Ch. 8/THEN CFA Washington CFA-1028 May 8, 2300 The original commander of the CFMF Tactical Fleet, Rear Admiral Kristan Overstreet (pay grade O8) stood in the office of the current Tactical Fleet Commander, Vice Admiral Robert Hemphill (pay grade O9), pacing as he received a status report from his new- gah!- commanding officer. Robert Hemphill had been with the Freespacers for some fifty years, after the (untrue) accusation of an affair with a married woman forced him out of both the military and the minor nobility of the Manticoran Star Kingdom. His military career was marked with command mediocrity, administrative blundering, and political genius. He held his current rank and position as payment for his support in Aves Rand's successful campaign for Freespacer Fleet Commander in 2285. At the moment, he was quite literally the most powerful person in the Freespacer nation, at least until Kris had returned. With the reactivation of his old commission, Kris stood one pay grade below the old Manticoran officer, but as the founder of the fleet he still had every right to pace, rant, and blow off steam. Or so he thought, anyway. "Let me see," Kris said. "The Tactical Fleet has been running strictly on a defensive status- with no contracts at all- for almost twelve years. A third of the fleet has mutinied altogether and is acting as a part of the Royal Salusian Navy. RebelTech is being undersold by BudgetArms in every market. Pirates are running rampant, and fleets under GENOM- GENOM!!- are filling the void left by the collapse of the WDF. Last, and certainly not least, the Tactical Fleet has not grown by one ship since I left a century ago- in fact, one ship has been decommissioned. Have I missed anything?" "That is essentially the situation, yes," Hemphill said. The grey-haired, rail-thin former nobleman looked blandly over his desk at the scruffy-looking man whose only concession to uniform was an ancient embroidered wreathed star on the left lapel of his flightsuit. "If you can recover the rebel ships, I'll put you in command over them until we can find some escape clause in their-" "Who commands them now?" Kris growled. "They follow the orders of Rear Admiral James Joseph Condorcet XV," Hemphill said bitterly. "He's calling for my court-martial or resignation, and quite frankly I have no intention of giving him the satisfaction. We have a fleet to protect, by God, and we can't do it with just the refugees from the WDF!" "How many refugees are we talking about?" "Three capital ships- it used to be four, but the WDF Alden blew up in an asteroid collision last year- plus all the available Defiant-class and Centurion-class gunboats from the Dahak Base evacuation," Hemphill said. "They've been registered as Home Fleet ships until further notice." "-Home- Fleet?" "The Home Fleet has suffered in the past from relying on a criminally weak starfighter patrol and the irregular forces provided by the independent shipowners of the Home Fleet. Once the security of our civilian population and industrial base is assured, we can consider affairs outside the Fleet." Kris took a couple of deep breaths and managed to say, "What did you have planned for the fleet once we reunited it?" Hemphill ticked items off on his fingers. "We court-martial and eject the mutineers, we reorganize for maximum defense of the Home Fleet, we keep moving until such a time as the galactic instability subsides. Once the Galactica's internal situation is settled, we can return to selling our services as a mercenary fleet- on a much reduced basis, of course." Kris narrowed his eyes and stared at the superannuated man carefully. "What is the financial situation of the fleet at this time?" he asked softly. "We're currently running on maintenance only," Hemphill said. "All refits and new ships have been put on indefinite hold, including the Plymouth Mk. IV project. The mutineers are without pay, that helps. My accountants say the payroll checks will start bouncing by February of next year at our current limited rate of expenditure, although loans with the fleet as collateral could keep things going another twenty months." "And you're not going out and getting contracts to at least defray expenses?" "We cannot risk the safety of the Home Fleet!" Hemphill said. "At any time the same thing could happen to us that happened to Dahak-" "I have news for you, sir," Kris growled, "it already is. Except this time, instead of turbolasers, the bad guys are using credit." Hemphill stared at Kris for a long moment, then said, "Admiral, you are dismissed." "Thank you, sir," Kris said, and with his best military bearing, he turned on his heel and marched out of the office. With a growl he reached for the door to slam it; a second later, he remembered that in the past 168 years since it had been -his- office, the hinged door had been replaced with sliding doors. As Kris stormed out, he flicked a glare towards the Admiral's personal secretary, who was looking at her terminal, at the walls, at him, anywhere but at the short redheaded person standing just inside the outer doorway. The young-looking woman had her long hair tied up into a sort of crab-shaped style, save for a tailing end which spun down her back to her knees. She held her pubescent body with the confidence of a grown woman, and in her eyes glittered a stare that said in big block letters I KNOW MORE THAN YOU DO. Kris knelt and hugged Washuu tight, not letting go for a fairly long time. "So you've finally forgiven me?" Washuu said at last. Kris let go at once. "No. But I missed you anyway." After a few seconds of awkward silence, he added, "Been a while, hasn't it?" "Ninety-eight years," Washuu said. "I was tempted to go find you, once or twice... especially after Sonset..." "Sonset?" "S-O-N-S-E-T. Someone coined the word a month or two after it happened." As Kris still looked confused, she added, "As in the Son crashing on Musashi." "Oh," Kris sighed. "I really have a lot to catch up on." "Start catching fast," Washuu said, stepping out into the corridor. "That idiot Hemphill must have told you about the military side of things. Well, the financial side is much worse." "How much worse can it be than open mutiny?" Kris sighed. Washuu looked straight up at him and said, "Nalga the Hutt is attempting a hostile takeover of RebelTech." "Who the Whutt?" "Nalga the Hutt. He's one of the bigger GENOM henchmen around these days," Washuu said. "Right now he owns about forty percent of RebelTech. The CFMF still holds its twenty-six, you're holding about seventeen-" "Seventeen? It used to be twenty-five!" Kris said. "Stock splits, new issuances, ate into the deal while you were gone," Washuu said. "Anyway, the other seventeen percent is scattered here and there. JJ #15 holds about ten percent of it, and Nalga's pushing for a vote to cash him out of that. If JJ loses his