In every war there comes a moment where you will gain a chance to strike back.
Do it swiftly, cleanly.
Then when they are reeling, hit them again!
Flight Deck - HMS Excalibur CVX-11- Geo-synchronous Orbit Karin City
OCCUPATION: DAY TWENTY-SEVEN
She arrived in high atmosphere, a flicker-flash of brilliant light that took the Gorean destroyers on picket duty by surprise as the Excalibur began to unload her drop sleds, ITE Mechs and troop pods blasting away over the northern peninsula, streaking down before the Gorean could launch their fliers to intercept them. Around, her the mercenary blockade runners covered the drop, bringing down heavy equipment and supplies to reinforce the First Karin Marine Expeditionary as it invaded its homeworld.
As the Excalibur descended through the atmosphere, the twin F-175's hammered off of the main flight deck of the HMS Excalibur, afterburners blasting them up to Mach 5 as they cleared the bow of the grand lady standing sentinel over a doomed city. The two fighters, painted in a mottled white, blue and grey pattern, each bore a pair of SAK-II missiles slung close to their fuselage, augmenting the already formidable load out of Reefers and Switchblades under each wing.
It was a brilliant winter's day on Karin, the skies a crystalline blue, the shimmering sun rising over the mountain range that nestled around the high plateau city. Smoke rose from the occupied fortress clinging to the rocks watching over the city beneath it, hundreds of pyres as the Gorean burned their dead.
Throughout the sky, dotted pairs of Gorean destroyers swung like murderous predators. Clouds of Gorean fighters, powered armour with wing mounts, swarmed like bees around their mother ships. They formed a ring of steel that completely surrounded the lone Imperial warship at a five-mile radius, never crossing an invisible line that kept the wolves at bay.
The twin F-175s screamed up to full speed, curling in perfect synchronisation as they charged towards the outer CAP barrier, RWRs roaring as hundreds of combat radar systems tracked them, locking their cannons on the fast moving Imperial fighters that had proved so devastating in previous sorties.
There had been several key strokes of luck for the Imperial pilots serving on the lone Command Carrier that had provided them with an edge in the month-long occupation of Karin. Aside from the five-mile barrier, the lack of missile weaponry possessed by the Gorean severely limited their capacity to deal with the highly agile and extremely quick F-175s. It was a weakness the beleaguered Imperial squadrons had been quick to exploit. Wing Commander Masconi had organized raids from Methuselah's Dűm that had augmented the Dragoon rescue missions against the terrifying Gorean Abattoirs.
Katz's hands tightened on the controls of his fighter, his eyes tight as he poured more power into his throttles, barrelling his fighter down on the wall of steel that lay before him.
"Paladin-one, Ark-lead..." Masconi's voice called from the other fighter, the golden lion's head on her wings identified the fighter-ace and the current Highlord of House Kardiac. "You think there's enough of them?"
Katz smiled as he reached out and flipped on his master arm switch, looking out over the thousands of fighters pouring forth to block their path, "I don't know... I think if just one more fighter showed up, we might be in trouble."
"Well," Masconi chuckled through the radio, "if one more does show up, I'll handle it. Don't want you straining yourself."
Katz smiled and shook his head, looking across at her smiling face in her fighter. "I'll carve a path, you just concentrate on Big Bertha." He glanced at the Gorean Transport dropping through the atmosphere, a giant factory and processing ship that was the target of the dawn raid. If that thing hit the ground, it would make the Gorean harvesting easy.
* * *
"Paladin-One and Ark-Leader are reaching the edge of the Gorean no-fly zone," Alessandro reported from the lower communications tier of the Excalibur's bridge, the TAC-link headset on his head as he tracked the pair of raiders.
Sitting in the command chair, his hands steepled before him, Darien was in his pristine white uniform. A pensive look decorated his face as he considered the battle to come. Around him floated holographic repeater displays, showing him the distribution of enemy forces; the location of the nearest flotilla of Gorean destroyers, and the arrayed masses of Gorean fighters.
"We should attempt to offer them cover fire," Commander Durnham advised, standing at Darien's shoulder polishing his glasses.
"The Gorean are out of range," Darien replied, repeating what they all knew, the Gorean stayed exactly outside the limits of the Excalibur's Flak guns, refusing to engage the Imperial warship, but not hesitating to attack anything that crossed out of its protective arcs. "I'm not going to waste ammunition on a fireworks display for our guests."
"I am aware of the weapons limitations of our Anti-aircraft guns," Commander Durnham said. "I was suggesting a few well placed missile strikes from our mid and long range missile batteries."
"It would be a waste of firepower," Darien responded. "There are more Gorean fighters and destroyers than we have missiles. We would exhaust our offensive capacity and fail to make any kind of dent in that." He gestured to the mass of Gorean vessels that surrounded his ship.
