As sweat trickled down his temple, the salty droplets stung his eyes, blurring his vision. The sticky wetness continued to seep into his back, making his shirt cling uncomfortably to his pale skin. Ignoring the oppressive heat, despite air streaming from the vents above, Tom remained focused, his determination unwavering amidst the tumultuous sounds that surrounded him. The thud of fists colliding with fabric and the resounding smack of skin meeting skin echoed through the air, creating a rhythmic symphony of combat. Just at the edge of his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of two shirtless grunt soldiers grappling fiercely on the mat, their exertions accompanied by grunts and heavy breaths. That would be his next challenge.
Each time his chest hovered a few centimeters above the ground, he increased the number in his head. The strain in his muscles that accompanied a burning sensation intensified with each repetition. His blonde bangs annoyingly stuck to his damp skin, but there was nothing he could do about it.
His count reached sixty-four when a group of sergeants, indicated by their uniform stripes lining their shoulder pads, led by Lieutenant Mc’Umfry, entered the training gym with determined purpose. The sound of their boots gradually quieted the training around him, and all eyes turned to her stern face. Tom’s heart sank, anxiety flooding his senses as he feared the worst. They couldn’t afford to lose another shipment. Their vessel was on the verge of a collapse, and their rations had been depleted for some time now. In this moment he regretted ever telling her his favorite place to be when de-stressing. And the recently never ending complaints from the kitchen and supply managers had been giving him a headache.
Tom rose from his crouched position, as Mc’Umfry stopped right in front of him. She stood with her hands clasped behind her back, and the other soldiers placed their right hand over their left breast in salute, awaiting her report. "Grace,” he greeted forgoing any formalities..
With a deep breath, she straightened her back, causing her breasts to protrude slightly. Tom could sense the tension radiating from her, his own anxiety intensifying. “The transport is two clicks away,” she finally spoke, her voice carrying a tinge of apprehension.
Normally, this news would have been cause for relief, but the solemn expressions on their faces told a different story. Tom looked down at Grace, his eyes scanning her muscular physique, one which he was intimately familiar with, both on the mat and in the bedroom. She avoided his gaze, her eyes fixed on his chin, betraying her nervousness. He knew she needed prompting.
“But...” he trailed off, leaving the words hanging in the air. The entire gym fell into a heavy silence, all sixteen pairs of eyes locked on their conversation, holding their breath. The only sound was the soft hum of the ventilation system above them.
“A swarm is following them.” She reported professionally, voice devoid of any emotion. Tom’s eyes widened, the news hitting him like a punch to the gut.
“Damn it,” Tom couldn’t help but exclaim, rubbing the back of his head in frustration, a bad habit he had picked up from Andy. He started pacing, needing space to think. The squeak of his sneakers against the gym floor filled the now heavily silent room. But before strategies could form in his mind, he fired off his questions. “How long? What’s our ammunition status?”
With a frustrated growl, he pivoted his questions not waiting for her answers. Glaring at her he accused, “And why the hell wasn’t I informed of this earlier?”
“Our scanners didn’t detect them until ten minutes ago. It was only by chance that one of the new trainees accidentally picked up their signal,” she explained, meeting his gaze. He immediately knew he wouldn’t like what she was about to say next. “They were apparently riding the jump wakes produced by the transport ship.” A murmur spread through the room, leaving Tom speechless. He stared at her, as if she had just revealed a green monster hiding under her bed.
“Impossible. No one's ever done that.” No species in the Union had ever claimed such a feat was possible. All the brightest minds from different societies agreed that entering a jump wake would tear a vessel apart. Tom’s mind buzzed with questions, but only one could make it past his lips. “How?” Tom asked, looking at each soldier standing before him, hoping for an answer, yet knowing they wouldn’t have any.
“We don’t know. But sir?” she whispered in a hushed tone, stepping closer to him to avoid being overheard. He could still hear the murmuring, fill the air. “We cannot afford to lose this transport. We don’t have the time nor the resources to last.”
He gave her a moment to step back before, fear and pain for the loss they will endure enveloped him. “Put the station on Red Alert,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the noise. “Summon all fighters and sharpshooters for immediate departure.”
A sergeant in her group questioned, “Sharpshooters?”
Glaring at the sergeant, Tom replied, “Yes, sharpshooters. If I could send the grunts, I would. We can’t let a swarm get so close to a civilian vessel. We need to launch a full-scale attack.” His statement spurred everyone into action. Men and women hurriedly put on their uniforms, though not in the most professional manner. There was no time for proper decorum.