share, Nalga's forty becomes forty-four, enough to outvote you and the Fleet share combined. He gets the majority he needs, and RebelTech becomes a subsidiary of GENOM... and the Freespacers get the shaft." "Great," Kris said. "Why haven't they done the same thing to me?" "They would have, if I weren't around," Washuu said. "I've had to fight off Nalga's attempts to have you declared legally dead several times, but everyone else accepts me as your proxy, especially since my term as Freespacer Fleet Commander." "I served as Freespacer Fleet Commander while you were gone," Washuu grinned. Kris blinked. For emphasis, he blinked again. "You... were the Chief of State... of the Freespacer nation?" "Back in the 2360s," Washuu nodded. "Okay," Kris leaned against the bulkhead and counted on his fingers, "so an idiot's commanding the CFMF- except for the part which is calling for his resignation. That part is commanded by a man whose hash I have to save or else the corporation which- allegedly- vaped the WDF will swoop down and take away the Freespacer nation's main source of employment, income, and economic stability. And, last but not least, the Freespacers spent six years with Washuu Hakubi as their Chief of State" He shook his head and strode out into the corridor, mumbling, "Can't leave the fleet for one little century without everything going to pot..." The rest of the afternoon, in Kris' mind, proceeded to go from bad to worse, beginning with the brief appeal over Hemphill's head to the Freespacer Fleet Commander. Joseph Hanrahan, the current Chief of State of the Confederate Freespacers Alliance, kept his statement short and to the point. "Admiral Overstreet, your service and history with the Freespacers is appreciated, but without some tangible service to the Fleet -now,- there is no possible way I can promote you over Admiral Hemphill. Hemphill's lackeys and supporters hold a solid power bloc in both houses of the Legate, and the others parties are divided. At this moment, they support Hemphill for lack of any better choice- they certainly won't support Jimmy Condorcet. "Get me results," he stated, turning his back on Kris, "and you can write your ticket. Until then, you play Hemphill's game." Almost as soon as he'd stepped foot out of the Fleet Commander's office, Washuu had dragged Kris into her lab, insisting on personally giving him a thorough checkup. Kris suffered in silence as he hung immobile from the examination rack, wearing nothing but his worn-out old briefs, as Washuu ran scan after scan and test after test on his person. Somehow, despite the century between now and the last time he'd done this, everything seemed familiar, as it should be. He could even relax a bit, familiar with most of Washuu's innuendoes by now and trusting her to keep things to words. He had just decided that things were not quite as bad as he thought when the blonde bombshell, in the tight, improbably curved T-shirt and nearly obscene cutoffs walked into the examination area. "So Washuu, you wanted to see me about some- _HELLO_, who's this?" The buxom young woman bounced over to examine the specimen hanging on the rack, running a hungry glance over his nearly naked body. If she'd been standing close enough, Kris had no doubt she would have run more than her glance over him.... especially since her glances kept returning to the small, threadbare piece of cotton cloth which represented Kris' last remaining measure of modesty. On the heels of his initial shock, Kris felt the chills of fear which signaled the presence of esper or Force talent. He forced himself to keep his voice calm, saying "Washuu, who the hell is this?" Washuu turned to Gina, nodding greeting. "Gina, this is Kris Overstreet, also known as Redneck, also known as my personal Guinea pig. Kris, this is Gina Shannon... my personal student." Gina's eyes flickered with excitement. "This is Kris? The Kris you keep telling me about? Cool!" She looked the captive up and down, grinning a hungry smile. "I can't wait to get my hands on him!" "Ah ah ah," Washuu smiled, waving a finger at Gina. "You'll have to wait your turn, hon... until I'm done with him." She stretched the waistband of Kris' underwear, letting it snap back into place playfully as he gaped at her. "Maybe in a few hundred years." "Over my dead body," Kris said a bit too loudly, glaring at both of them. "Washuu, if this is another one of your jokes, I am not fucking LAUGHING!!" "Oh, lighten up," Washuu smiled, "We have to do a full scan anyway... with -ALL- the samples..." "You can NOT be serious," Kris said. "Oh yes I can," Washuu giggled. "Let me take the samples!" Gina said, bouncing (and jiggling uncontrollably) in place. "I have some great ideas on collection methods!" "Washuu. You will send her -AWAY- *NOW.*" Kris was not in any mood for this kind of a joke; enough was enough. Washuu looked Kris in the eyes, challenging him. "Why? She's my student. I trust her..." She smiled slyly and added, "...and she's -very- diligent and -very- dedicated." "And besides," Gina grinned, leering at Kris, "Washuu keeps telling me I need more hands-on training." The tone of voice could not possibly have been more suggestive. Red sighed. He despised using The Voice, but he saw no other way to get rid of the blonde... and he would NOT be gawked at by an audience. <> he purred. Gina smiled and giggled. "Oh, cool! You can do that too? My parents taught me all about it. This is gonna be fun!" Washuu glared at Red, suddenly very serious. "Hm. Gina, I think you had better leave us alone for a bit. Take five." Gina pouted, "Oh, okay." Half-slumping, she walked out of the examination area, leaving Washuu and Red alone. "Thank you," Kris said, sighing with relief... then noting the genuine anger on Washuu's face. "Kristan Overstreet," Washuu said, her voice hissing with a rage kept quiet through sheer willpower, "you will NEVER do that in my presence, never again!" Kris, totally nonplused, blinked and muttered, "Um, Washuu, what-" "Never!" Washuu shouted, eyes flashing, daring him to say something. "Listen to me very carefully. We've got a lot of catching up on each other to do, so get used to this. Gina is my protégé. Until such time as she decides to step out on her own, she is my equal partner in everything we do. She'll be with me any time she feels like it, at any examination, experiment, study, anything! This is the way it is. Accept it." "But Washuu-" "And one more thing," Washuu growled. "Mental shenanigans like that parlor stunt you tried to use on Gina do -not- affect me, so write them off completely anytime you're around me! Understood?" Washuu shouted, losing control of her voice, shrieking at him. Kris flinched a little at Washuu's rage. Something about magic, mysticism, and the Force always got under her skin, but he'd never seen her so visibly upset before. "You've