Stella mostly keeps to herself in the woman's bunk with Mila nearby to keep watch. Nidhogg's passive scans mark her movements, and Jodie's made sure every door between her and the bridge can be locked in an instant. Lars is the only one who's spoken more than a few words to her, and even that draws sidelong looks.
Eli's presence has become sharper these past two days. He spends more time on the bridge, claiming it's for duty, but the way his feathers bristle whenever Nidhogg mentions Stella's vitals tells another story. Mila and Eddy try to fill the silences with idle chatter, but nothing seems to catch.
The stillness breaks when Eli finally corners Trigger.
"We need to talk."
Trigger turns his eyes away from the map hovering over the arm of the captain's chair, up into a pair of narrowed, yellow eyes.
"You didn't even think about it, Trigger. You just let a hostile psychic walk on board."
Trigger frowns. "You're angry."
"I'm… concerned," Eli grounds out, the feathers along his neck flaring slightly. "You made that call without consulting me, or anyone else. Do you know what psionics like her can do? I do, and it's never worth the risk of keeping them around."
The eagle's face contorts into a grimace. "Everyone always thinks the ones that can lift things with their mind, or make lightshows by waving their hands are the ones to be scared of. Ha! No, the ones who can get into your head, the ones who can play with your thoughts, those are the dangerous ones. Have you ever had someone do that to you, Trigger? Someone who slipped into your skull and put their fingers into your brain?"
"Don't you see!?"
Trigger exhales through his nose. "This comes from a place of experience, doesn't it?" He states more than asks.
Eli says nothing.
Trigger stands so he can look his XO in the eye. "I know she's dangerous. That's why she's under watch at all times. And because I know she's dangerous, I also know she might be useful. If her story is true, then she could provide us a lead as to what is going on between the Trade Union, the salvagers, and the incursion from Sovereign Reach."
"Not our problem."
To that, Trigger nods slowly. "Not yet, at least. Also… Lars clearly has some kind of stake in her. If not for that tipping the scale, I would have turned her over."
Now, just where Lars' protest came from, he can only guess, and none of the guesses are pleasant.
"Look, I get it, okay? A lot of psychics have a bad rep, and a lot of them did it to themselves and deserve it, but not all of them are like that."
Eli takes a step closer, his boots clicking against the deck. "So that's it? Just betting on Lars' gut? Thought I was your XO for a reason, Captain."
The words hang in the air. For a long moment, Trigger says nothing, turning to watch the passing stars in the viewport.
"You're right."
Eli blinks, caught off guard. "What?"
"I should've spoken to you first. I made that decision on instinct, and it wasn't fair to you or the rest of the crew." Trigger's tone softens just a hair. "It won't happen again."
The tension in Eli's shoulders slackens a fraction. He studies Trigger's face, looking for some trace of insincerity, and finds none. "Arguments are supposed to last longer than that, moron."
"Not my style," Trigger replies, folding his hands behind his back.
Eli huffs through his beak, the sound halfway between amusement and resignation. "Just… don't make a habit of it."
"Understood," Trigger says simply. "And Eli? Thanks for calling me on it."
A near-silent scoff is his reply.
Silence settles again, not uncomfortable this time. The two stand side by side before the viewport, watching the light warp and bend around them. For the first time in days, the bridge feels a little less cold.
The hum of the FTL drive deepens, a low vibration that seeps through the deck plating. Trigger seats himself again and glances at the holographic map above his armrest, then at the shifting ribbons of light outside. "Do you think the Trade Union is involved with all the odd happenings in Griath? Besides the gate tolls, that is."
"Its not a question of if they're involved, but how much," Eli sniffs. "A nest of thin-feathered vultures like the Union never wastes a chance to tear out down what isn't theirs."
Trigger nods. 'Should have expected such an answer,' he thinks. "And the Salvager's League?
"Who knows?" Eli mutters. "If you're looking to draw lines between all the fucked-up dots, then you're on your own. How they know about battlefields days in advance is anyone's guess. Smart money says some kind of in with the Sovereigns, but even that is sketchy with how much the Sovereigns hate external corps."
"Hmm…" Trigger looks at the clock on his console. "Nidhogg, how long until we're on our final approach?"
"Fourteen minutes, thirty?six seconds until reversion to sublight," the AI replies. "Approaching outer marker of Griath II's first planet, Killigan."
"Understood." Trigger keys the shipwide intercom. "All crew to the bridge. Briefing in five." He hesitates only a moment before adding, "Stella, that includes you."
By the time the bridge door opens, everyone has assembled. The light from the displays casts blue against fur and feathers alike. Trigger stands near the forward console as the others take their places. Jodie takes her usual place at the pilot station, hands ready if need be. Lars leans against a bulkhead, arms folded, listening but stealing the occasional glance toward Stella. She stays close to the hatch, shoulders straight, expression unreadable.
Eddy breaks the silence first. "So, Captain, this one of those good briefings or one of those 'hope you said your prayers' kind?" His grin doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Neither," Trigger answers, tone even. "We're nearing Griath II's first planet. Our job is to escort Farworth's convoy through the orbital defense corridor and make sure nothing takes a shot at them while they unload. Simple."
"Simple, huh? We're overdue for something going wrong," Eli mutters, arms crossed.
"Hey! Don't jinx it!" Mila is quick to cry.
Trigger ignores them. "Nidhogg, status of the lane ahead?" He asks, looking at the viewport.
"Requesting update from buoy, stand by..."
The machine is silent for a few seconds, then:
"Navigation buoy Twelve?Bravo reports unexpected traffic congestion. Estimated fifty?seven contacts within the approach corridor. Transponder registry incomplete."
Alarm bells start to ring in Trigger's head.
"That's a lot of company," Jodie frowns and looks up from the pilot station with uneasy eyes. "Any idea why?"
"Unknown," Nidhogg replies briskly. "Traffic control channels are overloaded. Signal clarity degraded."