Tom grabbed his coat, along with his water container. Determined, he marched out. He didn’t care if the envoy followed him or not. His focus was on reaching the central command room, where he could easily direct the forces through the command panel. As he walked down the orange-tinted corridor, he could hear Grace’s hurried footsteps behind him as she jogged to catch up. “Where are you going?” She called out, exasperation laced her voice.
Tom, his patience worn thin, snapped back at her. “To the war room, where the fuck else?” The frustration in his voice was clear to everyone, as he refused to stop.
Equally angry and unpleasant, Grace forcefully pulled on his arm forcing him to turn and face her and growled, “Did you forget, the panel broke during the last attack? And if I recall correctly, you said we had all the time in the world.” Jerking his arm away, he let out a loud curse; the sound reverberating through the hallway. In a fit of anger, he hurled his water container against the wall, the loud bang echoing through the corridor, intermingling with the sound of water splashing onto the floor.
Turning to the nearest sergeant, whose name he couldn’t remember in the heat of the moment, he pointed his finger and commanded, “Take a soldier, go to the war room, and initiate a Red Alert. I need all our fighter jets in space, along with at least one sniper each, ready and in formation within 20 minutes.” The sergeant saluted, and he and the woman beside him sprinted down the corridor toward Tom’s original destination. “Have the engineers give me the time sequence” he called after them, before addressing the others. “The rest of you, assemble your jets and find a sniper partner now. Grace, come with me.” The sound of hurried footsteps filled the air as the sergeant rushed to carry out the orders. Turning around, Tom headed towards his chamber.
As they walked to his bunker, Tom glanced at a passing family. He observed with a somewhat morbid fascination as their faces drained of color when the luminaries changed from dull orange to dark flashing red. Their faces etched with fear and shock, raced passed him, their panicked footsteps faded toward the living quarters as he continued on. The public assistance sound system crackled in every corridor before issuing a proper warning. “Attention all civilians, please calmly proceed to your bunkers until further notice. Military personnel, please report to your designated deployment posts.” The loudspeaker repeated the warning three times, the sound reverberating through the walls.
Tom and Grace entered his bunker, the door shutting behind them with a heavy thud. Bright white lights illuminated the room, casting a clinical glow. Without wasting time, Tom pressed an activation button at the bottom of one corner. He moved to the other side, with Grace standing opposite him, their eyes meeting briefly, filled with determination. Without exchanging a word, they each placed their five fingers on the panel, the surface cold to the fingertips, initiating the battle activation sequence. Two drawers, one in front of Tom and the other in front of Grace, automatically opened, revealing thin black polyester gloves with electronic wiring attached. With swift movements, they slipped the gloves on, the electronic wiring snaking up their fingers and wrists, connecting them to the technology in the panel. Immediately after, they put on the headband visor, the smooth material fitting snugly over their ears. Tom pressed the button on the visor’s side, activating a sweeping arc of light that wrapped around his eyes, the gentle hum of energy filling his senses. The gloves matched the visor’s glow with a dull blue, emanating a faint warmth against his skin. The voices from the war room, located on the other side of the ship, filtered in through the earmuffs on the visor, their words muffled yet distinct. He could hear them discussing the standard deployment procedures for drills.
Speaking into the visor, Tom introduced himself. “This is Lieutenant Tomorrow Murdock.” His voice reverberated through the war room, silencing the ongoing conversation. He knew that his words would be transmitted simultaneously over the intercom in the docking station. “We have received information that the supply transport is under threat from a swarm,” he stated. The soldiers in the war room responded with murmurs, their voices blending together like a distant buzz. Inhaling sharply, they took in the gravity of the situation, their breaths held in anticipation. “Prepare for emergency deployment - Operation Wolf Pack.” Tom declared, the name of the operation sending a chill down his spine. The room seemed to grow colder as the severity of their mission settled on his shoulders.
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As he mentioned Operation Wolf Pack, Tom felt a shiver run down his spine. In his eight years of fighting in the war, he had never taken part in such a critical formation. It was an all-or-nothing attack, used as a last defense measure. Although the swarm wasn’t currently attacking their vessel, they were dangerously close. If, by some unlikely chance, the swarm didn’t attack them, they wouldn’t have another opportunity to have emergency supplies re-sent to them. The thought of the hundreds of innocent lives at stake fueled his resolve. He knew that failure was not an option, and he would do whatever it took to protect his comrades and the people on board.
