Location: Hyperspace near system N-9777
Vessel: Mastodon, Deep Recon Cruiser
Date: March 20 2728 — Standard Earth Calendar (SEC)
Holstering my needler—SI-10r, the "Sixer", a standard-issued gauss needler from Skaaren Industries—I picked up my helmet from its resting place and closed my locker.
Lola, well knowing my habits, immediately turned the locker door into a mirror, letting me see myself.
"You can do this," I whispered, looking back into my silver eyes, finally finishing my ritual and feeling ready.
It was time to go.
Sharply turning, I left the locker room and, not long after, stepped out of the elevator onto the flight deck.
I remembered the moment I came down here for the first time, the day I arrived on Mastodon.
As it had been back then, the flight deck buzzed with life, full of motion and sound. The only difference lay in the ships lined up in their final prep phase.
Back then, we had the HB-66s—Hellblades—which have been outdated ever since that day. Now, the flight deck was full of ATv-9s, the latest marvel from AetherTech in heavy space fighters—issued to replace our wiped-out wings in the Red Stars conflict.
The Ateeves were not much larger—5.67 per cent bigger, as Lola would insist—but they were nearly twice the weight, carrying two warheads and at least twice the ammo capacity for their railgun systems. Combine that with the latest ion-plasma hybrid engines, and you had the wet dream of every space pilot—capable of pushing far beyond what the human body could handle, if not for the inertia-compensation system.
Making my way to the red wing section, I glanced over the pop-up screen with my wing's status, trusting Lola to flag anything that mattered.
Everything was as usual. Tech personnel were running the last tests, making sure all birds were loaded, prepped, and ready—as per protocol.
Thirty minutes to go.
Finally stopping beside my own bird, I nodded to Lt. Commander Morter, who was already waiting to personally hand it over, sending the document for my approval signature.
"I left the cockpit lockers open," said Lt. Commander Morter after receiving the signature.
"Thanks, James," I replied with a smile, discarding protocol.
After all, he was supposed to make sure they were locked before handing the ship over, but he knew me well.
"Not a problem, Katee, not a problem," he said with a stiff smile before saluting with two fingers and sharply walking away.
With a sigh, I turned back and looked over my bird once more.
The Hellblade hadn't survived that battle, I had been locked inside its wreck in space for almost three weeks, and only Lola's care let me survive long enough until the debris was picked up and I was found.
James saw me back then, all thin with skin over my bones—Hellblades didn't have enough supplies even for one week, and I survived longer, way longer—paying with my body weight.
"Thanks, Lola," I said, as if referring to the opening cockpit she sent the command to.
"Always," she replied, and I was sure she knew exactly what I thanked her for.
—
Climbing inside, I looked around the tight space of the pilot cradle. As James had promised, the lockers above were open, exposing the stocked and mounted items inside.
Lola immediately highlighted each one, projecting AR tags and letting me go over the list myself.
The NB-9 rations — higher in calories and richer in minerals than the standard issue — were stocked above protocol level, along with an extra water tank and spare power banks in case of a power failure.
Taking the slim backpack off my shoulder, I stowed my own stockpile of custom-made survival substances that would keep me alive far longer, though at the cost of taste.
Next, I took out a custom-made droid with a wide variety of tools integrated inside, which would allow Lola to have her own hands, in case she needed them.
The last, but not the least, was the additional ammo for my Sixer— non-standard issue, and capable of penetrating thick armour or, with an extra five shots, a standard SAT scaf energy field shield.
Fair to say, my pilot's scaf already had an upgraded energy field shield, even though it would drain my scaf batteries faster—my last resort if the cockpit was ever breached in battle.
Closing the lockers, I finally dropped into the cradle, and Lola initiated boot-up, bringing the cockpit to life with AR screens.
For the next ten minutes, with Lola's help, I double-checked all the systems, making sure everything was in order and passing tests.
"Seems fine now," I breathed out, and, closing my eyes, started to meditate—preparing for the upcoming battle, I felt was coming.
—
"RW-1 reporting ready, RW-2 reporting ready," the stream of voice reports brought me back to the moment, and Lola brought up the Red Wing status-ready screen, mirroring the voice reports.
"RW-7, Lt. Commander Ladova, Red Wing reporting ready," I reported into the officer channel as soon as I saw all green on the screen.
"Roger, RW-7. Stand by. ETA two minutes and counting," replied Captain Naome personally. He always did it in the prep phase, only delegating comms to the deck officer in battle.
"BW-6, Lt. Commander Simpson, Blue Wing reporting ready," my rival's voice sounded in the officer channel not long after.
"Roger, BW-6. Stand by. ETA one minute and counting," replied the Captain again.
I looked over the Mastodon's ready status screen, noticing that three SAT squads had reported ready long before we did, already in their dropships, mounted and ready to take over any enemy vessel that dared to resist us.
Dropships, the Aper-101, were heavily armoured, one per squad, and capable of sustaining heavy fire to deliver their load aboard enemy vessels and bring them back after.
By my standing orders, our wing was supposed to clear the passage before them. The titan-balls guys they were—flying a brick through space, knowing there was nothing they could do before boarding the enemy vessel—and I planned to do my best for them.
"Boys and girls, you know your orders," I began over my wing comm channel as the engines started whining in the background. "Don't let the Blues be better than us."
Ignoring the cheering in the comm channel, I focused on the dock's armoured bay door as it began sliding aside, exposing grey subspace behind the energy field.