changed," he said at last. "We've both changed," Washuu replied, a bit calmer but still angry. "We'll have to learn just how much we've both changed... but if we are to go on from here, you will promise. No mind tricks." "...All right," Kris nodded. "I promise." "Good," Washuu said, calm again. "Now, I'm about to call Gina back in here. And don't worry about the flirting," she smiled. "It's a joke, that's all." "Does she know that?" Kris asked worriedly. Washuu giggled and stepped out into the foyer, and as he shifted in the harness, Red groaned and prepared for a very long day indeed. Ch. 8/NOW Zeta Cygni Dyson Sphere August 18, 2388 The Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet, a handful of days after losing most of its ships and personnel, held the largest manpower force in its entire history. Within twelve hours of the CFMF's arrival at Zeta Cygni, twenty thousand Freespacers called into active CFMF service had merged with a handful of WDF coordinators and formed full crews for twenty-five ships ranging from Miranda-class light cruisers to Yamato-class battleships. An additional five thousand engineers from RebelTech Industries crawled among forty other ships, speeding up construction through various dirty but effective shortcuts. Other Freespacers, mostly Commodore O'Keefe's hastily organized Supply Combat Force, were assisting with the patrol of Zeta Cygni space, escorting refugee ships into the Sphere and allowing the dedicated war wagons of the WDF to save their energies for the battle itself. The results of the CFMF reserve activation proved nothing less than stunning. The CFMF-crewed ships turned out to be tight operations, despite the CFMF crewmen's tendency to laugh at some of the more conventional officers' orders. Within 36 hours, only three ships remained under construction; the CFMF Camelot, replacing most of its armor in addition to its drive systems; the Wandering Child, whose complex drive systems would require ReRob Mandeville to make operational, and the Alaska-class battleship WDF Arizona, whose impulse drive had to be torn completely out and rebuilt. Engineers on all three ships worked around the clock to get them into anything approaching combat readiness. During these three days (and before), Kris went through the motions of command, writing up orders, reviewing reports, forwarding the most relevant points on to WDF command. Those of his friends who stopped by his temporary office in the Utopia Planitia Shipyards noticed a total lack of emotion, except when they gave their condolences for Washuu. Then, for a moment or two, Kris' face would tighten, and he would whisper, very quietly, "Thank you." Not many stayed long after that. Those few who tried to break through Kris' emotional walls- especially Terri and Sparky- soon found themselves completely locked out. After the first day, a guard was posted in front of the office door for one purpose- to keep Lt. Theresa Curtiss away. Written inquiries were answered curtly at first, and later ignored, as Kris shut everyone out except when he needed someone to do something. And things got done. In addition to crewing or finishing dozens of WDF ships, the CFMF reservists performed miracles on their own force. The Camelot had a new warp core installed and operating in twenty hours, and by Thursday morning her vital systems were all in perfect working order, although several cracked and scarred armor plates had to be left in place. Wounded crewmen on all the CFMF ships were transferred to the CFA Clara Barton to recuperate, replaced in many cases by their mothers, fathers, siblings, cousins, and friends. Although the CFMF could no longer claim to be even a minor galactic power, it was again an effective fighting force. The single flaw in CFMF reservist activation, the starfighter force, lay not in any lack of pilots, but in a severe shortage of spare X-Wings for the CFMF pilots to fly. Only three combat-worthy fighters could be assembled from the spare parts in Camelot's hold, and that, plus the three surviving fighters from Wilderness and the eight fighters and pilots of the MASS-01 Rebel Squadron, left fourteen fighters for the battered Camelot to launch when the time came. With two of the three Wilderness surviving pilots still out wounded, this left five ships open for volunteer reservists. Kris intended to fly one personally- his ancient Y-wing was still in the Freespacer museum and couldn't possibly be refurbished in time. Terri and Little Joe refused to be left out of the fight, and with deep misgivings Kris added their names to the roster. The two other surviving members of the original eight Rebel Squadron pilots, Tark and Mesha Greyelf, had volunteered as a pair, and Kris chose them to fill the last two spots. And then there was one more volunteer... The Right Honorable Ambassador of Cybertron, Powerglide, late Captain in the 1st Autobot Air Cavalry, sat on the hangar deck of the Camelot in vehicle mode, his normal air turbine jet engines replaced by twin Novaldex ion-thrust engines. For the moment, he was the commanding officer of the temporarily restored MASS-02 Cavalier squadron, and he was listening along with the fourteen humanoid X-Wing pilots and their astromechs to the pre-flight briefing given by the Redneck, who stood in his own flight suit as Commander and flight leader of Rebel Squadron. Beneath them all, the Camelot's deck shuddered as the hastily-repaired carrier shuddered along on partial impulse to its spot in the WDF fleet deployment. Combat with GENOM lay only moments away. "Our primary mission will be aggressive anti-fighter screening," Kris pointed out. "Wingmen stick by your wingleader at all times. We know the GENOM forces are flying almost exclusively TIE series fighters, with the exception of the Alpha-class Starwing gunboat. Thankfully, GENOM ain't got many of those yet. "Be prepared to fall back to cover the Camelot from bomber attack. We don't think Camelot is a high priority target, but it never hurts to be safe. "I don't have to tell you how to fight against TIEs," Kris continued, "since all of you have met them in starfighters or fought them on smuggling runs. For Tark and Mesha, I'll add that an X-Wing handles like a Headhunter," and here he summoned a very small smile, "only better." Sobering, he added, "Everyone, be careful. We'll make those bastards pay for Wilderness... but don't get yourself into trouble on a revenge trip. I don't want any more useless sacrifice." A siren sounded in the hangar; Dave Ritchie, the pro tem starfighter commander, had given the signal for all carriers to launch craft. "Well, that's just about everything," Kris said. "Remember, at engagement plus five minutes, we deploy to attack. Trust me, you'll know when." Kris actually did grin, this time with an evil-looking amusement. "Okay, people, get to your