"Understood, sir. However, the Excalibur is frustrated that the Gorean refuse to engage her." Commander Durnham cleared his throat again, uncertainly, voicing a puzzle that had been on all their minds for the three months of the occupation.
"They have reached the barrier," Alessandro called back up to the command chair.
Darien nodded pulling out his own TAC-link. "Colonel Mayfair, you are good to go."
* * *
Colonel Mayfair slapped the box mag into the side loader of the DT-09-A4 assault rifle, looking back at the collection of men that were under his command, each cocking their weapons and fussing with the ascent jackets they wore that provided the Propylon system with the capacity to recall them once they completed their objectives.
"All right girls, time to put that oversized tin can factory out of commission!" He yelled back to them. Two platoons of his best, made up from the survivors of the initial Gorean invasion, Karin SAS, his own Marines, plus a pair of Wolves as heavy fire support.
Standing across the Propylon chamber by the master control computer, the God-Emperor of mankind, a rather short and scruffy engineer in a bright red 49-er's ball cap and an oversized leather jacket, beamed over at them. "Bring me back something cool!" he yelled as he activated the coded sequence. The alien transportation crystals roared and flashed, whisking the Colonel and his Dragoons off the platform and shooting them instantaneously half way across the planet.
Edward patted the computer lovingly. "There's a good computer... now if you stay online I'll..."
The Denver operating system flickered as error messages popped up across the diagnostic screens. Edward sighed reluctantly, shaking his head, "You're a bitch, right? You know that, don't you?" He tapped the side of the Amsus made computer. "Aw, come on..."
* * *
"Paladin-one, Fox-one!" Katz thumbed the trigger, his F-175 slamming through the debris of the Gorean fighters foolish enough to get in the way of his 55mm rail cannons. Behind him, sweeping in his contrails, Masconi kept up with Excalibur's top ace as he cut a path for her through the buzzing swarm of Gorean fighters.
The Switchblade was a semi-active radar-homing missile, it careened through the powered armour fighters and slammed into the Gorean ELINT. It exploded, tearing the sensitive command and control fighter to pieces and curtailing the Gorean fighter's dependant on the ELINT's combat radar. They would have to relay on line of sight, not really much of a problem given their sheer numbers.
Katz gritted his teeth as the fighter rattled under him, debris raining across his fighter's hull as he powered into a steep climb, trying to clear the Gorean before they could cook him with their plasma cannons. The F-175 gave him everything she had as he erupted from the cloud of fighters, his cannons blazing.
Masconi whooped into the radio as she burst free a moment later, a swarm of Gorean hot on her tail. Not that it would do them much good. Both Imperial fighters, clear of the blockade, powered up to maximum acceleration, leaving their pursuers trailing behind.
"Paladin-one, you're trailing smoke," Masconi observed, causing Katz to glance back over his shoulder to the smouldering upper engine mount behind him. The Gorean plasma had caught light to the paint job on the dorsal surface of the booster, and he shook his head. It wasn't anything to worry about. The plasma was a substance near to napalm in its consistency, a soapy gasoline that was superheated and stuck to anything it hit. It lacked any kind of penetrating power on its own, but the Gorean liked to alternate their shots: one armour piercing round followed by a shot of plasma, hoping that they'd open up something flammable. It was a tactic that had been effective in the early days of the siege, claiming at least nine of Excalibur's remaining F-120's. It had, however, proven ineffective against the better-armoured F-175s and 150s.
"It's nothing, Ark-leader," Katz called back into his radio. "Let's bust this nut and go home?"
"Affirmative, Paladin-one," Masconi replied, her fighter accelerating up alongside his as she took the lead, ascending to meet the Gorean factory ship as it descended through the stratosphere.
It was a bulky contraption, built with a single purpose in mind; to process meat for the ravenous Gorean army. Like a bloated whale, the ship dropped towards a specially constructed airfield in the midst of a trio of the Gorean processing camps. Millions of Karin survivors had been rounded up in preparation for their fate, namely to be filleted and packaged as the latest crop.
Katz refused to allow that to happen, escorting Masconi on her attack run, her SAK-II's ready to knock out the massive ships radar systems, while her reefers were destined for the bulbous ship's crescent ion drives. She would die in a spectacular conflagration of fire. Of course, that was dependant on whether or not they could penetrate the ring of escort fighters that surrounded the enemy ship.
These were different, and Katz could appreciate the fact that the Gorean had seen fit to guard their precious food processor with one of their elite squadrons. Unlike the typical snot-green powered armour fighters that ringed the Excalibur, these were painted in a brilliant arterial red, like an exoskeleton around the delicate frame of a lesser Gorean female. Their wings and rotating ion engines gave them speed and agility over their slower cousins, and the twin cannons they sported left no doubt that they meant business.
Katz had encountered these pilots before, and out of an attack group of nine fighters, he had been the only one to return. The Red-fliers of the Gorean Armada could match the F-175s, and their formidable flying skills guaranteed that the attack wouldn't be an easy one.