Tom felt his blood begin to boil as he suspected this swarm might be the same one that had been targeting their previous supply transports. He had gathered enough evidence to discuss his concerns with his father during their upcoming meeting. This coordinated attack by the Crek is just one of many, proving that either the Crek is more intellectually advanced than they originally thought, or they were evolving. All military personnel, despite having rarely practiced this maneuver, were doing everything they could to fulfill their assigned roles and quickly move into position. Tom stood still, waiting for his engineers to calculate the time it would take for his fighters to reach the transport, ensuring a timely response before he could dispatch the first wave.
He recognized the engineers instantly upon hearing the com crackle. “The command ship appears to be traveling at 600 lets, and our team estimates the time of impact in 40 minutes. The first line of fighter jets should be able to arrive in time if they jump in the next 10 minutes.”
Tom didn’t care to show appreciation for their efforts. This was a life or death situation. Pressing the com to his ear, he said, “Initiate Line A deployment,” his voice audible on the intercom in his bunker and echoing down the hallway. The coms were open for all, including the civilians to witness.
Immediately, multiple deep, short bass horn blasts reverberated around the room. Both Tom and Grace raised their arms, fingers splayed out as lifts dimmed and a 3D holographic replication of their vessel filled the center of the panel. Images of the surrounding stars and holographs of floating debris surrounded the entire bunker.
Tom’s heart hammered as he stared into Grace’s beautiful grey eyes - eyes he enjoyed waking up to in the mornings of late. They watched as a row of 20 fighter jets banked out of the docking bay. This was their first line. They waited and he held his breath. For Tom, this was an all or nothing and he would use everything in their arsenal. The moment he saw them jump, he spoke, com still open. “Initiate Line B and C deployment.”
Grace narrowed her eyes at him. To deploy two lines at once was unorthodox, but she would not contradict him, not if she valued her position. Just before they jumped, he continued to push. “Initiate Line Defense Deployment Active”.
Again, an unorthodox move for Tom. He knew that his action of activating the defense line, rather than holding them back for the civilian vessel, would leave them defenseless. Remembering Andy’s complaint that he was always reckless brought him a bit of amusement and comfort. Knowing that his best friend was not here and safe was another small comfort.
“Tom!” hissed Grace. Belatedly, he noticed her hands turned up. The last line jumped. Copying her movements, he turned his hands upwards l, which created a dizzying effect of the holograph flooding the room, emulating what the sensors on the fighter jets viewed in the jump zone. Had they not spent countless hours practicing in such a chaotic scene, the kaleidoscope of twisting and turning lights and colors, he would be on the floor puking, similar to the first many hours of his training. He remembered the nights on end as his father had him practice this, refusing to let his youngest show any weakness.
The moment the first line of jest exited the jump, Grace and Tom turned their hands to capture the supply vessel as their central focus. As it floated over the panel, they noticed it was being attacked by scouts with yellow strips on their front nose and wing tips, a sign that they were from the swarm mother-ship.
Tom spread his legs out to prepare his stance. He watched as the scouts shot at the vessel, producing a ripple effect, like water, having not yet broken through the shield that surrounded it. Bringing his hands together, as if he was holding a dodge-ball, the fighter jets on his side of the vessel began mimicking the circular formation, and the sharpshooters riding aboard began shooting. Grace held her side off, waiting for the mother-ship, which was slated to appear any moment.
Tom started to move, a slow, strategic dance, not unlike his weekly yoga sessions. Every movement of every finger, every placement of his feet guiding his hands, fed into the fighter jets’ commands to help guide them. He used every part of his body to guide the location and placement of his hands and fingers. Even controlling his blinking and breath was vital - an unnecessary blink can result in the death of a fighter. They may have the ultimate choice, but he acts as their eyes with a full spherical panorama of their surroundings.
As his body slowly turned from Grace, guiding the jets in, around and under the attacking scouts, he didn’t let the loss of life affect him. The greater good is more important than the three fighters he just lost. The jets and scouts weaved their ways around each other, away from the supply vessel. From the corner of his eye he could see the second line left their jump to join the battle, but Grace was already in her own fluid dance - the mother-ship arrived. Tom’s focus remained on the fighters on his side of the panel. He saw more enemy jets arriving, undoubtedly carried in by the mother-ship, but with the enemy’s jets joining the fight, they were still outnumbered.
He heard Grace hiss from across the room. “Tom! Look, the ship!”