ships, we've got two minutes to clear the bay!" The pilots scrambled to their ships, each already loaded with its astromech, warming up the fusion turbines for ignition. Powerglide watched as six of the seven other pilots in Cavalier Squadron hustled up the boarding ladders into their cockpits; the seventh caught the Redneck by one arm and whispered (Powerglide had to turn up the gain on his sensors to catch it), "Kris..." "I'm sorry," he replied, gently holding her arms and pushing her away. "Maybe later..." Then he turned and ran for his fighter, and a second later the young woman jammed on her flight helmet and trotted listlessly towards her fighter. Powerglide turned his attention towards the other fighters in Cavalier Squadron- and thankfully away from Lt. Curtiss- watched the pilots close the hatches and rush through a preflight check. The customary walk-around check had been performed before the briefing, to save time on launching, and now the last of the safety formalities were being followed before the various fighters lifted from their landing struts and moved into the launch corridor. Powerglide ignited his own engines and taxied to the end of the launch runway. As the only fighter without repulsorlift or a full set of maneuvering thrusters in the group, Powerglide was less maneuverable than the X-Wings, but like the A-10 he was shaped like, he could take and deliver a ton of punishment- and unlike an A-10, he was one of the fastest things in sublight, capable of outrunning a photorp if he had to. Ahead of him, the seven Rebel Squadron X-Wings lifted, led by the Redneck himself. Beacon lights flashed and sirens blared as the carrier's massive hangar doors retracted, revealing the blackness of space through the light blue tint of the atmospheric containment field. The deck rumbled with the vibrations of thrusters lifting and pushing fighter after fighter out of the bays, into the launch corridor, and out of the ship, where they switched over to full ion thrust and moved into patrol formation around the Camelot and its escorts. The last Rebel Squadron ship cleared the hangar doors, and Powerglide received the Camelot ATC officer's clearance to launch. With a roar of hot ion thrust, Powerglide slammed his throttle to maximum, leaping into motion down the two hundred meter runway. The other fighters of Cavalier Squadron, hovering in position along the runway, blurred past as Powerglide shot down the hangar, accelerating through into the short zero-G zone at the end of the runway. The briefest of shudders took his flex-metal frame as he passed through the containment field, and then he was free, out in open space. As he retracted his landing gear and rolled up to fly over the pocket carrier, Powerglide scanned behind him to see each fighter of Cavalier Squadron rise in single file from the hangar. Over the squadron's command channel, he heard, "Cool takeoff, Cav 1! Can you teach us how to do that?" "Secure that, Cav 4," Powerglide replied. "Form up, echelon right on my wing. Prepare to swing around 180 to starboard on my mark and hold position." As the squadron caught up to him, Powerglide allowed himself a small smile beneath his facemask, concealed in turn beneath his ventral armor. I could get used to squadron command, he thought, and it's a lot more fun than playing Ambassador. With a series of massive spacetime ripples, the GENOM fleet shuddered into existence before the eyes of the WDF and her allies. Almost as quickly as the enemy flickered into realspace, the WDF forces advanced, opening fire and closing at high speeds to point blank range. In moments the two fleets were entangled amid each other, ship fighting ship in one of the largest melee battles since the end of the Yoma-Santovasku Wars, thousands of years before. As Kris held Rebel Squadron in position and thumbed through the targeting options, he took notice of one interesting fact; the GENOM fleet had no Interdictor cruisers remaining to it. A humorless smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth; apparently the engagement at Wilderness had served some purpose. "Sixty seconds to attack," he called out to his two squadrons. "Rebel Squadron will be flying search-and-destroy on all bomber squadrons threatening our carrier group. Cavalier Squadron, you are authorized for a bombing run on the Ikazuchi carrier Brian Mason. Forty-five seconds, all fighters report in." One by one, six other Rebel Squadron pilots, and eight Cavalier pilots, announced their readiness to attack. With Cav 8's 'standing by' call, Redneck muttered, "Lock S-foils into attack position, stand by," then switched channels and said, "CFMF Camelot, this is Rebel One. Secure for Goldfish Warning, repeat secure for Goldfish Warning." Five seconds later, the command channels of all the GENOM ships and starfighter squadrons blared with a tune only military historians had heard since the 21st century. As its incredibly cheerful and perky music flooded the headsets of every pilot and communications officer in the GENOM force (and played more pleasantly as background in the WDF force), Cavalier Squadron peeled off from its ready position and dove in, one after another, for its torpedo run on the nearest Ikazuchi carrier. Kris toggled his targeting computer to a trio of TIE Bombers approaching the Camelot. "Rebel 3, Rebel 4, Rebel 7, Rebel 8," he said, "target TIE Bomber group Third Meta and intercept. Rebel 5, Rebel 6, stick with me and watch for fighter escorts." As he shoved his throttle to full, Kris looked overhead to see a group of corvettes and destroyers, including the Confederacy and T'Pau, roaring down from the Dyson sphere for its own attack run, in this case on the Imperial Star Destroyer Despot. And who knew, Kris thought as he watched for any sign of TIE Interceptors, who knew how many of the WDF ships currently had Freespacer crewmen on them? Green blaster bolts flew past his canopy, and pausing only a moment to target the TIE Fighter group attacking him, he pulled out of the direct line of fire, diving and turning to loop behind his attacker. Funtime. On the Zardon Republican Guard battleship ZRS Fargo, Captain Jon An'dresen smiled at the first echoes of the chipper song backgrounding all the WDF-friendly command channels. Behind him, his communications officer shook his head in confusion. "Sir, I don't know where that music's coming from," he admitted. "All I can tell you is, it's drowning out the GENOM channels." "Don't worry about it," An'dresen said. "It's just one of our allies reminding GENOM of a choice bit of military history." "Military history?" "Yes, Lieutenant," An'dresen said. "Our history, as a matter of fact. What -do- they teach schoolchildren these days?" He ran a hand through his grey-shot jade hair, considering his own youth for a moment. "Our history?" The communications officer was more