"Reds," Masconi observed dryly. "Shit!"
"Worry about Bertha," Katz replied as he flexed his gloved hands. "I'll play kiss-chase with the girls."
He set his sights, the HUD before his eyes lighting up with yellow halos indicating what was a target. The Reds had spotted the two Imperial fighters and were already redeploying to meet them. Unlike the chaotic mess of greens, the Reds knew their objective was to guard the processor, five of the eight were breaking off, while the other three closed in to offer fire cover for their charge.
A quick glance down told him that he had three switchblades left as well as his reefers, not much good against five Reds. Their rapid-fire plasma cannons would cut the missiles down if he fired them too far out. He needed to get up close and personal to be able to dance with those ladies.
* * *
"Paddesh-General." The soldier lumbered into the Terran command centre in the fortress of Karin, the ape-lizard hunched its shoulders forward and rolled its beefy neck about baring its red and gold mating pattern submissively to the large Lesser-Gorean standing with his huge hands on the edge of the Gorean interface unit.
The Paddesh rotated one of his heavy bone ridged eyes to look at the young male who had interrupted his contemplation. "What is it?" he demanded, his voice a throaty hiss - a result of reconstructive surgery to his throat after a brutal battle for mating rights when he had been an adolescent.
"The reds report that they are under attack from a pair of Imperial fighters." The younger lizard backed up a step; it wasn't unheard of for older males to eat younger ones, especially ones bearing unfortunate news.
The Paddesh rotated his eye back to the holographic displays of the Imperial monitoring system, tracking in green the flashing insignias of a pair of F-175 fighters, each bearing computer tags listing them as from the cursed ship.
"Then order the reds to kill them." The Paddesh clicked his jaw in frustration. Typical females, always useless at making important decisions, too busy preening themselves for male attention.
"But Paddesh-General, one of them is..." The younger male shifted uncomfortably, considering bolting for the doors.
"Ahh," the Paddesh replied, leaning forward to get a better look at the holographic display and pointing a barbed claw towards the second fighter in the flight. "The... what do the females call him?"
"They call him an Ace, Paddesh..." The younger reminded uneasily.
"As in the playing card." The Paddesh-General flexed his bone ridges. "He is nothing to fear."
"They say that he is," the younger lowered his bulky frame closer to the ground, "and when Lady Tagria gives such a warning..."
"Tagria." the Paddesh clicked his jaw again. "Well inform her ladyship that now is her opportunity to conquer her fear. That I demand this Ace's death."
At the far end of the command centre, a large blue-scaled form flexed, a single red eye cracking open. "Something troubles you Paddesh?" The great wyrm's voice rumbled with an ancient resonance that stoked true terror in the Lessers.
"T-there is nothing to concern yourself with, Your Reverence." The Paddesh trembled as he turned and pressed himself down against the stones. "Merely a resurfacing of Lady Tagria's..."
"I have ears, Paddesh," the ancient one responded, his long blue-black body uncoiling, a great snake that shifted with amazing speed for a being his size. He swept down from where he had coiled himself, resting a great clawed hand on the situation table, dwarfing it with his sheer immensity.
"I-I meant no disrespect, Reverence, merely sought to enlighten you as to..." the Paddesh whimpered at his mistake.
The ancient one rotated a clawed hand, rolling his form as he pressed the Paddesh down to the floor and dragged the lesser Gorean closer to his great jaws. The massive bone protrusion from his muzzle sloped forward like a craggy mountain in the middle of the ancient face. "His Watchful Eye sees all, and I am his will!" he roared, the saliva dripping from his maw and soaking the Paddesh's face. "You forget your place, Paddesh."
"M-my place is to serve you, Your Reverence," the Paddesh whimpered. "I exist on your whim."
The war-master Sal-z˙r released the Paddesh. "And your service is noted," the great creature's tone returning to complete calm. "Now stop your snivelling and ensure that the processing ship lands safely."
"As you command." The Paddesh rose, using the situation table for support to lift his own bulk from the stone floor. "Order Lady Tagria's immediate attack!" he bellowed furiously at the younger lesser who had slunk away to a corner to avoid the great one's ire.
The great Gorean curled back on his haunches, tilting his cranial-ridges so that his great head could stare over the small holo-display. "This Ace's name is Alvin Katz, and he is a former slave. Advise Tagria to use his weakness against him."
"Which is, Your Reverence?" The Paddesh looked up uncertainly.
"His memories." Sal-z˙r replied. "His weaknesses lie in the spectre of his own past. Tagria will know what I mean."
* * *
Darien rose from his command chair and descended to the communications tier of the bridge, standing beside Alessandro, staring over his shoulder at the screens. It felt wrong, not having Lieutenant Galadriel at the station, though they had been lucky to acquire the young Kardiac Lieutenant. He was as skilled, if not more so, at communications and electronic warfare equipment. But there was still a hollow absence that came with the personal loss Galadriel represented to the Warlord. She had been like family.