Trigger exchanges a look with Eli. "Could be a blockade, or an accident." He settles into the captain's chair. "Jodie, start the drop sequence. Let's find out."
The stars outside twist and collapse into points as the FTL bubble bleeds away. For a scant second, there's silence.
Then, alarms.
Outside the viewport, chaos reigns. Libret patrol frigates scatter defensive fire through a field of debris. Gunships and fighters dart between them like wolves, their cannons burning blue?white. Farther out, a heavy cruiser made of naught but sharp angles looms, its hull more hardpoint than armor. With it is a screen of rapidly advancing frigates, ones decidedly different from the blocky style the Librets favor.
Trigger grips the armrest, eyes narrowing. "Get a line to the Haul-o-Rex, now. Strider Squadron, general quarters! Nidhogg, ID the unknown vessels!"
No one needs to be told twice, and Trigger watches with a twinge of pride as each one of his crew members jumps to a station.
Stella, however, is left standing stiffly by the door. Her violet eyes look out to the flashes through the viewport, then to the handful of unmanned stations. "Captain Trigger…"
"Just sit," is all Trigger has to say, snapping his fingers and pointing to the officer seat next to him.
The skunk practically teleports over at the command, then promptly glues her rear to the indicated chair and keeps her mouth shut.
"Incoming transmission from the Haul-o-Rex," Nidhogg reports. "Signal priority one."
"Patch it through."
The holopanel beside Trigger's seat flickers to life, resolving into the harried face of the hauler's XO. The doberman's ears are flat, and the low din of stamping boots and distressed voices carries through the background. "Captain Trigger! We've got to get the hell out of here, and do it now!"
"Understood," Trigger replies, voice steady even as the bridge trembles from a distant shockwave. "Aquila will cover your retreat. Come about and push for Killigan, best speed."
The dog nods once, hurriedly. "Copy that. Moving and charging for a micro-jump now." The feed cuts.
"Jodie," Trigger orders, "bring us about, vector two-nine-zero, keep us between the Haul-o-Rex and any errant fire. Full burn."
"Understood." The coyote's paws move fast across her controls. The Aquila's thrusters roar to life, the vibration rattling through every bulkhead as the corvette banks sharply. Beyond the viewport, the heavy hauler's swollen frame begins its sluggish turn toward the distant blue-green orb of Killigan.
"Core spooling to maximum," Jodie reports. "Engines, too. We're pushing her as hard as she'll go."
As they move, Trigger tunes the radio, trying to get an idea of what the hell is happening. The bridge fills with the sound of overlapping distress calls, each one more desperate than the last.
"Mayday, mayday! Libret frigate Ceres taking heavy fire! We are mobility-killed and drifting!"
"Shields collapsing! Someone cover us or-!"
The next voice cuts off in a hiss of static and a flash on the tactical display as one of the Libret ships vanishes in a sphere of flame. Another marker winks out moments later.
Eli grimaces from his place at the top-side gun controls. "They're getting torn apart out there."
"Keep our nose pointed at the planet," Trigger says, his brows furrowing as he reads through the tac screen over his armrest. More Libret ships hold their position near Killigan. A garrison? "We can't help them right now."
"Captain," Nidhogg interrupts. "Positive identification of unknown forces. Intercepted comms confirm unknowns are an organized Sovereign Reach battlegroup."
"Can you pull intent from their channels?"
"Affirmative. Keywords indicate operation to weaken local Libret defenses in preparation for potential occupation of sector."
Trigger's frown deepens. "No change in plan. Keep moving."
Outside, the void lights with weapons fire as the Sovereign cruiser lances another Libret patrol craft clean in half with a burst of red bolts. The Aquila and the Haul-o-Rex streak away on blazing drives, engines pushing to their limits. Through the viewport, the distant flashes of weapons fire paint the darkness in violent bursts of color. For a moment, Trigger allows himself to think they might slip away unnoticed.
"Contact," Nidhogg announces, shattering that hope. "Three fighters breaking from the main engagement. Intercept trajectory confirmed."
The tactical display blooms with new markers, three angry red triangles accelerating hard toward their position. Trigger leans forward, studying their approach vectors.
"Sovereign interceptors," the AI continues. "Models verified: Viper MkII. Time to weapons range: forty-two seconds."
"Open a channel," Trigger orders, already knowing how this will play out but needing to try anyway. The comm system chirps acknowledgment.
"Sovereign fighters, this is MVC Aquila and CVF Haul-o-Rex. We are a non-affiliated transport conducting lawful passage through this sector. Break off your approach immediately."
Static fills the bridge. The red triangles continue closing, their drives burning harder now.
Trigger's fingers drum once against his armrest. "Sovereign fighters, I say again: we are non-combatants. Alter your vector."
Nothing. The interceptors maintain their pursuit, now close enough that the optical sensors can resolve their angular profiles against the stars.
"Twenty seconds to weapons range," Nidhogg reports.
"Trigger…" Eli says quietly from the gunnery station, his talons already hovering over the firing controls. The question doesn't need to be asked.
"Hold," Trigger replies, watching the distance counter tick down. "Fire only if fired on."
The first plasma bolt slams into their rear shields with enough force to shake the entire ship. Then another, and another. The shield percentage on Jodie's console drops from full to eighty-three percent in seconds.
"Return fire," Trigger says, his voice carrying that particular flatness that his crew has learned means violence is imminent. "All turrets, engage."
The Aquila's point-defense cannons swivel and lock. Eli squeezes the triggers as he leads his shots, sending streams of heavy, burning photons into space. Lars mirrors him from the ventral plas-flakker station. The lead interceptor tries to break left, but the crossfire is already converging. Its shields flare and die, then the fighter itself comes apart in a shower of molten fragments.