confused than ever. "I don't understand. What -is- the message?" "If I interpret it correctly," An'dresen smiled, pointing to a Star Destroyer shuddering under the massed assault of a dozen cruisers and destroyers, "the message is, 'Paybacks are a bitch.' Increase magnification," he ordered the navigation officer. The screen focused on the ships attacking the Star Destroyer. A trio of white angular corvettes, moving faster by half than the others, curved around the belly of the Star Destroyer, turning across its bow and pouring rapid volleys into the bridge tower. The mass driver turret on the belly of one found the port shield projector, passing through those shields and shattering the immense spherical tower. The other corvettes in the group followed on, pouring fire into the immense ship's armor. The Star Destroyer's batteries struggled to fight all the ships at once, failing to do much of anything to any of them, and in a few moments explosions ran through its massive hulk as its reactors blew. The lead trio of corvettes flew past in a victory roll, proudly displaying the Freespacer banner on their hulls. "The lesson of the day, Lieutenant," Captain An'dresen smiled, "is never piss off a Freespacer. Mr. G'henna, find us an opportunity and target it, if you please." "Right on it, Captain," the weapons officer said, and the Zardons returned their attention to their part of the battle. Chapter 9/THEN September 22, 2368 Olympus, Earth Click. "... United States forces marched unopposed through the streets of Nashville today, marking the southernmost penetration of the Imperial Americana since the United States split during the Fourth World War. Many natives of Nashville greeted the invaders with open glee, hugging soldiers and dancing in the streets. Americana forces in the area have withdrawn south of the Cumberland river and are regrouping to prevent further loss of territory. "In related news, an entire army of Imperial American troops is marching on foot in disgrace after surrendering two weeks ago to the rebel forces claiming to be the army of the Texas Free Republic. Sixty thousand troops are currently marching to Alexandria, Louisiana, weaponless and on foot. This is the second major defeat Americana has suffered to Free Texan forces since July. The Texan army is currently besieging the city of Houston, and according to reports sentiment for the rebels is high within the city walls. "The United Federation of Planets has pledged neutrality, declaring the battle to be strictly an internal matter within Earth's jurisdiction. This is despite the involvement of forces of the Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet on behalf of the insurgents. At this time, the world government at Olympus has issued no statement regarding-" Click. Of course they haven't issued a statement, Vice Admiral Kristan Overstreet grumbled. He slung the remote control across the plush carpet of his luxurious VIP holding cell, lying back on the king-sized bed in frustration. They haven't decided what to do about me yet... Click. "-how would you react to Free Texan claims that Imperial Americana is the aggressor in this case?" "That's a ludicrous statement. If I go and raise an army in someone else's nation, I think it's safe to say that-" "But it's -their- nation too, that's their-" "-I would be regarded-" "It's -not- their nation, it's the Imperial President's nation-" "all they're arguing for is the right to-" "-the aggressor, now wouldn't-" "Gentlemen, ladies, I'm afraid that's all the time we have. On behalf of Jessie Symichek and myself, this is Wendell Yamazaki... good day." Click. Admiral Overstreet sat across the desk from Athena, the President of the General Council of Olympus and, according to a polite legal fiction, the head of state of Earth. In reality, Athena barely even ruled within the Olympus city-state itself, and what power Olympus had in the outside world had fallen into greater and greater contempt as the old warring nations learned that violating Olympus directives really had little or no effect. Still, Olympus had some significant military power on the ground, and more importantly most of Earth's space defense forces and interplanetary diplomatic relations were controlled by the Olympus government. Most, but not all. Imperial Americana and the Free California Republic represented Earth in the United Federation of Planets, while Olympus regarded Earth as an independency after the final disintegration of the United Galactica. The fact that the UFP Starfleet housed its headquarters and primary officers' academy in San Francisco added insult to injury. Still, Athena's word still guided the lives of ninety-six percent of Earth's people, so when Athena spoke, people listened. For now. "Admiral, the only reason I'm speaking to you is I don't want to be responsible for starting an interplanetary war between Earth and the Confederate Freespacers Alliance," she muttered, glaring at the nondescript bearded man sitting in front of her. "As it is, your actions have strained diplomatic relations to the breaking point. I demand to know your reasons for those actions!" The Redneck rolled his eyes and spun in his chair idly. "According to the instrument of diplomatic recognition between the United Nations Earth government and the CFMF established in 2009, actions of the CFMF while under contract to another nation do not constitute official policy of the CFA civilian government." "Bullshit." Athena replied. "You chose to accept contract with a rebel group in an area which, at the time, was one of the *very* few peaceful regions of Earth. Over the past five years, you have smuggled in offworld arms- don't try to deny it- and the means of manufacturing more. You destroyed virtually the entire aerospace arm of the Imperial Americana military. And finally, I have it on very good authority that you PERSONALLY commanded the rebel forces at Goodrich and Burkeville! I said I did not want to start an interplanetary war, Admiral," Athena growled, "now I want you to tell me how it could be that -you- have not started the war yourself." The Redneck sighed. "Listen, the people of that region have been ignored for decades by the Imperial Americana except for collecting taxes. Mutant and genengineered animals have terrorized rural areas almost since the Third World War, and since the Fourth World War bandits have made rural life even worse. The Imperial Americana government won't lift a finger to defend the people there, but when they move to defend themselves they get arrested, locked up, and occasionally shot. "Now, when I help these people clean out the bandits and most of the kaiju-class predators from the area, do they get any thanks or support? No. What they get is shoot-to-kill orders from the Imperial Americana. What they get is family and friends massacred by Imperial