Alessandro, for his part, seemed to understand the personal loss Darien had suffered. He did his job flawlessly, and gave the Warlord a wide berth at other times, deliberate trying not to remind Darien of what he had lost.
"Ragazzo is fighting five Gorean fighters." Alessandro unfolded his arms and pointed to the Tactical boards where the details of the processor ship's escorts were being marked. "He fights well."
Darien nodded, tilting down his glasses to get a better look. "Katz is the best," he replied softly.
He caught the secretive smile that shone across Alessandro's face at the praise, and Darien paused long enough to consider how close Masconi's cousin was to the young von Karin Ace. There were, of course, the excuses Katz made to visit the bridge, the longing stares towards the TNC officer, who happily pretended to be oblivious. Darien couldn't fault them that. A connection, any connection, in the midst of war, was a precious thing to have.
"Colonello Mayfair reports that he is inside." Alessandro reported, turning to look back over the grey-blue enlisted officer's shirt he wore, the lieutenant's bars looking out of place on the collar. But no one voiced a complaint over the electronic warfare officer's taste in dress, especially not since he'd placed the Kardiac golden lion on the shoulders.
"Wish him luck," Darien responded, stepping back and looking up towards Commander Durnham. "Given your experience of Gorean behaviour..."
Durnham dematerialized and reappeared at Darien's shoulder. "The Gorean are notably unpredictable in surprise situations, however I am certain that your plan will succeed, providing we can get the Propylons back online. The Dragoons are experienced at sabotage missions."
* * *
Colonel Mayfair jogged through the corridors of the processor ship, his Dragoons shooting anything that moved. They had the advantage of surprise, moving through the factory sections of the ship, attaching explosive charges to support couplings as they went. So far it was a textbook smooth operation.
Of course, the fact that the crew of the processor were desperately trying to protect themselves from Masconi's attack-run definitely helped.
Mayfair dropped to one knee, his heavy assault rifle barking it's deep stattaco roar as he gunned down another Gorean warrior, the heavy lizard crashing to the metal decks as the Colonel sprang up, covering the upper gallery where one of the Karin Wolves used his heavy machine gun to cut down more of the warriors that seemed to be swarming out of every hatch.
"One from Eight," Lieutenant Grogen called from the TAC-link earpiece, "duck, sir."
Mayfair instinctively ducked as the telltale rush of the VLR-01 sniper rifle heralded the death of another Gorean warrior, taking the creature's head clean off. He turned, looking up to the rafters of the factory high above him, knowing it was in vain. Grogen wore Polian adaptive camouflage, the sniper keeping watch over the Dragoons with the deadly Amsus rifle that had become Mayfair's best friend since his last encounter with the Polians.
Mayfair flashed a thumbs up towards the ceiling, jogging to the right to lend the Wolf above him cover fire, watching the plasma weapons of the Gorean warriors smatter over the heavy ceramic armour plates the Wolf wore.
The Imperials outclassed the Gorean in battlefield technology, the problem was the amount of it needed to drive them off of Karin soil. And while the Wolves' armour negated the plasma weapons, it did little to protect the soldier from Gorean claws. Mayfair remembered a particularly viscous attack a few months before when he'd watched a Wolf who had exhausted his ammunition supply be literally torn apart by a pack of Gorean warriors.
The Wolf backed away from the Gorean that were advancing upon him, giving ground as more took to the gallery, ignoring the bullets tearing through their ranks. A consummate professional, the Wolf would never call for help, but Mayfair could smell trouble and began to climb on top of a canning machine.
The shadows burst into two dark, spinning balls of death. The pair of Fida'i darted through the ranks of the Gorean, their black, poisoned knives dealing death with the simplest of cuts as they fought to allow the Wolf time to jump down from the gallery. He crashed to the deck below, reloading a fresh belt of ammunition into his machinegun as he turned to cover their retreat.
The Fida'i leapt clear, darting from machine top to machine top and melting back into the shadows, ready to lend assistance elsewhere.
Mayfair nodded his head and touched his earpiece. "Come on lads, get your thumbs out! Let's blow this oversized wedding gift and go home!"
* * *
Katz was fighting for his life, the F-175 diving down towards the city streets, rocketing between buildings over the heads of Gorean troopers in the streets, watching as a pair of Reds pursued the lone Imperial fighter. He swung the fighter up and around, taking a right on Forty-Third Street and keeping his teeth gritted, sparing a glance back up towards Big Bertha, and where Masconi duelled with her three fighters.
He was allowing himself to be driven off; the mass of green steel ahead of him from the Gorean fighter shield, and the reds behind him. He was out of missiles - it had taken almost all he had just to whittle the Reds down to two. The agility of the Red fighters scared the crap out of him, and he couldn't afford fear.