The remaining two split, trying to bracket the corvette. One manages to land another hit before Eli walks a burst across its cockpit. The third makes a desperate run at their engines, only to meet Lars's patient aim.
Three kills, fifteen seconds.
"Warning. Hostile battlegroup is responding," Nidhogg states with its typical absence of concern. "Detecting launch of additional fighters. Eight new contacts. Vector indicates pursuit course."
Trigger stands, the math already running in his head. The Haul-o-Rex is too slow, too heavy. They'll never outrun two full squadrons, not while defending a wallowing cargo hauler.
Downing the new contacts will just provoke another attack, so now they're forced to be proactive.
"Change of plans," he announces. "We're engaging alongside the Libret forces. All pilots, prepare for immediate launch."
Mila's head snaps around from her station. "We're joining the fight?"
"No choice. Jodie, Eddy, continue with the Haul-o-Rex toward Killigan. Best speed." Trigger moves toward the bridge exit, then pauses, turning to fix Stella with a look that could freeze hydrogen. "You. Remember what I told you when you came aboard. One wrong move while we're out there..."
The skunk tries to meet his gaze head-on, but still flinches. "I understand, Captain. I won't cause trouble…" She says, a waver in her words.
Trigger holds her gaze for another second, then nods once. "Eli, Lars, Mila. Hangar, now."
They move as a well-drilled unit, boots pounding down the corridor toward the launch bay. In under a minute, the four fighters in the Aquila's hangar are occupied and warming up.
"Strider Squadron," Trigger fastens his helmet, hiding his narrowed eyes as the hanger doors split open. "Sound off."
"Strider 2, ready," Eli's reply is as crisp as it is swift.
"Strider 3, ready." Trigger can hear the frown on the dog's face.
"Strider 4, ready!" Mila comes in last, a touch nervous and excited.
"There are a lot of hostiles, but remember that getting the Aquila and Haul-o-Rex out of the AO is the primary objective," Trigger pauses as the Wyvern's engines rumble. "Once the incoming fighters are down, be ready for further instructions and for conditions to change fast. Don't lose your head and come back alive. Ready?"
"Ready!/Ready!/Ready!"
Four fighters burst from the Aquila's hangar, immediately scattering into combat spacing. Through his canopy, Trigger gets his first good look at the approaching Sovereign fighters as they grow from specks to distinct shapes.
Vipers. The name fits. Each fighter has a broad, flattened nose that flares out like a snake's head, housing twin coaxial cannons that jut forward like fangs. Their broad, rounded wings sweep back in, and even at distance, Trigger can see the disciplined precision of their formation.
These aren't pirates or desperate smugglers. These are trained military pilots flying in learned attack patterns.
Eight ships against four. Two-to-one odds.
Trigger feels himself slipping into that familiar cold place, where emotion drains away and only the mission remains. His breathing slows, his heartbeat steadies. The world narrows to vectors and velocities, angles and ammunition counts. The cold takes his fingers first, as it usually does, and creeps up his arms and into his core.
"They're splitting into pairs," Eli calls, voice tight. "Trying to bracket us."
Sure enough, the Viper formation breaks apart. Two pairs sweep wide, attempting to flank, while the other four maintain a direct approach.
"Disperse pattern," Trigger orders, already rolling the Wyvern inverted and pulling into a diving spiral. "Don't let them box us in."
Strider Squadron explodes outward like shrapnel. Mila breaks high, her Caracal's forward-swept wings catching starlight as she climbs. Lars powers straight through, his Aggressor's heavy shields flaring as the lead Vipers open fire. Eli simply vanishes, his Revived's stealth systems rendering him a ghost against the void.
The first Viper to die never sees it coming. Trigger completes his spiral, levels out behind one of the flanking pairs, and puts a burst of muon fire directly through the rear of its cockpit. The fighter doesn't explode so much as cease, its pilot vaporized before the craft tumbles away, dark and lifeless.
Its wingman breaks hard, trying to bring those coaxial guns to bear, but Trigger's already gone, rolling away as return fire sears through empty space.
"Got one on my six!" Mila's voice carries an edge of panic as she weaves through a storm of plasma bolts.
"Breaking to assist," Lars is fast to lend a hand, his Aggressor's triple barrels already spinning up. The pursuing Viper is so focused on Mila that it doesn't notice the gunship sliding into its blind spot until tungsten rounds are chewing through its port engine. The fighter spins out of control, trailing flame and debris.
Another Viper is pierced from nowhere, a short range, hard-light lance punching through its belly as Eli drops his cloak for just long enough to strike. The eagle's cackle fills the comm as he vanishes again, leaving the dying fighter to its fate.
The remaining five Vipers regroup, their formation tightening as they realize what they're facing. They stop trying to be clever and switch to pure aggression, all guns converging on the biggest target.
"Shit!" Lars grunts as his shields flare under the concentrated assault. His bottom-mounted turret spins, spitting tungsten-tipped lead at the closest Viper and chasing it into Mila's line of fire, where her Caracal's linked guns reduce it to scrap. "Shields at forty percent!"
Trigger doesn't hesitate. The Wyvern screams across the void, putting himself directly between Lars and the attacking fighters. His own shields spark and flare as he absorbs their fire, buying the gunship precious seconds to relocate.
It makes his instincts scream in the worst way, diving into fire with the intention of getting hit. One eye watches his shield meter drop, from one-hundred, to eighty, to sixty. Every impact on his fighter makes the horrid, murderous howl in his ears grow louder and louder, until it's deafening. The sound has his stomach rolling.
The instant Lars can break off, he turns and lets that fury explode out of its cage.
The Wyvern's dance turns into a maddened, throat-hungry lunge. Trigger threads between plasma streams that should be impossible to dodge from so close, afterburners blazing as he takes the absolute shortest path between him and every green targeting box on his HUD.
One Viper attempts to juke him high, but a tiny twitch gives the maneuverer away milliseconds beforehand, and after the first muon bolt breaks his shield, he's turned to slag.