forces. The CFMF hired on as assistants to local law enforcement in the area, Madame President. When the local authorities decided to break away from the IA, we continued to honor our contract, expanded to include defending the area against aggressor nations. Does this answer your question?" The silence drew out as Athena pondered and Red maintained his relaxed, informal attitude. The mid-morning sun lit up the occasional mote of dust floating by in the wide, empty office. Red picked out one dust mote and followed its motion, up on a tiny updraft, around and down in an eddy, drifting serenely, utterly unconcerned with the tension in the room. Finally, Athena sighed. "You, sir, have left me in a difficult position." Standing, she continued, "We will discuss this later." Pressing the intercom button in her desk, she said, "Have Admiral Overstreet escorted back to his suite." Click. "- Robotics can service any landmate, cyborg, destroid or 'droid you have! We are licensed with the Olympus Bureau of Security to work on all licensed military landmates! For the finest in quality service, call Ben Abel Robotics, 72-678-5518 in Sector 5-G, just across the main plaza from Tartarus!" "And now back to 'Talk At 5.'" "Welcome back, everyone. Our next guest on 'Talk at 5' is a refugee from Imperial Americana. He says that the current insurrection in the Imperial state of Texas was caused not by off-planet intervention but by the neglect and poor administration by the Imperial government. Ladies and Gentlemen, from Dibble, Texas, Mr. Aaron Sheffield!" "That's Di-boll." "Oops. Sorry. Mr. Sheffield, how long have you lived in Texas?" "All my life." "When did you first notice that the Imperial government was not listening to the needs of the-" "TRAITOR!!" "Ahem, you'll have a chance to ask your questions after-" "TRAITOR!! You support the rebels who want to overthrow the last defense of the true American way of life! You ought to be hung just as high as they hung the rebels in College Station!" "Sir, I must ask you to-" *BLAM!BLAM!BLAM!!!* "OH MY GOD!! Call an ambulance! Someone call an ambulance!!" "And I'll give any of those other traitors the same! YOU HEAR ME? WE'RE GONNA KILL YOU ALL, YOU ROTTEN STINKING-" Click. If it weren't for the fact that both of the people flanking him were trained SWAT officers, Kris would have sworn the pair were prime material for a children's afternoon cartoon series. The more unusual of the pair, a modified Hecatonchires cyborg, strode gracefully down the hallway to his right, his totally non-ceremonial .70 armor assault rifle held at the ready, the muzzle pointing a few inches over the Redneck's head. Insofar as a cyborg could express anything with his verniers and multiple optics, Briareos seemed totally unflappable, an island of calm in a sea of angry, confused, frustrated Olympus politicos and paramilitary. That calm did not extend to his partner. The slender blonde seemed perpetually angry at Kris for some reason. She didn't have to run to keep up with her partner- Briareos' pace was slow enough to let her walk comfortably- but she made it -look- fast, fidgeting with her own automatic and occasionally tugging at the sleeves of her camouflage ESWAT uniform. Kris felt extremely grateful her gun was pointed -away- from him. "So," he said about halfway back to his room from yet another committee meeting, "how'd you pull this assignment?" "Would you believe it was an honor post?" Briareos rumbled. "No," Kris smiled slightly. "For an honor post you two are a waste of talent. Besides," he nodded slowly towards the woman, "Deunan Knute has a long reputation as a disciplinary hazard." He'd pulled CFMF Intel records on Olympus's semi-secret ESWAT unit, and had been mildly amused at some of the material in this particular two-man team's files. Amused enough to commit the files to memory. Maybe I'll write a book. "Who the hell asked you anyway?" Deunan broke stride for an instant, then had to trot a few seconds to catch up to the two larger figures. "So I'm guessing you're here because I'm considered a flight risk," Kris ticked off one finger as he counted, "or because you're getting disciplined by your superiors," he ticked off a second finger, "or a combination of the two." "You're half right," Briareos shrugged slightly. "We got audited for our last expense report. Seems Ms. Spending Spree here tried to slip 100 extra rounds of APRFDS into the voucher..." "What about your Turtle Wax, hm?" "Hey, how am I supposed to keep my good looks without a good polish and wax after a rough night?" "And those bottles of champagne?" "You drank three of them! Don't play innocent with me!" "Ahem," Kris cleared his throat softly. "Half right?" "Yeah, well," Briareos said quickly, "you aren't considered a real flight risk..." "... since we figure you could order an assault on Olympus to rescue you anytime you wanted," Deunan added. "... plus we've been briefed on your many single-man and small-unit combat actions," Briareos shrugged. "We couldn't hold you if you didn't want to be." "It's so nice to be respected," the Redneck drawled sarcastically. "We're here to babysit you..." Deunan grumbled. "Make sure you don't disappear on us without warning, play nice with people, that sort of thing..." "... and make sure you don't get assassinated before the Council makes its decision," Briareos added. "We've had word that Imperial Americana has placed a pretty fat price on your head- not necessarily anything extra for the rest of your body." Redneck shrugged. "Add it to the list," he sighed. "I've got thirty-one death-marks on me. Nobody's had the guts to try and collect since I took Brackiss' shooting hand off him and stuffed it... ahem, somewhere uncomfortable," he said, looking uncomfortably at Deunan. Deunan smiled at him. "I'd have done a lot worse in your place." Kris nodded. "Anyway, anyone who was after my head would have to be an idiot... a true lunatic... or really hard up on cash." Click. "-and remember, I'm MAAAAD MARKIE! And my prices are- IN-SAAAANE!!" "And now, a preview of the Seven O'clock News. "Imperial Americana denies any involvement with the escape of a known terrorist. "Human protesters picket Tartarus demanding an end to bioroid production. "And this man claims your future can be read- in a sweet potato?" "Hiroyuki with the weather, after this." Click. Kris turned the television back off and pulled himself out of the too-soft couch to get a drink. He'd invited Deunan and Briareos in to relax a bit, but the two weren't allowed to; they were on duty 24/7 until further notice, and although Deunan could (and would, and had) probably sneak naps in in the meantime, sneaking coffee with the Very Important Prisoner just wasn't allowed. Since Kris hated coffee with a passion (except for the smell it made while brewing), he popped open a bottle of soda and took