“Alpha 1-1 this is Control, we have you as within 50 megaklicks of target. Please verify readiness state.”

The pilot inside the SCM-12/B multi role aerospace fighter was near indistinguishable from the deadly machine he flew. The cabin was a cramped space, filled almost entirely with the nano-gel pod that cushioned and shielded fragile human flesh from the massive g-forces of combat in space. The pilot had also been surgically enhanced with reinforcement of the joints and limbs, and was pumped full of stims, anticoagulants and combat drugs to ensure he didn’t pass out. His face was obscured behind a breather mask and HUD goggles, and the entire cabin was surrounded by lightweight ablatives and ceramic layers to shield from weapons fire and exposure to the various forms of radiation common to space. Cocooned as they were, hidden from sight to anyone standing outside the fighter, it was easy to forget the SCM-12/B had a pilot at all.

“Control this is Alpha Lead.” the squadron lead’s voice was a calm soprano, with a slight nasal twang caused by the re-breather’s snug fit. Looking at his HUD and sending a brief status request through the neural link, the pilot nodded mentally to himself and continued.

“Alphas 1-2 to 1-6 are all reporting green status and clean detection of enemy targets. We’re just waiting on our WRA and final approach vector.”

Alpha 1-1 - or Lead for brevity - was annoyed at this breach of protocol. They knew the objective and radio silence was SOP for a strike op unless the situation changed drastically. Why take the risk for a status check? Why couldn’t they just request a data packet instead of a verbal report? At least the weapons release authorisation would come through in the form of an encrypted ping on a dedicated port, easily lost to observers in the background noise of solar wind. Unfortunately it wasn’t surprising that the new base commander, Rear Admiral Charles P. Dingus, thought it was a good idea. A micromanager of note, and a clear victim of Dunning-Kruger syndrome who’d gotten his spot through family connections, the rear admiral had been exactly the wrong person to put in charge of a black base - a launch platform for several aerospace squads which weren’t supposed to exist.

Sighing to himself, Alpha Lead dismissed his insubordinate thoughts. Time had passed and they were now down to 45 million kilometres. The ping for WRA had come through and he sent the signal to the rest of Alpha squadron to go weapons green. He felt subtle vibrations through the gel of the pod as laser emitters tested their shutters, missiles loaded into launch bays, and the main EMP bomb payload was moved into a ready position from the drop bay. The wonderful thing about bombing in space was that you just needed to let go and decelerate - no accounting for gravity or other factors. However space is rather large, even our own solar system being vast enough to boggle the imagination, despite how small the models or diagrams might make it look for easier digestion. Even with the compressed nitrogen attitude thrusters, and a compact guidance computer built into the bomb for course correction, it was easy to miss by thousands of kilometres with the smallest of errors.

40 million kilometres. They were starting to get returns from the electro-optics - although even zoomed in as far as possible, the station appeared as little more than a speck, only slightly larger than the stars themselves. Of the various defensive measures - static and guided mines, one-shot laser pods, missile banks and even the small fleet stationed nearby - none were visible yet, and hopefully the squadron would never get close enough to see them. Passive sensors were picking up pulses from enemy radar and lidar, but the SCM-12 was well designed for stealth - absorptive materials reduced the cross section of the craft, just as in the old ocean warfare days, while holographic emitters and heatsinks worked to make it look as much like a chunk of ferrous rock as possible. While their presence was definitely known, the hope was that the station would ignore them as low threats - simple hunks of rock that could be vapourised with station lasers at minimal cost and range. So far the hope seemed to be paying off, as there was no apparent response to their approach yet.

Alpha lead got a ping from Six, and had just enough time to realise what was happening before a wave of neural feedback sent him and the rest of the squad reeling. Alpha 1-6 had reported an alert on the EMP release mechanism, less than a second before the bomb went off inside her craft.

Chaos reigned, as a wave of charged particles and electrons smashed into the squadron at near point blank range. While designed to withstand minor surges or attacks on the electrical systems, the SCM-12 was assuredly not designed to withstand an EMP capable of disabling a shielded station. Holo-emitters sparked and shorted, neural links spiked a mass of gibberish directly into the brains of the pilots, and for long minutes the entire squadron drifted, insensate and uncontrolled.

Alpha lead was the first to recover, immediately requesting a squad role call through the neural link. At that point he discovered the neural link was down, and the gel pod itself was now little more than a metal box filled with goo.

He swore to himself, but couldn’t spare the time to bemoan his lot. It was hard to judge how much time had passed but the squad’s concealment was blown and they were already in missile range.

“Alpha Squad this is Lead.” he pressed down on the stud in his palm that activated the emergency radio, which was powered off a shielded battery and circuit. It could barely transmit reliably beyond a thousand kilometers, but was perfect for squad comms when other systems had failed.

“I need a role call and I need it now, folks. What’s your status? Over.”

Seconds passed and he began to sweat. Had the blast damaged the radio antenna? Had the isolated circuit not been shielded enough for a station killer? He let out a sigh of relief when the first responses started coming in.