He reefed the fighter vertically, curving around the First Bank of Orion, climbing skywards as he flattened out of the roll, applying full power to the afterburners, counting down the seconds in his head and then deploying the airbrakes.
The twins shot past him, red flashes rolling about on their axes as they tried to get a firing solution on the Imperial fighter that was suddenly behind them. But Katz wasn't about to forgive them their error in timing. The 55mm rail cannon spat death, carving the trailing Gorean fighter in half, but as he tracked the weapon over towards the leader, her desperate roll put her around behind the bank. His cannon fire carving glass and concrete out of the skyscraper.
He had to move. He fired the vectored engines that were keeping him hovering in between the buildings, dropping him lower as he applied forward thrust again, his hand tapping across the engineering board, trying to engage his boosters again.
She was too quick, leaping up like an insect from around the spire atop the skyscraper; she dropped down towards him, swinging her plasma cannon like a club, smashing down onto the back of his fighter as the weapon crumpled against his port booster.
Reacting on instinct, Katz's fist crashed down on the emergency ejection system, blowing the supplementary armour plates and boosters free of their mounts. The explosive charges detonated, and the armour plates she stood upon suddenly blasted away from the fighter, propelling her backwards as the F-175 fighter careened upwards and away from her, its tail swinging about as he applied thrust from his nose, sighting in on her again, pounding back at her with his 55mm cannon, tearing gouges out of her wings, and sending her spinning into the side of another building, crashing into the abandoned offices and vanishing into the darkness within.
Katz tipped off a cheery salute at the shadows as he swung his nose up and switched the fighter back to its vernier boosters, climbing to assist his CAG, leaving a bruised Gorean to lick her wounds in the shadows.
***
Edward flashed, first to each of the Propylons, adjusting their configuration and tossing a wrench across the chamber, flashing to catch it neatly. He used it to bang a stubborn connection into a jerry rigged socket. He set the wrench down and flashed again, back to the master control computer, petting its side. "Come on, come on."
The service elevator clanked into place across the Propylon chamber, and Doctor Kyr swung up the safety bar, hefting his black medical bag and gesturing to a pair of orderlies to set up the stretcher in readiness for the Dragoon team's return.
"Broke again?" Kyr asked, joining his friend over beside the console, pulling his stethoscope out of the pocket of his lab coat and popping it around his neck.
"Broken again says this thing actually worked right before," Edward grumbled, wrestling with reinstalling the custom drivers he had created for the Propylons, "instead you should say 'still broken'... or something like that."
"My mistake," Kyr replied, glancing over the computer and around him at the chamber. "At least it sort of works, right?"
Edward sighed. "I'm a god, right?"
"Well, that's a bit of an overstatement," Kyr responded with a shrug, "but yes?"
"Right." Edward smiled, looking up at his friend. "So you'd think connecting a piece of ancient alien hardware into a knock off cloned computer the Amsus bought in the bargain bin of the nearest Denver Megastore, using a hacked copy of the worst operating system ever developed, would be easy, right?"
"Well, maybe if you had a manual," Kyr offered helpfully.
"Excuse me while I call Peligian tech support," Edward quipped back, pulling out his TAC-link and flipping it open, "Dee, wegottabitofaproblem..."
* * *
Darien glanced up from monitoring the tactical scopes..."What's wrong, Matt?"
"The Propylons are offline. Again," Edward replied through the overhead speakers. "Can we trade them in for a really cool minivan or something?"
Alessandro tried not to grin, and Darien closed his eyes. "Any chance you can fix them in the next," he looked up towards the clock that was counting down the timers on the Dragoon charges scattered throughout the processor ship, "five minutes?"
"Well, if I said no, would that be bad?" Edward's voice sounded hopeful.
"Matty..." Darien said, turning and walking back towards his command chair.
"I know, I know," he appeared before Darien, hauling up his shirt front. "Rub it for luck!"
Darien rolled his eyes. "Matty, we don't..."
Edwards shrugged. "I don't make the rules, I just follow them. You want a miracle, you gotta work for it!"
Darien sighed, reaching out and tousling the light hairs on Edward's tummy, shaking his head, "now can you please fix the damn ship?"
Edward grinned at Darien before he vanished again, "sure, give me five minutes..."
Darien turned back to the officers who were staring at him, trying not to grin, and pretending to be busy. He sighed in frustration as he sat down in the command chair, feeling Excalibur's amusement, despite her worry over her absent crew. "Don't you start," he shot back at her.
Commander Durnham cleared his throat as he returned to the Warlord's side. "Sir, with respect, perhaps we should consider another extraction method..."
"I have," Darien responded. "Problem is, there isn't one. If we try to send drop ships through that," he nodded to the blockade, "they'd be cut to ribbons, and if the Dragoons were to somehow commandeer Gorean escape pods, they'd be landing in a city swarming with Gorean troopers, and again they'd still be cut off from the Excalibur."