Risking a glance, he saw it, the nightmare of a ship, except more on the smaller side of most mother-ships he was familiar with. Scientists and engineers both speculated too much about whether the mother-ships were sentient or organic. It bore Trids directly on its exterior, completely encasing the mother-ship. Tom watched as the jets detached themselves, but he noticed that not all the debris coming off the ship were jets. His eyes widened as he saw the ship’s injury. He suspected the jump wake caused it. Re-grounding himself on the jets he was guiding, he made his way through movements, movements to help guide his forces to Grace’s side. They would not yet see the damage the mother-ship took on, but they should soon notice Grace’s forces focusing their firepower on one particular side of the ship.
He slowly shifted the group of fighters around the vessel - the panel- towards the mother-ship, joining his dance together with Grace’s, moving fluidly in sync. In and around, they danced around each other, focusing their forces on attacking the apparent weakness of their enemy. After hours of training, his muscles strained, bringing pain with each shift in movement. Tom was always one for enjoying a gamble, but Andy wasn’t here to stop him this time. They continued their relentless onslaught on the mother-ship, ignoring the devastating loss their fighters were taking as the Crek shifted to a defensive maneuver.
Giddiness filled Tom, as his face illuminated with a monstrous smile. He knew they were winning, and if they continued like this, he imagined himself surfing the high of this significant achievement for weeks to come. Grace dancing alongside him, had sweat trickling down her face mingling with her tears, her face in full concentration. The black Trids continued to circle their mother-ship, defensively, attacking his fighters. His scanner, in the upper left corner of his visor, showed that they lost most of their Line A jets, but he would not let up. Over and around, the two danced as the fighters continued their onslaught.
Tom suddenly saw a larger piece of the mother-ship haul began to break away. To take advantage of the situation, Tom moved his fingers into a unique sequence. A sequence which reminded him of the way his mother used to play the piano every evening before he went to bed. A Hail Mary with how many men he knows they will lose.
Once the sequence finished, the fighters stopped defending each other and moved into a full offense, targeting that one area. Tom watched even as a few fighters, either through too much damage or lack of ammunition, sacrificed themselves crashing into it.
With half their forces depleted, one final jet made impact. Instead of blowing up as all the others did, this one flew straight into it, opening up the haul. What appeared to be a chain reaction of explosions inside the mother-ship was visible as it appeared to expand.
Then something unexpected occurred. The ship imploded on itself, sending debris particles flying in every direction. The entire military force floated suspended in space. Tom and Grace stood, poised in their last position. No one moved. The surviving trids appeared to float in the direction they were last flying in, as if they lost all function.
One fighter took the initiative and moved alongside a trid, but the trid did not respond.
“Oh, Shit.” He breathed out, not wanting to jinx the situation.
“Oh, shit indeed.” Grace responded, watery eyes wide and breathless. Then she broke out into the largest grin he had seen her wear in a long time as she laughed out, “We did it. We destroyed a mother-ship.”
Her laugh was contagious and spread to him, causing his smile. No longer needing to guide the battlefield, he crossed his fingers, disengaging the connection. Breathing hard, muscles burning, he stood up, pressing the com to limit his connection to the war room only.
“Commander? Do you think we can harvest some of those trips?" It was obvious that the trids were no longer alive. He knew the scientists and engineers aboard were going to have a field day. They will be the first time they could harvest such technology. Even if some speculated they were an advanced biological life form, Tom firmly believed it was some form of advanced technology they could learn from, or at the very least use.
“Yes, sir!” came the immediate gruff voice.
“I want all of them.”
“Understood.” Tom cut the line. He wanted to celebrate with Grace in his own way. Grabbing her face with both hands, he kissed her deeply, knowing her elation over this unique opportunity, despite the deep loss, would benefit him.
Before long, an unnecessary beep from his com device sounded under their clothes on the ground. Tom effectively ignored it, but Grace did not. “It might be the trids.”
He knew she was right, that it would be important. The exertion from everything non-stop slowly caught up to him. With swiftness, he untangled himself from her limbs to grab his com, attaching it to his ear. With all the professionalism left in him, he answered, breath calm. “Lieutenant Murdock.”
With a crackling he heard the reply. “Sir, Flight Falcon is on route to arrive in 20.” His eyes widened substantially. He knew their mission was suicidal -his father had been demanding much of his IST squad. Yet, he felt truly blessed. Not only was he acquiring never before obtained trid jets, but hopefully competent scientists who can analyze them.
Cutting off the connection, he made to dress, not in his clothes littering the floor, but in a new suit.
“What did they say?” Grace asked, having determined it was something substantial based on his swift response.
Turning to watch her pulling in her only suit available, he responded with a grin, “Hopefully, our new scientists.” He didn’t wait for her to finish as he left.