“Alpha lead this is Alpha 3, reporting in.” The rough baritone of Alpha 3 was loud and clear, proving the radio was fine at least. Alpha 3 was a burly man, barely under the weight limit for the SCM-12s and could generally take a little more in the way of shaking up than the rest of the squad. Heavy grav folk were like that, big boned bastards. “All systems down, attempting a reboot.”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“Alpha 2, reporting in.” Two’s voice was shaky, even higher than normal. He’d been flying wing with 6 and had borne the biggest brunt of the blast, outside of 6 herself. Right now his hands would be twitchy and his mind a mess, the EMP powerful enough to interfere directly with human nervous systems at that close a range. “All systems down, I can’t see or move here!”

“Alpha 4, still alive. All systems down. Did they hit us first?” Four’s question could wait but Lead knew her query would be echoed shortly. Several more seconds passed in tense silence.

“Five, Six, what is your status? Please respond. Over.” Lead’s voice was calm but an edge had started to creep in. His frantic attempts to power on or reboot the flight computer and nav systems had failed, and was that smoke he was smelling through the rebreather?

“I repeat, Alpha Five, Alpha Six. What is your status? Over.”

Static crackled through the comm implant in Lead’s skull.

“..ix, repor... in. ..mms are da...”.

Lead concentrated, the words barely audible and breaking up on the radio. It seemed to be Alpha Six.

“Six this is lead, please repeat. Over.”

“S... Six reporting in sir. Head hurts.” A brief moment of clarity before the static kicked in again.

“...k comms a.. age.. “

Lead could ask her to repeat again but it seemed clear her comms were damaged. Likely she had a headache - possibly even some neurological damage - from the bomb going off under her feet. Five wasn’t responding at all, flying rearguard might have exposed his comms to extra damage.

It didn’t matter too much. They’d all be in the same formation as before the blast, matched in a loose, semi-random formation. Assuming they could get the fighters operating again and some sensors survived, they’d know what was happening.

“All squad members, focus on returning power to sensors and flight systems. We need to see and we need to be able to move. Report in two minutes. Acknowledge.”

4 voices echoed back over the comms and he focused hard on testing and probing with his optical interface. The neural link was down but there were several low power, hardlinked systems connected to the pod and the helmet HUD, all running off heavily shielded, passive power sources. Mass limitations kept them small and low power, but it would allow diagnostics and the option of engaging backup systems for flight, sensors and life support. He might even be able to release the bomb if their heading was still good.

It didn’t look great. While he still had main power - SMRs were heavily protected from all forms of radiation by their nature - most of the control circuitry, often fine wires running relatively close to the surface of the ship, was out of order. He managed to get the display for the clock running, a Cesium atomic clock. Time was not on their side. In fact, a horrible suspicion began to creep into the back of his mind. He keyed in on the radio.

“Squad, prepare for enemy boarding action.” he said, “We’re within 10 million klicks and they probably sent someone to investigate.”

“Enemy bomber squadron, we see you are using unencrypted radio traffic, likely due to massive systems failure from your premature detonation. Can you hear me? Over.”

Shit. Lead thought frantically. Flushing out of the pods and grabbing a gun would take minutes and he had no idea how close they were. Then he felt a shudder on his hull.

“Bomber squadron this is Commander Chapeil, of the UEA Navy Frigate Chile. Our boarding pods are already on your hulls. Please surrender now and I promise you’ll be treated as POWs under the Interstellar Accords of 2185. Resist and I’m afraid we’ll terminate at least one of you to discourage further uncooperative behaviour.”

The voice on the comm was bored, almost lethargic. A slow drawl that couldn’t care less whether they surrendered or died.

“Commander Chapeil this is Alpha 1-1, military ID 1162319. We do not have permission to surrender. Withdraw or we will self-detonate.”

A derisive snort of laughter, almost piglike, came back over the radio, strong and loud - they were damn close.

“Surrender now or die, I promise to treat you well.”

“We won’t surrender.” 3’s voice echoed through the radio, a single voice with the approval of the whole squad.

“A pity.” came the response, “You pod pilots are all the same. Think you’re immortal. You’re wrong of course, but it does make you... brave, in a foolish way.”

The whole craft jerked as a shaped charge blew through the first of the ablative armour layers. No time to flush now. Only one option.

“All squad members detonate no- '' the world went white and green and blue and red and strange colours that Lead couldn’t define. Vision was gone, all his senses scrambled and his ship juddering wildly as all the remaining EMPs went off. Chapeil is a fool, came his final thought. Failsafes failed and everywhere in the nearby ships, power surges and storms of radiation disabled people and machinery. The neural circuits, still embedded in Lead’s neck despite not being powered, surged with electricity. All of them died instantly.

Commander Chapeil sat in his comfortable command couch and considered his options. This was hardly ideal. Bloody pod pilots, should have known but he had felt it worthwhile to try and capture them. Nobody had successfully captured one of the buggers, they had backup clones made with each trip out. As such they were always willing to die before surrender, convinced that they wouldn’t actually die at all. He failed to see how that counted as immortality when you were just appointing a successor.

“I suppose it’s in how you look at it.” he said to nobody in particular, sipping at a cup of cold tea. His crew, used to his habit of thinking out loud, ignored him as they went on with repairs. He’d have plenty of time to think while they worked.