a long pull, looking out at the sunset from his suite's window. As his eyes stared idly over the bottle, looking at the skyline far below and away from the government building, he contemplated the day ahead; more of the same, sitting and watching TV or answering more of the same questions from politicians and security officials who hadn't decided where to land on the Texas question yet. Athena was the important one, he knew, she would be the one who made the final decision. Obviously she hadn't made it yet, not officially; something he wasn't being allowed to see held her back from whatever preconceived opinion she had and forced her to at least keep the appearance of an open mind. For all I know, Kris shrugged, she really -is- trying to be fair... Kris blinked as the sunlight reflected off something outside the window and dazzled his eyes for a split second. Only a split second. Kris dove to the floor and started crawling towards the sofa. The window shattered into thousands of pieces as heavy bullets whizzed through the kitchenette and riddled the ceiling with holes. Outside, the thunder of a pair of jump-jets roared as a landmate- a heavy armored power suit- hovered, guns trained on the VIP suite. Kris' half-full soda fell to the carpet, syrup splashing across the beige pile. The front door slammed open and Briareos and Deunan dove in, crawling along the floor beside Kris; a second later, the landmate roared into the room, guns blazing, bullets ripping up the carpet around them. "MOVE!" Kris shouted, scrambling on his hands and knees for the door. Briareos leaned up over the couch and fired a couple rounds into the landmate's chest, denting it but doing no obvious damage. Kris and Deunan crawled out the door, got to their feet and ran a few yards down the hallway. Deunan mumbled something vile under her breath as she dropped the standard ammo clip from her rifle and fumbled in her pockets for armor-piercing or explosive-tip rounds. Behind them, the thunderclaps of the landmate's heavy caliber rounds rattled through the half-open door, followed a few moments later by Briareos, rolling through the door, knocking it aside, landing on the floor against the far wall. Bullets punched through the wall of the suite, blowing insulation and paneling across the hallway. More bullets followed, imbedding themselves in the wall Briareos managed to turn around and fire off a few more rounds as he scooted back on his rear end towards the other two. "Why couldn't they have put some -cover- in this hallway?" Briareos grumbled as he reached Deunan and Kris' position. The suite door, and most of the frame, crashed into the hallway, followed by the landmate, not unscathed but not seriously scathed either. Deunan slapped a clip into her rifle and set it to full automatic, the spent cartridges pouring from the chamber as the rounds ricocheted off the landmate's armor. "What does it take to take this guy DOWN?" Deunan fumbled for a new magazine, watching the landmate face them and aim its guns at them. A red wall of light appeared between the landmate and the trio, spanning wall to wall across the hall, ceiling to floor. White sparks flashed across it as the landmate's bullets slammed into the forcefield, the spent slugs bouncing back and falling to the carpet. Deunan and Briareos looked to each other for a moment, then looked over at Kris. Sweat dripped down his face, his eyes squeezed shut in concentration, as he focused his efforts on the forcefield. Normally the field would be easy to sustain, but those bullets... it felt like stopping an artillery shell every time one of those slugs hit the field, and pumping enough power into the field to stop them cold was draining him fast. "I... have... goddamn well... had ENOUGH... of this!" Kris poured everything he had into one surge of energy, sending the field flying down the corridor. It slammed into the landmate and carried it along, surrounding the armor with static discharge. With a building-shaking WHUMP the hardsuit hit the far wall, embedding itself into the structure, rattling once as the forcefield dissipated its energy through it. There it stayed, motionless, while Deunan and Briareos helped Kris to his feet. As Kris and his guards made their way over to the landmate, reinforcements finally showed up; a squad of ESWAT troops, armed with armor-piercing ammo and anti-landmate grenade launchers. "THIS IS ESWAT!" their squad leader shouted through a megaphone from his position all of two rifle lengths from the landmate's head. "OPEN UP THAT LANDMATE AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS EMPTY AND IN THE AIR!" The front hatch of the landmate slowly opened, the pneumatic hinges hissing loudly with the pressure needed to lift the heavy armor away. Inside the powerless hardsuit sat a scruffy-looking man with dark hair and wild eyes, still wearing his prison uniform, his arms and legs trapped inside fused servomotor grips. " Olympus tyrants!! If I could move I'd tear your heads off!!" "Fanatic, and stupid," Kris muttered, leaning on Deunan and sweating heavily.. "If he didn't have such a high polish on his equipment, I'd probably have my brains spattered all over the pantry door." "He's the terrorist that escaped last night from detention," Briareos. said. "Definitely a fanatic, but very very good at his job." Kris nodded slowly, then stood up straight and, weaving a little from exhaustion, started walking back to his room. "Who wants coffee?" Click. "-and thanks to quick response from ESWAT, the terrorist known as the Paducah Bomber was apprehended and is en route to a maximum security holding cell pending questioning. Back to you in the studio, Harvey." "Thank you, Carol. In related news, four people were killed by a berserk cyborg in the-" Click. "The terror which flaps in the night is back!" "DIGGY!" Surrounded by forensics and ballistics experts, Kris, Deunan and Briareos sat comfortably on the couch and sipped their drinks and watched the TV. After several minutes of comfortable silence (interrupted only by the chatter between the various Olympus police and internal security detectives), Briareos said, "You got incredibly lucky today, Admiral." "If I was lucky," Kris replied, "my cell's window wouldn't be broken." The exchange caught the attention of one of the ESWAT reinforcements lurking nearby. "Excuse me," said the trooper, leaning over the back of the couch, "but these two officers are on duty, and-" "Piss off," Kris grumbled. "Can't you see we're watching ThunderForce Forever?" "(Or until the next commercial break, anyway,)" Deunan said, sotto voce. "But Admiral Overstreet," the officer continued lamely, "I really must-" "File your protest with Athena," Kris barked. "Until further notice I want my guard in eyesight, and I strongly prefer these two guards." "With proper ammunition," Deunan added. "And