"Point taken," Commander Durnham acknowledged, removing his glasses again and polishing them thoughtfully. "Perhaps if the Excalibur were to intercept the factory ship, we'd be able to bring them within the five-mile no-fly-zone?"
Darien glanced up. "You're brilliant, you know that right?"
"No, just observant. Since we have no idea why the Gorean hold away from the Excalibur, I see no reason why we shouldn't exploit it as an advantage."
It had been an idea submitted during the initial planning session of the raid as a method of destroying the processor ship, but with the Gorean in control of the processor, it wouldn't have been practical. With Colonel Mayfair's team aboard, though, the Gorean vessel wouldn't be able to escape. Especially if the Colonel could capture the ship's command centre and allow the Excalibur to intercept it. Failing that, if Masconi could disable the vessels manoeuvring thrusters...
"Ark-Lead, this is Excalibur-Actual." Darien lifted the growler phone to his mouth. "I need your help."
* * *
Masconi loved a good plan, especially when she was actually informed of it. She would have preferred to know the plan before she was neck deep in the midst of a desperate dogfight with three of the best pilots in the Gorean Armada, though.
"Look, Actual, we really should talk about your timing," she bit out, hammering the fighter into a tight barrel roll, careening under the length of 'Big Bertha', the trio of bandits in hot pursuit.
"I need you to hit Bertha's flippers," Darien called back through the radio. "Deny her mobility..."
Masconi sighed as she looked at the on-rushing ground. Bertha was on her final approach, angling her descent to make for the landing field, her landing gears were extending in anticipation of the touchdown.
"Actual, Ark-lead. Sir, if I hit them, this whale's gonna hit the ground, uncontrolled and hard."
"Buy me some time," Darien urged. "We're inbound."
"Great," Masconi responded, powering her fighter into a steep dive, putting distance between her and the big ship, hoping to get a clear angle to launch her reefers. Behind her the triplets were gaining, their fire intensifying as they realized she was trying to get a firing solution.
"Mind if I cut in, Ark-leader?" Katz's voice sounded almost musical as his fighter shot past hers, rolling so that all she caught was a flash of the smiling cartoon cat he had painted on his tailfins - his not-so-subtle protest over house affiliations.
"Sure, nice to see you. Thought you were having your own fun," she leaned down to the master targeting computer, receiving data from the Excalibur as the great warship fed the smaller fighter tactical data on Bertha. Locked in, it was a matter of gaining enough distance to fire her reefers.
She glanced back as Katz's fighter blew through one of the Reds, the contrails from his wings clouding the sky as he spun lazily around the processor's fat aft section and out of sight.
* * *
"Sir?" Colonel Mayfair called. He'd just felt the processor ship slam hard to port as Masconi's Reefer blew one of the manoeuvring thrusters clean off.
"Hold tight, Marty," Darien reassured him through the TAC-link, "we're going to get you off that thing."
"Really?" Mayfair grumbled. He felt the ship roll to starboard as the other manoeuvring thruster blew out. "I get the decided impression you're blowing the hell out of this thing with me still on it!"
Beside him a pair of his Dragoons hunkered down, their DT-09's blaring as they fought to keep the Gorean at bay from their makeshift bunker. The pair of Wolves were out of ammunition, and were offering little more than moral support to their compatriots, pinned down in the depths of the factory floor, surrounded by their own bombs. It wasn't exactly the situation they'd signed up for when they'd volunteered for the sabotage mission.
"Faith, Colonel," Darien reassured.
"With all due respect, sir," Mayfair complained as he slotted his last magazine into his assault rifle, "the closest thing we have to a god is a hyperactive engineer and I'm on my last mag. My faith's a little thin right now!"
There was a flash, and the young man in question appeared in the midst of the bunker. He smiled at the Colonel. "You know I heard that, right?"
Mayfair blinked at the young man facing him and shook his head. "Aren't you supposed to be working on the Propylons. You know, getting us the hell out of here?"
Edward folded his arms. "You see, you're yelling, not the greatest motivator." He stood and gritted his teeth, concentrating.
Time about them slowed to a crawl. Mayfair popped his head up, astounded at the frozen Gorean held firmly in place, the bolts of plasma floating suspended in the air. His men chattered confusedly as they stood, staring in disbelief at the spectacle.
Edward sighed and fumbled through the pockets of Darien's leather jacket, pulling out a packet of mints and holding one out to the Colonel. "You want one?"
"W-what happened?" Mayfair asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
"Oh the computer needs two minutes to reboot, and since you have about thirty seconds on those bombs, and well... Masconi could only buy you about that by blowing up the manoeuvring thrusters; I figured I'd, errr, stop time." Edward popped a mint into his mouth and looked around him at the factory ship. "So this is how they make spam, huh?"