Another loses sight of him for half a second and pays with a missile to its starboard engine.
A third attempts to flee and gets a muon burst through its spine.
In under a minute, it's over. Eight Vipers have become burning wreckage tumbling through space. Trigger turns in a tight circle, almost snarling when he realizes all the contacts around him are already dead. His vision tunnels, locking on to a distant frigate of Sovereign black.
'No, calm down. Remember the mission,' the man halts himself, taking a deep, shuddering breath. 'Aquila and Hauler need to leave AO. Straying too far doesn't serve the mission.'
He swears he can hear teeth gnashing in frustration only millimeters from his ear, breath that can't possibly be there on his neck.
'Team first. Then mission. Everything else after.'
This time, he's left alone.
"Woo-hoo! Eat that, suckers!" Mila cheers, hers, Lars', and Eli's faces popping up on his canopy. The mink is all smiles and jittery adrenaline. "That's what you get when you mess with Strider!" She says with a fist pump.
"Ay, didn't you give Eli a hard time for jinxing us back on the bridge?" Lars is quick to remind, though he has a smile as well.
Mila waves him off. "We just trashed two squads in, like, a minute. You think they're going to throw more guys into the meat grinder?"
"Hermana, if I know the Sovs as well as I think I do, then-"
"Warning. Multiple new contacts incoming," Nidhogg announces.
"Told ya."
"One Scorpus-class frigate," The AI continues. "Six additional fighters. Bearing two-seven-zero mark five. Intercept course plotted."
The tactical display updates before Trigger's eyes, showing the new threats peeling away from the main battle. The frigate must have close to a hundred meters on the Aquila's size, bristling with turrets and missile pods.
Seeing the Vipers, and now the Scorpus-class, makes the Sovereign design language clear. Much like the Vipers do with their guns, the Scorpus has a fork-fronted silhouette, with two protruding sections on either side of its bridge, each tipped in sensor arrays. The frigate and its escorts move on them quickly, eating up kilometers by the second.
Across the void, confused radio chatter overlaps from the trio of remaining Libret frigates and their wounded cruiser. What few fighters they have left buzz like bees, uncertain if they should chase the Sovereign warship making tracks towards Strider.
Trigger keys his comm. "Nidhogg, get me connected to the Libret patrol."
The Wyvern's comms beep with a transmission, then the projector clicks on, closing the team feed and throwing a new projection on the canopy.
On the feed, a ragged, wild-eyed dog man with a long snout and white fur stares at Trigger incredulously. His projection shows only the shoulders of his outfit, but Trigger spies the same blue uniform Marceti wore during her calls with him.
"This is a secure military channel, how did you get this line?" The dog demands.
"Are you the commanding officer of the patrol group?" Trigger ignores the question and wastes no time with niceties.
The other man blinks and swiftly regains his bearings, seeming to realize he might be talking to backup. "I'm Commander Kale of the 439th Libret Confederation patrol group, commanding officer of this flotilla… Or what's left of it. Who am I speaking to?"
"Trigger, captain of the Strider Squadron PMC," he looks down briefly, punching in a few keys on the Wyvern's console. "The Sovereigns fired on us, and we're joining the battle. Sending IFF codes. Don't shoot us."
Another call beeps on his console, and before Kale can say anything more, Trigger flips over to the other line.
The new image that materializes shows a cat in a crisp red and black military uniform, his fur a mottled gray and white pattern. His green eyes burn with barely controlled fury, and his lips are pulled back just enough to show fangs.
"Mercenary scum," the cat snarls without preamble. "Do you have any idea what you've just done? You're interfering in a sanctioned military operation! Power down your weapons and surrender immediately, or I'll see you all spaced!"
Trigger's expression doesn't change. "You fired on us without provocation. We defended ourselves."
The cat's sneer deepens. "You waltzed into an active battlefield and killed eight of my pilots!"
"Your pilots? So their meaningless deaths are your fault, then." Trigger replies flatly.
"Do you know who you're playing games with, ape?!"
"Do you?" Trigger asks back, eyebrow raised.
For a moment, the Sovereign commander looks genuinely stunned by the casual dismissal. Then his expression twists into something savage.
"Fine," he hisses. "If you live through this, ape, I'll keep you alive long enough for you to be the last one against the wall."
The connection cuts, leaving Trigger on audio only with his team.
"Guh. What a megalo-creep," Mila remarks.
Trigger watches the frigate and its escort approaching on his display. Six fresh fighters, plus a warship with enough firepower to tear through the Aquila.
"Strider Squadron," he says, settled back into the comfortable, calming numbness. "Form up, and don't let them pass. Weapons free," Trigger orders.
All three of his wingmates tighten their formation around him, then all four shoot forward.
, its two, side mounted point-defense lasers sweeping through space in wide, careless arcs. The beams don't discriminate between friend and foe, as one of the Sovereign fighters has to break hard to avoid being sliced in half by its own support ship.
"They're firing through their own formation! Are they crazy?!" Mila calls out, incredulous.
"Stay mobile," Trigger responds, rolling the Wyvern through a corkscrew as plasma bolts and laser fire crisscross around him. "Use their recklessness against them."
The six enemy fighters spread out, trying to create overlapping fields of fire while the frigate swings its lasers and looses missiles carelessly. It's a brutal, graceless strategy, but effective. None of them can just charge in, every attack run has to be calculated, threading between the frigate's wild sweeps and the fighters' more disciplined volleys.
With the frigate being such a large, free target, however, it's not long before its own shields pop. The offense only makes the ship's gunners fire even more wildly.
Eli vanishes into his cloak, reappearing just long enough to put a bolt through one fighter's engine before the frigate's lasers force him to break off. The wounded Viper spins away, trailing smoke, only for Trigger to finish it with a precise, pink burst to its belly.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
"Alert," Nidhogg cuts through the combat chatter. "Detecting additional fighter launch. Twelve contacts, vector indicates course for Aquila and client vessel."
