Orillion Space
The Damas loosed barrage after barrage of laser broadsides into the mass of Erasian star fighters. Known as Junkars, they were previously the most clunky and low-tech of anything that had been in the Orillion fleet.
But Captain Virim couldn’t afford to be merciful as he ordered wave after wave of plasma to rip through their ranks. His crew and the incoming civilians were counting on his resolve.
Closely packed, the Junkars tried to break away from the firing range but were harried on either side by the Damas’s own fighters, known affectionately on board as Nestors.
The Junkars could only hope a few would get close enough to open fire themselves. Numbers were never a problem for the Erasians, their carrier craft continued to spew more Junkars toward the Damas.
‘That’s the 2nd wave… they’re just throwing themselves away.’ Klora had to remind herself that Erasians were the enemy now. They had to put personal feelings aside and do their duty.
‘Captain, the refugee ship has left Tralis orbit and is heading our way. ETA 15 minutes.’ Sensor officer Gleen said.
‘The gate will be completely closed in 10 minutes, sir.’ First officer Klora added.
‘Orders stay the same. At the last minute we’ll pulse the gate to maintain the Chaos Path, with just enough to keep it open for us and the Tanker.’ The captain said.
‘Yes Sir.’ They replied.
These were good kids, he thought. It seemed like yesterday they had joined him on the Damas, fresh-faced from the Nebulan Academy. They'd probably been disappointed to be relegated to escort duty on an old frigate with an old captain, at least at first.
But it was the best place to give young officers like them a bit of experience before the hell of the frontlines churned them up. 'Safe,' he muttered to himself, 'let's hope so.' Here they are seeing action for the first time.
Despite the calm way Klora acted, mechanically and automatically as her instructors and training had drilled into her, she could feel her facial plumage raising in excitement. Tickling her cheeks.
Father would chide her for still being an excitable little chick. She shook her head of the distracting thoughts and focussed on the task at hand. She wouldn’t disappoint her captain.
‘Has the 2nd Nestor squad reached the Tanker?’ Virim asked sensor officer Gleen.
‘Skirmisher Vos is just approaching her now, Sir.’ He said.
Good, thought Virim. He noticed Klora patting down her cheek feathers and had to hold back a chuckle. He felt a little sadness after. One day I fear a little skirmish like this will be too common place for you to feel anything Klora, he thought, I hope that’s not for a long time yet, though.
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‘Sir, why should we just sit here, let’s take out those damn carriers!’ his first officer called out.
‘Klora, that’s not our mission. We need to buy time for the refugees, not get stuck in an engagement with the Erasians.’
‘But we can make short work of them… Sir.’
‘Don’t underestimate them. If they draw us out of position and their heavier ships appear in Tralis space, then what?’
Klora couldn’t think of a reply to that. If the gate shut and they were trapped, the Erasians would begin to chip away at their shields and… It wouldn’t be good.
‘More Junkars are incoming.’ Said Gleen.
Klora welcomed the distraction. ‘Stagger the cannons to give continuous fire, give them no room to move, fighters to pick off any that evade.’ She looked over to Captain Virim and saw him nod in approval. She felt a flush of pride.
Now we just need to wait for that Tanker, she thought, Good luck Vos.
***
‘This is Skirmisher Vos, 2nd Nestor squad,’ Vos hailed the hunk of junk, as he saw it, ship. That thing must have been 100 years old. How’d they even get it working again?
A Tanker-class resource ship that used to bring ores to the Tralis refining stations was now ferrying citizens off that planet, maybe there was a bit of irony to that, he thought.
‘Vos of the 2nd Nestor squad, hailing transport, do you hear?’ He repeated.
A gritty female voice cut through the static of his short-range communicator: ‘Captain Fiargo Yeets, Come Again.’
Vos sighed. ‘This is Vos of the 2nd Nestor squad, here to escort you, do you copy?’
‘Captain Fiargo Yeets, Come Again.’
Son of a… Vos swore to himself, was that laughter he could hear through the comm? The hunk of junk's communicator probably wasn't even working properly.
‘Listen, this is VOS OF THE 2ND NESTOR SQUAD, DO YOU HEAR?’
‘CAPTAIN FIARGO YEEEEETS, COME A-GAIINNN.’ The female voice screamed back, drawing out each word. Vos jerked back his head, his eardrums were ringing after that.
And now he was sure. Someone had left that communicator on and he could hear the howls of laughter coming through the speaker, and what sounded like someone slapping the sides of their chair. Voss’s scales flickered red.
So, we’ve got ourselves a joker huh, he thought, everyone’s a space comedian now huh, this is what happens when you put a bunch of damn land-lovers and let them retro-fit a Tanker, huh. No one takes space seriously.
Klora always told him he was too easy to wind up, but he was just a professional, even she wouldn’t stand for this right? This is an emergency situation.
It’s not like at his Skirmisher party, when Klora and the others had wheeled out a giant Suurian egg, and then had a… a less than decent Suurian lady jump out of it. He shuddered at the memory, our hatching rituals are sacred! He thought, that still annoyed him.
When I tell her about this, she won’t laugh at me will she? Though when she's happy and her feathers flutter she does look beautiful. Voss blushed.
He took a deep calming breath. I’m a professional, he told himself before hailing once more, ‘Ah, so it’s Fiargo Yeets of the Come Again. My squad is approaching above you now,’ to strangle whoever the Reave it was to name your ship that, ‘change course 12 degrees, approach the Gate behind the cover Damas is buying you, over.’ And I hope you appreciate it you little…
‘Roger that Voss, and it’s Captain Fiargo to you, over.’
His name was Vos not Voss, that was a girl's name, why did non-Suurian's have so much trouble with that?
‘You’re a professional, you’re a professional.’ Vos murmured to himself, squeezing his controls to death.
‘I am, Voss, but in the future you might want to switch off your communicator after transmission, over and out.’ The communicator channel clicked off and his cockpit was silent except for his own breathing and the low hum of the power core.
If he wasn’t cold blooded, his blood would be boiling. At least he won't need to work with these fools for long, he consoled himself.
‘Vos,’ his wing mate called him, ‘there’s something wrong with the Damas.’
The Damas was right where it had been, it’s shields were operational, and the enemy Junkars hadn’t even gotten close enough to fire on her. What was his wing-mate thinking, It was…
The cannons weren’t firing!
‘What are your order Vos?’ his squad were starting to panic. The Damas was sitting out their like a floating target. He cycled through his communicator frequencies trying to reach the secure Damas channel.
It wasn’t working.
He had 25 Nestors under his command and his orders were to bring the Come Again safely to the Gate.
‘All of you, try to open communication with the Damas, I’m having some trouble with it.’
He waited, his crew were cycling thorough their channels, failing like he had.
‘Its not working, sir.’ Came the replies, they only called him sir when something went wrong, he thought bitterly.
The Nestors were flying 1 league above the Come Again’s bridge, matching her speed. The question was what to do now? Maybe something was wrong, or maybe these were orders he didn’t know about.
He was worried about Klora and his fellow officers. His commander was leading the 1st squad of Nestors dealing with the Junkars. They could probably hold another wave without support of the Damas's lasers, but there would be losses.
‘Sir,’ one of his men cut into his thoughts, ‘We found a channel-‘
‘Put me through to the captain now!’ Vos said.
‘No, Sir, the channel vanished as soon as we locked onto it… but, it’s coming from the central Erasian carrier vessel, it's communicating with someone aboard the Damas.’