"Um, sir, your highness... umm sir." Mayfair doffed his fatigue cap and looked around, blowing a sigh. "If you stopped time here, does that mean you stopped time on the computer rebooting?"
Edward glanced back. "No, that's in a pocket of real time like the one we're in. I'm running time at two different speeds." He sucked on his mint, reaching out to lift Mayfair's wrist and look at his watch. "We should be okay." He paused. "You know, I had a friend once who said 'you don't truly appreciate life until you try to lose it.'"
"What happened to him?" Mayfair asked suspiciously.
"Ah, see now that was the sad part." Edward brightened. "But the computer should be back online now."
"I am filled with confidence," Mayfair sighed as Edward vanished. Time around the colonel sprang back into its regular flow, and he dropped prone to the deck as the plasma blast roared over head, crashing into the barricades behind him. His men dived for cover as well as the Gorean clambered over the edge of the barricade, leaping towards them.
There were a string of white flashes, and the Dragoons vanished as the Propylons whisked them away, Mayfair having enough time to watch the bombs count down the last few seconds.
* * *
Unable to manoeuvre, the processor ship tried to gain altitude, it's gears crashing through the snow on the edge of the mountain, as deep within its bulk explosions roared, destroying refining equipment that would have fed the Gorean war machine for years to come. The blasts ripped through the ship as, above it, two fighters streaked away, back towards the Excalibur, as the great warship brought the five-mile no-fly-zone into range.
Darien watched the Processor ship die, standing before the command chair, his arms folded across the red trimmed, snow-white uniform of a Warlord. He'd bought Karin a bit more time, but they were desperately outnumbered, and it was only a matter of time before the Gorean found other ways of satiating their troops' hunger.
"Begin ascent, put us back into orbit," Darien commanded, turning from the observation windows and walking back through the CIC heading for his stateroom. "Order Mayfair down with his troops to the surface, we should begin the liberation."
"Aye sir," rang out the replies.
* * *
The Paddesh trembled. "Your Reverence..."
Sal-z˙r chuckled. "This Darien Taine amuses me." He looked down at the Paddesh. "Destroy that ship"
The Paddesh cowered. "We cannot, Your Reverence. The curse..."
Folding his legs under his coiled mass, Sal-z˙r settled back onto his bulk. "You defy me again?"
"As Your Reverence knows, we cannot attack that ship. To do so will bring ruin upon you, as it has all who tried before." The lesser Gorean sank to the floor. "I cannot be the one responsible for your ruin, I would rather die."
Sal-z˙r flexed his jaws, considering eating the Paddesh, but it would serve little purpose, and training another Gorean Paddesh would take time. Time he didn't have to spend. He turned his eyes towards the holographic representation of the Imperial warship climbing towards space. The superstition that surrounded that ship was burned into the Gorean psyche, echoing from a time when they had nearly swept everything before them.
Pax and his damnable sword.
Even His Watchful Eye felt trepidation when ordering an attack on it - warlord Xier's death had come after such an attack. No, to cross the five-mile barrier was to risk all and, superstition or nonsense, it was a risk His Watchful Eye refused to take and Sal-z˙r agreed. Let the ship be, there were other ways of dealing with Taine and the damnable Propylons. For the time being, he was the undisputed master of the Empire, and once they captured Eisenhower, he would have a gateway to the rest of the galaxy.
Communications Node - Outpost A-IX - Amsus Occupied Territory
OCCUPATION: DAY TWENTY-SEVEN
"Riley's forces probably consist of four primary battle groups," Strega assessed, standing at the head of the red glowing holographic table, flipping through recon and intelligence reports that offered some insight into their enemies' numerical assets.
"Irrelevant." Aleš lounged in a seat across from her examining an apple with an equal amount of diligence. "The Amsus may hold a significant numerical advantage, but their ships are centuries out of date when compared to the Imperial ones. The best method to dealing with the Empire is destabilizing its powerbase and waiting for its foundations to crack."
"Psychological rather than a direct method," Katherine agreed standing under the upper tier near to a communications console, her school uniform, crisp and clean, contrasted with the Imperial TAC-link headset she wore over one eye. "Their leadership is shaky at best, and although the reports are unconfirmed, there may be some crisis in the Apilon Rift. Our agents in the Imperial fleet inform us that there is a new faction rising within their ranks, the Brotherhood of Macedonia."
"Fundamentalist dissidents," Strega dismissed, turning pages as she glanced at her brethren. "I won't deal with turncoats." She paused looking at Aleš. "Give me your assessment of the Imperial leadership."
"Militarily there are two main leaders, Field Marshal Riley and Warlord Taine. Riley is an African American school teacher turned resistance leader, he has no experience co-ordinating fleet-level strategic operations." Aleš searched through his notes, pulling a hefty file to the top of the pile. "And Darien Taine is a former TER-SEC Inspector who for the past three years has essentially been the backbone of the Imperial military. Tactically brilliant, he has a proclivity towards utilizing hyperspace as a weapon, but the methods of application are random."