Trigger's jaw tightens as he thumbs his comm button. "Jodie, status?"
Her voice comes through strained, the sound of alarms audible in the background. "We're still charging for a micro-jump to Killigan! Three more minutes! I've got Eddy and the cargo bots on the guns, but Trigger..." She doesn't need to finish. Twelve fighters against a corvette's automated defenses won't end well.
The decision tears at him, but there's no choice. "Strider 3, break off. Support the Aquila."
"Boss, that's-!"
"Now, Lars."
The Aggressor's engines flare as the rottweiler reluctantly peels away, burning hard toward the distant corvette. The moment he's gone, the remaining Vipers and the frigate concentrate their fire with renewed intensity.
"Oh shit!" Mila's voice spikes as she jukes through an increasingly dense fire pattern. Two fighters flank her while the frigate's point-defense lasers track her every move. A plasma bolt clips her starboard wing, then another catches her belly. Her shield indicator flashes angry warnings, which are mirrored on Trigger's own HUD.
"Shields failing!" she cries out, pulling into a desperate spiral as more fire converges on her position.
The frigate's gunners must smell blood. Both point-defense turrets swivel, chasing the struggling Caracal, their beams promising death if she's struck.
No.
Cold violence surges through Trigger's chest at the mere thought. The Wyvern's weapon systems cycle to his 8AAM multi-lock missiles. Four targeting reticles appear on each laser turret as he dives straight at the frigate, afterburners screaming.
The frigate's main guns try to track him, but he's already rolling, sliding between plasma streams and laser bolts with millimeters to spare. At the minimum safe distance, he releases all eight missiles simultaneously.
The missiles streak away in a deadly flower pattern. The point-defense lasers immediately forget Mila, swiveling desperately to engage the incoming ordnance. They manage to pick off one, then two, but there are too many, too fast and too close. The first missile impacts, turning one turret into twisted metal with the second one just adding insult to injury. The second turret manages one more shot before three missiles converge on it, the explosion tearing a chunk from the frigate's hull.
"Mila, fall back to the Aquila," Trigger orders, pulling up sharply as the frigate's main guns try to get an angle on him. "Support Lars. Let your shields recharge."
"But-!"
"Go!"
Her Caracal turns and burns, leaving Trigger and Eli to handle the remaining fighters. Without the point-defense lasers to worry about, it becomes a different game. Eli materializes out of the gloom behind one Viper, his main guns punching through the back of its cockpit. Trigger catches another in a head-on pass, his muon cannon overwhelming its shields in a single shot.
The last two fighters try to use the frigate's bulk as cover, but it only delays the inevitable. One makes the mistake of flying too predictable a pattern, and Eli's shots find it through a gap in the frigate's superstructure. The other attempts to break, but can't outrun an AIM-9Z that blows the ship in two.
"Boss!" Lars's voice crackles through, tense with stress and vibrating as he pours lead into the void. "These fighters are all over us! I can't keep them all off!"
Trigger banks hard, lining up on the frigate's bridge. Its remaining turrets swivel toward him, but without the point-defense lasers, they can't track fast enough. His muon cannon tears through the command deck, leaving the frigate listing, venting atmosphere, and spewing unfortunate, still-moving forms into hard vacuum.
"Confirmed hit on bridge," Nidhogg reports. "Scanning… No auxiliary bridge detected. Frigate disabled."
Another update flashes on his display - Mila has reached Lars, her guns already lighting up the fighters swarming the Aquila, but there are still too many.
'Too many of them, and not enough of us,' Trigger grimaces.
It was different back on Strangereal, where the greatest threats were usually other fighters, and objectives tended to stay still. When it came to the old Strider Squadron, partnered with Cyclops Squadron, never were they stretched too thin.
Just four pilots, in a black sky this size? With so much going on at once? Four just doesn't seem to be enough.
"Eli, go support them," Trigger orders, already turning his fighter toward the distant shape of the Sovereign cruiser.
"What? What are you doing?" The eagle's voice carries a note of concern, albeit well-hidden. "Trigger?"
Trigger locks his targeting computer onto the massive warship. Even from here, he can see its batteries tracking the ongoing battle, bombarding the defenders from a distance.
"I'm going to give them something else to worry about," he says, pushing the Wyvern's throttle to maximum. "Force them to recall their fighters."
"That's a heavy cruiser you suicidal fuck!"
But Trigger's already gone, the Wyvern streaking toward the cruiser like a white comet, leaving the burning frigate behind.
"Nidhogg," Trigger begins.
The AI's red icon flashes on his HUD. "Standing by."
"Can you find the reactor on that cruiser?"
Stella Kaliman is currently in the process of regretting her choices over the last few days.
What started as a seemingly sound if distasteful plan has spiraled out of control. All she had to do was convince the mechanic, Jodie, to tell her crew to leave the system and let her tag along. Jodie's words would make the rest of the crew more suggestable, as it's always easier, always requires less of a push to persuade someone who is hearing the same words from someone trustworthy.
The name Strider Squadron was a sudden blip on the radar of the real players in the galaxy. A crew of relative unknowns, rumors of Venomian biotech, and a massacre that left one of the more notable scum-filled drain catcher stations crippled. The damage suffered to Reese Point was too much, too violent. None were willing to put forth the capital to fix it, not when every spooked, wannabe underlord had vacated, leaving it little more than a drug den.
Reese Point was finished. The rats were all swimming to find new boats to infest, and the patrols on that side of the Libret territory would find the coming weeks relaxing.
There were no images captured of the crew or the deathblow itself, as all of them were mysteriously corrupted. The only thing left was a recording.
Don't challenge Strider Squadron.