Risky manoeuvre on our side, if an ambush was waiting at the arrival point, but we had a counterplan for that.
With the last second ticking away, the grey space turned black with faraway stars scattered around, and our wing was in motion, clearing the dock in less than three seconds and proceeding with a counter-ambush manoeuvre in the back sphere.
"Four ships detected, CSU presence confirmed—Carrier, Neptune class; Destroyer, Killer class; Cruiser, Escort class; and Minelaying Frigate. Receiving updated orders," Lola's voice reported in my ear, mirroring the visual data unfolding around me and highlighting enemy positions, distances, and new orders.
"Detecting warhead launch. Engagement orders received," she continued, erasing any last hope for a peaceful disengagement here.
The CSU and ISA were not at war per se, but that had never stopped conflicts in grey—and sometimes even yellow—systems, especially if there was a chance to erase all evidence after the engagement.
"DS-1, DS-2, DS-3 launched and on Cruiser—CE-1—vector approach, plotting engagement vectors," added Lola, and I dropped my bird down to follow the plotted course to cover our package.
My wing followed, splitting into pairs and passing the dropships as if they were hanging in place.
Our engagement vector had already been cleared by anti-mine drones, highlighting the pathways, and we met the first warhead wave with our countermeasures.
"Enemy fighters, vector A1, A3, A7, B1," Lola reported, highlighting vectors and ETA, immediately assigning my wing pairs to each vector, following my eye movement.
I kept behind with my wingman—RW-10—just a bit above and behind me, paying close attention to the fast-changing battle pace.
Mastodon was locked in a duel with the Destroyer-DK-1, already suppressing its capabilities with heavy railgun fire. The Frigate—FM-1—and Carrier—CN-1—had pulled back, hiding behind the Cruiser—CE-1—we were approaching—so far, so good…
"RW-3, RW-4, down," Lola reported, marking them yellow—highlighting that the pilot capsules were intact.
Swearing in my head—had I jinxed myself?—I immediately assigned pickup markers for our heavily armoured Ave-01 following behind.
If they were lucky, Ave would pick them up soon; otherwise, it would be after the battle.
"DS-3 engines down," added Lola, and RW-5 and RW-6 were immediately assigned to guard until Ave-01 reached them.
Come on, guys! You're better than this!
"DS-1, DS-2, engaging boarding protocols. Touchdown, updating orders," said Lola, and I breathed out, glancing over the battlefield once more.
No changes in the duel with the DK-1, but Blue Wing had killed the engines on the CN-1 and FM-1—three fighters down—in yellow state—but they were outmatched one to three, and our new orders were to help them out.
"RW-1, take command and go rescue Blue asses," I commanded, reassigning RW-5 and RW-6 under his lead.
"I will cover DS-3 until Ave-01 finishes here and be on your tail," I finished, releasing wing command to RW-1.
"Roger, RW-7. Taking the lead. RW-1, out," replied my second-best pilot in the wing. He was long overdue for a promotion, and I had just used the situation to make it easier to earn it.
Red blinking dots—HB-1, HB-2, HB-3—surrounding CE-1 caught my attention, and Lola immediately provided the legend.
Shit, are they firing at SAT-1 and SAT-2 right through CE-1's armour from outside?
Immediately sending the report up the channel, I thought about our options. Why didn't they report it before?
"RW-7, Ave-01 is here. SAT-3, RW-3, and RW-4 are on board, disengaging. Ave-01 out," reported Ave-01.
"Roger, Ave-01, RW-7 out," I replied, requesting new orders to help our guys out, while engaging burnout mode in a middle vector between CE-1 and CN-1.
"This is Captain Naome. Mastodon is critically damaged and wouldn't leave this system on its own. Ave-02 is unboarding and will pick up escape capsules together with Ave-01 before leaving the system," an unexpected message cut through all comms, chilling me inside out.
"It was an honour to serve with all of you…"
"Receiving orders for RW and BW to cover Ave-01 and Ave-02 escape vectors," interrupted Lola, making Captain Naome's last message—already starting to repeat—quieter.
"RW-10, we're about to approach CE-1 to send our warheads at the HBs and turn around to follow Ave-01," I commanded over comms to my wingman, finally deciding on a course of action.
"Roger, RW-7. RW-10 targeting WH at HB-1 and turning around. RW-10 out," confirmed my good wingman.
For the next ten seconds, I had to silently watch as Mastodon—engaging its sublight engine—was approaching on a collision vector with DK-1, which was fruitlessly trying to manoeuvre out of the path.
Logically, I understood Captain Naome's decision. Without eliminating DK-1, no one would leave the system—it was the last standing vessel here, if not counting CE-1—but my heart was dying with each passing second.
As if hearing my thoughts, CE-1 engaged its own marching engines, setting a course on an escape vector from the system, leaving the HBs behind.
Shit.
As if vengeance angels themselves, we fell on the HBs at high speed, releasing WHs in the process and shredding the third one with our railgun systems.
I held the same vector for two seconds longer than needed, hoping for at least one SAT to disengage CE-1, before banking left and plotting a course around to catch up with RW-10, who was already on the new vector to Ave-01.
My eyes were glued to CE-1 all the way until it reached the speed needed for shifting into hyperspace, to leave the system.
But right before that, it exploded—unnaturally warping the space around itself—the clear sign that someone had broken the hyperspace engine.
As if in slow motion, I more felt than saw the wave reaching me, reaching my bird…
…and then nothing.