached the enemy commanders, the gray at the edge of my vision closing in.
“Demarco,” Sawyer shouted. “You have to decelerate soon!”
Although both enemy pilots shot in different directions, they were too slow. I overtook one, and Endellion took the other. One torpedo and I had reduced my target to cinders. Endellion did the same before curving wide and returning to the fray.
I jerked back on the controls and slowed my starfighter, pulling away from the enemy cruiser before I could destroy myself on the point-defense system. My breath became ragged as I gulped down air. Once my vision returned, I smiled. That was close.
The Star Marque returned to the battlefield, and another missile barrage from the enemy cruiser filled my screen with crimson dots. I slammed the side-sticks and raced away, slipping between warheads with all the grace of a dancer. Despite the myriad of dangers, my pulse ran hot with exhilaration. I didn't know when, but at some point, I'd started laughing, and now I couldn't stop.
Two enemy starfighters chased me through the maze of missiles, likely hoping to catch me while I was distracted.
They wanted to fight? I would give them a good fight.
I whipped my starfighter around and let loose another five torpedoes, targeting the closest fighter first. A second wave of warheads exploded from the nearby cruiser, and I rolled to avoid the bombardment. My attention was divided, but my heightened mental capacity took in every bit of detail as though in slow motion.
When the second fighter turned to avoid a warhead, I fired, catching him off-guard and scrubbing his existence from the stars.
“Clevon,” Endellion said.
“Yeah?”
“New target—Cruiser B.”
Cruiser B highlighted on my screen, the life-support systems marked for destruction. Once the life supports were down, most of the crew would follow. Those lucky enough to be wearing enviro-suits would continue, but the cruiser would be an easy target by then.
I headed straight for the cruiser, increasing my acceleration back to the 7Gs' worth of pressure, ensuring nothing would stop me from getting to my destination. At 8Gs, I was closing in, entering the mythical zone of close enough for hyperweapons but not so close that I would get destroyed by the point-defense. I fired once my targeting locked, taking pleasure in the brilliant flash of light as the hyperweapon bolt smashed into the life-support systems and wasted everything—including the steel alloy—into a fine gas.
The hyperweapons were the most destructive weapons I had ever seen.
“Finish it,” Endellion said as she flew off toward Cruiser A.
My computer highlighted the Cruiser B's bridge. To no one's surprise, the point-defense had the largest range around the bridge. It was the center of control. Even with the life support gone, the team in the bridge could fly the metal casket off toward a safer location, or maybe even rendezvous with an ally. But they weren't getting away.
I increased acceleration, reaching 9Gs, flitting into position, and then diving toward the cruiser. I fired my last hyperweapon bolt, watching with a smile as it disintegrated the bridge. The gaping hole in the ship reminded me of an open chest wound from a plasma rifle. The ship bled into the cold space around it, blood made of steel, plastic, and people.
I shot down eight enemy fighters and brought a cruiser to its knees.
Lucky Number Eight won the day.
With the cruiser down, I finally glanced at the condition of the battlefield. All enemy fighters were destroyed. The last cruiser was wrecked, but not defeated. The cargo ship we'd come to rescue sat idly, 100% intact.
And the Star Marque flew in, dominating the situation by spraying a missile barrage of its own across the remaining enemy cruiser. The warheads smashed along the side, destroying a majority of the cruiser's hull. The life support failed. The engines failed. It was only a matter of time before the crew ran out of oxygen.
A hail from the corsairs came through the open frequencies. I switched my comms over, curious what was being said.
“This is Alexei Pavlova,” the man on the comms said. “Captain of the United-Earth Cruiser, Rampart. This is a formal declaration of surrender.”
“I hear you, Captain Pavlova,” Endellion replied. “This is Commodore Voight of the Federation Vanguard, Star Marque.”
“Oh, shit.”
I slowed my starfighter as I set my return course, my eyebrows raised. Did they know each other?
“Please, listen,” Pavlova said. “We only stole medicine and genetic-research material. It's for the humans of Landing Station. They're suffering.”
Endellion said, “That doesn't excuse grand theft, burglary, robbery, assaulting an enforcer starship, attempted murder of my crew—”
“They'll die, Commodore! You know the sickness! The deformities! Even half that shipment could save millions.”
“I've heard your plea, Captain, but your crimes are too great. Perhaps if you surrendered immediately, this could have played out a different way. As it stands, I have a job to do. Minister Ontwenty wants her property back.”
“The rumors are true. You're a traitor to your own kind.”
“You can explain yourself to the justiciars of Vectin-14.”
“Never. We should be free from the superhumans, not serving them. You're hurting all of humanity with your actions.”
“Honor your surrender, Captain.”
Pavlova cursed under his breath. “I rescind my declaration.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MEDICAL SUPPLIES
“Quinn,” Endellion said over the starfighter comms. “Do you still have any hyperweapon bolts?”
“Yes, Endellion.”
“Target the bridge.”
“Of course, Endellion.”
Before the enemy captain could take any action, Quinn fired, her hyperweapon blast lighting up the bridge like a pyre in space. And then, as fast as it had happened, the radiance disappeared, along with whoever was on the bridge. Painless way to go, really. One second Captain Pavlova existed, and the next, he didn't.
“All ships, return to your docking ports,” Endellion said.
Everyone flooded the comms with their agreements.
I headed back to the ship, an odd calm settling over me now that the fight was over. The intensity of the struggle lingered in my system, and although I was drained, I knew I wouldn't be able to rest.
Hopefully, it was drinking time.
My starship latched onto the Star Marque, and I waited for the 30 seconds it took to seal the ships together. Once the hatch opened, and the starfighter released me, I stepped out and rotated my arms. All in a day's work, I supposed.
“That's how you do it!”
I turned in time to spot Lee jogging over. He didn't slow—if anything, he picked up speed—and then lunged, his arms wide. I gritted my teeth and stepped back, ready to clock this fool in the jaw, but I stopped myself when I took note of his laugh. Lee collided with me, squeezed his arms around me in a tight embrace, and patted my back. With conflicting emotions raging through my system, I offered him a few tentative pats in return.
But it went on too long.
“Get off me,” I commanded.
He jumped back, still laughing, and slapped my arm, like he couldn't stop himself from touching me.
“You were amazing! I could never imagine accelerating that fast!”
Quinn, Advik, and Mara hurried over, with Yuan trailing behind, thanks to her limp. Everyone crowded around, smiling just as jovially as Lee was.
Star Marque Rising Page 14