They were perfect, she thought. Competent, but not yet so high profile that their movements would be closely watched. When all was said and done, she'd be home free. Of course, Stella would pass her unwilling friends some cash when she was dropped off, to ease her own conscience if nothing else.
Instead, she was dragged deeper into the leaky petro-chem plant known as the Griath system, and now it feels as if she's doing it with a lit cigarette in her mouth.
Oh, she'd kill for a smoke right now, though she isn't sure if her shakes are from withdrawal, or from the warzone outside.
Another impact rocks the ship, and Stella stumbles at her place before one of the Aquila's gun stations, where she was pressganged by the coyote into fighting.
Outside, fighters swarm the ship, which is trying its damnedest to keep itself between the Vipers and the lumbering freighter frantically plotting a jump out of the fight.
Minks, Ortiz, and Gunjar are all picking off the attackers, but they're still outnumbered two to one, and -
Another impact on the ship, and a klaxon wails as red lights flash across the ceiling.
"J-Jodie!" Eddy cries from the sensor station, his scales stark white and his eyes so wide it's a wonder they don't pop out of his head. "Shields are down!"
"Got dangit!" Jodie curses, practically smashing her fist on the comm button. "Haul-o-Rex! What's your jump status!?"
The XO's voice crackles through, tight with barely controlled panic. "Eight seconds! Capacitors at ninety-eight percent!"
"Jump as soon as you're able," Jodie orders, her paws flying over the pilot console as she tries to coax more speed from the wounded corvette. She flips channels without waiting for confirmation. "Eli! How's it looking out there?"
"Two more fighters!" The eagle's voice comes through strained, the sound of his guns audible in the background. "Jump with the hauler! Come back for us later!"
Before Jodie can respond, another impact shakes the Aquila, this one different, deeper, harder. There's a horrific shriek of tearing metal, then a rush of air that pulls at everything not bolted down before a bulkhead somewhere aft slams shut with a resounding clang!
"That last fighter got one more shot in before I nailed him," Eli reports. "I saw atmosphere vent from the stern. What's your status?"
"We're alive," Jodie manages, checking damage reports flooding her console. "That's about all I can say for-"
"Hull breach!" Eddy shrieks from his station, his voice climbing toward hysteria. "Rear compartment's fucked! Reactor one just went offline!" His hands scramble over his controls, and when it's clear he can do nothing, he claws at his own head with a barely suppressed scream. "Jump charge is dropping like a fuckin' rock! And-and-and there's a Sovereign frigate burning straight for us!"
Stella watches the gecko's panic with a detached sort of fascination, even as her own hands shake on the gun controls. This is spiraling far beyond what she'd planned.
This is not what she wanted… Her hands keep shaking. For a moment, she thinks about it, she thinks about turning, putting everything she has into her voice, and ordering the mechanic to jump now.
"You'll regret it."
Stella's voice dies in her throat, her words replaced with the taste of bile and the chill of icy hands around her neck.
Jodie keys the comm again. "Haul-o-Rex, jump without us. Get to Killigan's garrison and stay close."
There's a pause, then the XO's voice comes through, quieter now. "Understood, Aquila. Thank you. Good luck."
The massive freighter vanishes in a flash of light, leaving the wounded corvette alone with its problems.
"We're dead," Eddy moans, slumping in his chair. "We're so dead! That frigate's gonna-! I don't want to die! I have so much to live for! I never got to see a Krazed Kittens concert live! Or-!"
"Shut up!" Eli's voice cuts through the comm like a blade. "Look at your scope and quit whining. Looks like Trigger's giving them something bigger to worry about."
Sure enough, the approaching frigate suddenly changes vector, its engines flaring as it burns back toward the main battle. Jodie reaches for the magnification controls, zooming the main viewport's image until they have a front-row seat to something impossible.
The Sovereign heavy cruiser, easily four hundred meters of armor and guns, is under assault by a single fighter. The Wyvern whips through space like an enraged wasp, diving and weaving through point-defense fire that only a madman would dare challenge. At least a dozen fighters chase him, their formation increasingly desperate as they try to pin down the lone attacker.
Pink muon bolts slam into the cruiser's shields in a constant stream, each impact creating ripples of energy across the barrier. Missiles join the particle cannon, firing off as fast as they can be reloaded. The shields flare brighter and brighter, the generators struggling to keep up with the constant punishment.
"How is he doing that?" Stella breathes, unable to look away.
"You'll regret it."
The skunk shudders, her tail trying to fold between her legs despite being sat down.
The moment she heard those words, when she saw what laid behind those eyes, she knew that breaking her word meant █████
Her head throbs and her vision blurs. The port on her neck grows warm, and an urgent notification in the corner of her vision flashes, yellow lettering cutting through the haze.
At first, she thought it was a trick. Was Trigger a psychic too? Was he a superior mentalist? If he was, then how was he hiding his noospheric presence? Surely he isn't actually… Whatever he is, right?
Back outside, another frigate drifts nearby, its engines dark and bridge shattered, another victim of Trigger's rampage. Further out, the cruiser's main batteries swing desperately, trying to track the fighter that refuses to stay still for even a moment.
The shields of the cruiser grow so bright they hurt to look at, the blanket of energy struggling to hold. Then, with a flash, they collapse entirely.
"Shields down!" Eddy reports unnecessarily, his fear long forgotten and replaced with a grin. "He's fuckin' em up! Yeah! Kill 'em, bossman!" he cheers, jumping up with both fists raised. "YEEAAAHHHH!"
The Wyvern doesn't hesitate. Pink fire rakes across the cruiser's hull, targeting specific systems with a sniper's eye. A sensor array explodes. A weapon mount goes limp. The fighter pulls away just as the cruiser's remaining guns converge on its last position, missing by meters. Even fleeing, the Wyvern bites at the mammoth ship, with Trigger flipping himself around and firing, letting his momentum carry him backwards the entire time. At the same time, the Wyvern's weapon's bays split open and spit a fusillade of missiles.