Strega nodded, "then our real threat is Taine, can we assassinate him?"
"Attempts have been made," Aleš reported, adjusting his seat as he pulled extra pieces of paper from the file. "However both agents that were placed close to him were squandered by Rikard, and if the reports are correct, Taine is in possession of an elite corps of bodyguard called the Fida'i of the Naziri Ismali sect."
"Fundamentalists again," Strega surmised. "We will need to devise a method of countering them, I'll instruct Jasmin to begin work on refining the Inquisitor project towards that aim."
"You're underestimating Riley." Duncan's deep voice resonated from the upper gallery, and Strega turned a frustrated eye up towards where the scruffy looking boy stood, resting on a cane and looking down on them.
Where he had found the cane was anyone's guess, probably at one of the many antiques stores in the colony. It was a solid piece of ebony that ended in a shard of dark amber wrapped in silver. A fanciful token of vanity in Strega's opinion, although Duncan's limp had become more pronounced, a side effect of the maturation process that meant the vaunted GN-3 was flawed. That at least made her smile. Sometimes perfection could not be improved upon.
"Do you have something to add," Strega demanded, "or are you going to critique our strategy?"
Duncan didn't smile, he never smiled, merely shrugged his small shoulders. "Your strategy is flawed. Attacking the leadership of the Empire will gain you nothing. You wish to halt the Empire, then you must mobilize every asset you have and hammer them relentlessly with sheer numbers."
His cane clicked as he walked down the stairs to their level, gritting his teeth at the pain as he drew to a stop, taking in the tactical display that showed the Imperial fleet surrounding Sentinel Station approaching the Sol System from dead space.
"Earth is vulnerable..." he began.
"Rubbish," Aleš sneered, looking in disdain at Duncan's un-ironed shirt, the oversized blazer, and the tie that had been stretched all out of shape and tied in a lacklustre knot. "There are orbital defences, special batteries, and three defence platforms. Not to mention the first and third battle groups sitting under those guns. We also have a couple of hundred TER-SEC patrol frigates that can be mustered to reinforce the lines. The Imperial forces will reach Earth only to be repelled there."
"I could take it," Duncan said simply, not sounding boastful at all. "Circumventing your line is relatively easy, and our tactical projections show that the Excalibur was easily the match of a pair of battle groups and that was an Imperial Command Carrier." He lifted the cane to poke at a holographic image. "That is the HMS Anger of Hades, a dreadnaught, one of the few remaining battlewagons capable of engaging and taking worlds alone and unsupported." He shifted the cane's tip to point at the space station. "That was one of three stations that guarded Earth before the fall. We don't currently have the firepower to engage that station anywhere close to the Earth system. Earth will fall if the Empire retains these two key assets. You want my suggestion, Strega? Destroy these two pieces and the Imperial forces will crumble, buying enough time for a numerically superior Hegemony force to surround and decimate them."
"And so the master takes me to school," Strega sneered.
"Stop it!" Katherine broke in. "Bickering won't get us anywhere, we need to find a way to protect Earth."
Duncan turned his head. "And has any of us stopped to think why? Or are we merely to remain puppets?"
"Here we go again," Aleš rolled his eyes, "conspiracy theories abound." He bit into his apple, using it to gesture to Duncan, "You read the news, you've seen the reports, examined the histories. The Imperial Empire, in forty years, brought the entire Galaxy to the very brink of total anarchy. Kardiac was the most brutal and blood thirsty psychopath in human history. Humanity was lucky the Hegemony brought stability. Look at it this way, for three hundred years there has been peace and the price of that peace was a few human civil liberties, forgive me while I weep about that." Aleš shook his head. "Along comes Taine and bam, everything is back to anarchy again. We're merely restoring the balance and order."
Duncan rested on his cane, "Very well, then what about the rogue Imperial battleship?"
"A myth," Aleš snorted, "I have yet to see concrete evidence that it actually exists."
"Duncan is right," Strega nodded, "the rogue battleship is dangerous. We have to locate it and deal with it. It has already destroyed a Hegemony hive world. I don't want to engage Riley to find that ship appearing in the midst of the fight." She grew smug and looked at Duncan. "What would you need to destroy it?"
Duncan arched an eyebrow. "You want me to deal with it?"
"You seem to feel it is the biggest threat, then the least you can do is end that threat." Strega stood, smoothing down her pleated plaid skirt.
Duncan chewed his lip a moment, thinking. "I would need four Carriers and ten squadrons of Predators."
"Polian enhanced?" Strega asked reluctantly.
"No," Duncan answered, "leave those with the main fleet. Give me the un-enhanced surplus fighters. And I will deliver you one rogue battleship, and I will do it long before you can deliver Riley."
THE END AGAIN