The fighters tailing him scatter in a disorganized panic.
One, two, five, eight of them are turned to fire and shrapnel. Another eight lives snuffed out instantly.
The whole tide of the skirmish begins to shift. With a precious few minutes to regroup, the three battleworthy Libret frigates, backed up by their own cruiser, begin to move in with a broad formation, firing right into the backs of their attackers.
One Sov frigate ruptures under the relentless wave of bolts, and another joins the first in a super critical blast when the Libret cruiser's main cannon tears through its weakened shields and cores the entire thing.
Everyone on the Aquila jumps when the comms chirp and come to life on their own. "Trigger to Strider Squadron. Do you read?"
"Trigger? What is it? Do you need backup?" Mila asks, audibly worried.
"Negative. Calling to inform all units to switch to tight-beam comms. Beginning EML charge, which is going to cause radio interference."
Eddy dances in place. "Hoh! This is it! He's gonna put the last nail in the coffin!" He grins.
"EML?" Stella hazards the question.
"Eletromagnetic launcher," Jodie provides, a small smile rising to her face. "A railgun."
A… railgun? Where? It's not on this ship, is it? She looks down at the weapon controls under her hands, and sees nothing relating to a rail gun.
"All friendly units, vacate the space around the Sovereign cruiser," Trigger blasts out with a full-band broadcast. Hardly a second later, the radio begins to screech with static. Eddy's station wails, warning of an unearthly EM spike even with the Wyvern ever so far away.
On the zoomed in viewport, the Wyvern dives close to the port side of the massive cruiser, where most of its guns are neutered.
Flash-flash-flash-flash!
The fighter's cannon pounds the side of the larger ship, carving a divot into its armor, then with a flourish and trailing with two afterburner cones, Trigger backs away and makes distance.
"What do you BZZT-ink you're doing!? I'm t-BZZT-lking to you! Fighter with the cl-BZZT marks, the three strikes on your tail!" A voice screams through the radio static. "Stop what yo-BZZT!"
"That's the uppity cat who tried to tell us to surrender!" Mila says, and Stella doesn't need her powers to feel the surprise in her voice.
In the far distance, a god-honest railgun unfolds from the bowels of Trigger's fighter, its prongs glowing white-hot. Stella feels her jaw drop slightly.
"You fired on us," Trigger replies, making the four words sound incomprehensibly damning.
"Do you know wh-BZZT you'll start if you don't surrender, Three Strikes?! Do BZZT what kind of hell you're in for?! Do you know who I am, whose authority I work under?! I'll-!"
"I don't care."
The star-laden blackness lights up with a white burst. A tight pillar of pure force flashes into existence under the Wyvern, punching into the side of the cruiser like a harpoon into a whale.
The railgun's tungsten slug punches through the cruiser's armor at the exact point Trigger had weakened, drilling deep into the ship's guts. For a moment, nothing happens. Then the first explosion blooms from within, a flower of orange fire bursting from the impact site.
"Radiation spike!" Eddy shouts, his eyes wide as his console screams warnings. "Holy shit, he must've hit the reactor! The whole thing's going critical!"
The cruiser begins to list, its running lights flickering like a dying heartbeat. More explosions cascade through its structure, each one larger than the last. Emergency pods begin launching from various points, crew desperately abandoning ship.
"THREE STRIKES!" The commander's voice tears through the static, raw with rage and disbelief. "You don't know what you've done! When the Sov-BZZT finds out, when they learn you're ali-BZZT! They'll hunt you to the ends of-KZZZZZT!"
"God damn you, Three Strikes! God da-!"
The cruiser tears itself in half, the explosion so bright it overwhelms the viewport's filters for a moment. When the image resolves, two massive chunks of wreckage tumble away from each other, trailing debris and frozen atmosphere. Smaller explosions continue to ripple through both sections, ensuring nothing aboard could have survived.
"Sweet mother of..." Jodie breathes, unable to finish.
The psychological impact on the battlefield is immediate. The remaining Sovereign forces, already bloodied and now without their command ship, begin to break. The three surviving frigates bank hard, engines flaring as they vector for retreat. What few fighters remain abandon their attack runs, racing to dock with their parent vessels.
The Libret patrol, sensing blood in the water, presses their advantage. Their frigates pour fire into the fleeing Sovereigns' sterns, claiming fighters too slow to dock.
On the viewport, the Wyvern banks sharply, its nose angling toward the retreating forces. For a moment, Stella swears she can feel the pilot's intent even across the vast distance. The fighter holds that vector for three long seconds.
Then it turns away, and Stella has no idea how many lives were just spared
"Strider Squadron," Trigger's voice cuts through the clearing static, utterly calm as if he hadn't just destroyed a heavy cruiser. "Return to the Aquila for docking. We need to assess damage and make repairs before continuing to Killigan."
"Copy that, boss," Lars responds, audible relief in his voice. "On our way."
"Roger," Eli adds, though he sounds almost disappointed the fight is over.
"Coming home!" Mila chirps, her earlier worry replaced with elation.
Stella slumps back in her chair, finally releasing her death grip on the gun controls. The port on her neck throbs, another warning flashing about her medication levels. She watches the Wyvern grow larger in the viewport as it approaches, and despite herself, she can't help but wonder:
What kind of man takes on a heavy cruiser alone and wins?
Stella gulps, trying to settle her heart. 'There… There isn't any trick to it, is there?' she realizes, watching the Wyvern lazily curve around a cloud of debris. 'There's no noospheric obfuscation, no suggestions, nothing.'
'Fighting him really, actually means █████'
"Noooooooo!" Mila cries, falling to her knees beside her fighter. The fluorescent lights of the Aquila's hanger make her glistening eyes twice as shiny and that much more pathetic. "Why?! Why did they do this to me?!"
"Oh, don't be such a baby, Mila," Jodie mumbles, looking down at a checklist on her wristcomm. She glances away to the hole burned into the wing of the Caracal-7, which partially cuts off the loopy 'Slinky-II' decal. "The fact that a little patch of burned-up, non-vital hull is the worst thing to happen to your fighter is a right miracle in my opinion. It'll be less of a hassle than some other repairs," she grumbles the last part, throwing a look over her shoulder.
Behind the Slinky-II, some of the Aggressor's very heavy looking armor plates seem quite melted.
"Can you make a new decal and match the paint?" The mink sniffles, eyes on the floor. "I really like the red paint…"
"Yes," the coyote mechanic drags out the word in her exasperation. She digs one of her shoes into Mila's rear, making her yelp and jump back to her paws. "Now go be a lump somewhere else!"
On the other side of the hanger with his back against the wall, Trigger only half-watches his crew as they go about checks and damage control. Once they landed, their debriefing was, well, brief, then checks started.
Trigger found himself with a frown after the initial damage report came in.
The rear shield projector is shot and only working at half capacity, which makes the hull breach in the rear compartment and engine room a juicy target for any who might want to take a pass at them. To make matters worse, one of their reactors is destroyed beyond repair, and the other one is leaking. It's a miracle the FTL core is unharmed.
On the weapons side of things, one of the plas-flakkers is slag, and the top main gun took a shot to one of its barrels, making firing it unsafe. Not that it matters much, as with only a single leaky reactor to fuel them, the weapons consume too much power for any sustained use.
Kale, the commander of the patrol they saved, graciously offered to have a tug sent out to pull them to an orbital shipyard above Killigan, and to provide what he could for their repairs.
Regardless of the promised repairs, though, they got lucky today.
Try as he might, however, the captain can't think of a way that they could have made it out in better condition, not without more fighters to divy up duties with.
Hell, even with Spare Squadron, he had on average eight wingmen to divide the work up with, even if he still did most of it.
?
'I could have had Mila, Lars, and Eli hang back and protect the Aquila from the get-go, and taken the fight to the Sovereigns by myself…' he exhales slowly. 'But sidelining them every time an objective is threatened… Even if it's the smart choice, it's not the right one. They'll grow resentful, be slower to gain field experience. No room in the Aquila, but if I had another squadron to deploy, then-!'
An idea strikes, but the snarl it induces almost makes it past his self control to paint itself on his face.
With glacial speed and the utmost reluctance, Trigger opens his wristcomm, connects to Nidhogg's databanks, and scrolls down until he finds it.
Gründer Industries UAV MQ-99
Rapid Response Unmanned Aerial Vehicle?
How many of these did he shoot down during the war? A hundred? Two? He lost count, but never did he lose count of the wingmen lost to them.
The technical specs reek of Belkan design. The MQ-99s are cheap to make, fast to deploy, and so effective that they can overwhelm nearly any organic pilot. The fragility of their small size is almost a non-issue with their whip-lash inducing agility and the networked AI within them working like a pack of wolves.
Oh, if there is anything that Trigger knows for certain, it's the effectiveness of Erusean drones.
Just by looking, the modifications needed to make them spaceworthy flash before his eyes. A few RCS thrusters, a propulsion refit, and a standard laser bolter to replace the autocannon is all it needs, and then the drone could terrorize space as easily as it could the sky.
His teeth gritting under his lips, Trigger goes to swipe off of the file.
"Arguments are supposed to last longer than that, moron."
"Thanks, Boss. You're the best."
"Captain, if you spoil me more often, I'm going to end up with a crush."
"Yes! You won't regret this, boss! I promise!"
A pair of arms wrap gently around his neck and shoulders. A soft, furred cheek presses to his neck. "You kept them alive. That counts for something."
He kept them alive.
Trigger's finger halts millimeters away from the 'back' button on his comm, his eyes filled with hate as he stares at the still image of the MQ-99.
"Nidhogg," he mutters quietly. "Earmark this file and look into potential parts suppliers."
A red circle flashes on the screen.
"Acknowledged."
FROM: NULL_ADDR_7734X
TO: NULL_ADDR_0091B
TIMESTAMP: [REDACTED]
No good. The whole thing was a spectacular waste of fuel.
The Killigan approach is locked down tighter than a Cornerian lady's purse now. Libret patrol boats are fuckin' everywhere, and recovery crafts already tagged and catalogued the good bits. By the time the cordons lift, it'll all be low tier scrap licenses only.
Funny thing though - saw the aftermath myself through a probe. That Sov cruiser didn't just get beaten, it got split through the middle like someone took a giant half-broken plasma cutter to it. Wondering how the fuck they did that. The Librets were flying three half-crippled frigates and a cruiser with a quarter of its guns blown off, and backup didn't show until the shooting stopped. You really think they managed that?
I'm thinking not.
Was running dark about 50k out when it went down, caught some of the wide-band chatter from the bigger boats. Most of it was standard military garbage - "break left," "engaging," the usual. But right before that cruiser bit it, their commander was screaming about something. Cut through the static clear as day:
"Three Strikes."
Then boom. Just a flash and two very expensive pieces of scrap.
Here's the interesting part - 'bout twenty minutes later, caught another transmission. Some mercenary unit identifying themselves to the Libret patrol commander after the action. Called themselves "Strider Squadron." They were in on the fight, it looks like.
Now maybe I'm connecting dots that aren't there, but a no-name merc unit shows up suddenly, then the Sovs lose both a cruiser and a slam-dunk of a fight? That's not normal frontier mathematics.
Have any of your people heard those names? "Strider Squadron" or "Three Strikes"? Might be worth putting some feelers out. If they can crack a heavy cruiser, they're either very good, very lucky, or very connected.
I know guys like you have a love/hate relationship with that kinda shit. Risky for the portfolio and all that.
Moving to the next stakeout cords. Will contact you if something else comes up.
[TRANSMISSION END]