an expense account for body work," Briareos said, rubbing a deep scratch in one arm's plating. "Sir," the officer said, "prisoners do not usually pick and choose their guards...." "The last time I looked," Kris grumbled, "I had diplomatic immunity. I also have an immunity or strong resistance to bullets, lasers, phasers, sharp objects, soft pillows and hard radiation. Now will you leave us alone before I see how much immunity -you- have?" "Is that a threat?" "It's a health advisory," Kris grumbled, turning up the volume of the TV as the animated Danilia squealed, "Yay! We get to make the station go BOOM!!" Giving up on the Admiral, the officer turned to Briareos. "Doesn't he realize he was almost killed?" he shouted over the television speaker. "Wasn't the first time," Briareos shrugged." "Won't be the last," Kris said. "Coffee's in the pot," Deunan added, leaning back in the cushions and watching the Galaxy's greatest heroes go into action against evil. "Wanna get me a refill?" The officer shook his head and retreated in search of a form to fill out in triplicate. Click. "The Texas Free Republic began as a handful of vigilante troops in the rural areas of central and eastern Texas who struggled against not only uncontrolled military raiders and the rapidly changing environment but also the corrupt government of Imperial Americana, which claimed sovereignty over Texas but made no effort to enforce it outside the major cities. "The movement first gained notoriety in the galactic community when a small army of Republican volunteers, supported by mercenary forces, fought a corps of Imperial Americana troops to a draw in the month-long Battle of the Trinity. The battle led to today's decree of neutrality by the Olympus government, which effectively sanctions the continuing war between Imperial Americana and the rebel Texans, on the grounds that the war is a strictly internal affair and must be settled internally by Imperial Americana. "In related news, Earth has broken all diplomatic ties with the Confederate Freespacers Alliance, who are suspected of supporting the Texas insurgents against Imperial Americana. Representatives of the Freespacer government have not made any comment at this time, but sources suggest that the Freespacers will continue in their support of Texan independence..." Click. Chapter 9/NOW Above the Zeta Cygni Dyson Sphere August 18, 2388 Roughly ten degrees spinward of the WDF allied fleet deployment, an enormous flotilla of refugee ships from all sectors of the Federation orbited in formation. The Freespacer Home Fleet, hundreds of ships strong, nearly vanished in the swarm of ships surrounding it, small and large alike. Between the refugees and the WDF fleet, a thin picket line of warships, mostly crippled refugees themselves from the long string of GENOM victories, prepared to buy the refugees a last few minutes of escape time, should it be needed. One ship in particular lay quiet, mostly. Slightly smaller than a Miranda-class light cruiser, it mounted a single warp nacelle mounted atop a boxy wedge-shaped delta hull. Its forward hull gaped with the wounds of battle, superstructure gleaming bare, wires dangling into space. Dark lines left by glancing laser blasts criss-crossed the once-gleaming white armor, blurring the name and banner painted atop its hull: CFMF DEFIANT CFF-45. On her bridge, Aya Nakajima watched the viewscreen as the two immense fleets grappled at each other in savage ship-to-ship dueling. "Shran, is everything ready?" she asked the Andorian standing behind her. "Automated circuits installed and running smoothly," Shran nodded, checking a handful of readouts on the otherwise dead Environmental Systems console. "Subspace pattern enhancers all in place and operating at full power. Just don't give us too many bumps on the way, or else all the pattern enhancers in the galaxy won't help us." "We have one forward phaser bank, the wing laser turrets, and the ventral rail guns working," Shwarz added from his weapons station. "That leaves us pretty weak on point defense." "The new shield generators are working at full capacity," T'Pall said. "I read performance at 450% of old specs." She spun around in her seat to look at Aya. "Will Commander Overstreet not be annoyed at your appropriation of the shield generator units from the Bethlehem drydock?" "Eh, the Charlemagne isn't using them anyway," Aya waved off T'Pall's worries with almost insane confidence. "Claire, open a secure channel to the Camelot." "One moment," Claire said, keying in the request, and then, "Audio only, Captain Kondo standing by." "Oi, Nanami-chan," Aya said, "ready for Operation Blaze of Glory?" "Everything's set," Nanami Kondo's voice crackled through some light static. "Are you sure you want to do this?" "Positive," Aya replied. "Now keep yourself out of trouble- we're relying on you to pull our butts out of here!" "Will do. Good hunting. Camelot out." The channel went dead, and Aya took one last look around her bridge, her face suddenly dead serious. "If anybody wants to bail out, this is it," she said. None of the five other officers spoke or moved. Finally, T'Pall broke the silence: "All systems are at ready, Captain. We await your orders." Aya nodded. "Homare, forward on thrusters. Nice and inconspicuous." "Aye, Captain," Homare smiled, as his hands danced across the helm console. The CFMF Defiant floated slowly and quietly away from the reserve group formation, bow pointed towards the battle. Behind her and to starboard, running lights dimmed, a Miranda-class light cruiser slipped equally quietly away in escort. The captain of the cruiser, Mark Harris, smiled to himself as he watched the Defiant slide away. Gryphon's hunch had been right on the money. Nothing, even a crippled starship, would keep Aya Nakajima away from a major battle. Harris chuckled at the thought of Aya and her officers in a rowboat, Aya barking orders as the others rowed, moving into battle to meet aircraft carriers. No, sir, he mused as the two ships drifted nonchalantly towards the fighting, Nakajima won't miss a fight if she can help it. Kris sent the twenty-fourth TIE Bomber of the day to a fiery death, grinning with a joy he hadn't felt in... a very, very long time, he thought to himself. Things were so incredibly simple in a cockpit. You had no worries outside of your squadron, it was just you, your astromech, and your fighter against everybody. It felt so -good.- The GENOM fleet's starfighter forces had thinned out, overwhelmed by the better trained, better armed WDF fighter corps. The human pilots in GENOM's forces were making errors, as now and again a TIE would plaster itself into a Star Destroyer or an Iowa battleship. Behind and above him, Kris' two wingmen picked off a trio of TIEs, bang bang bang, too scared to turn and fight and too green to break formation and dodge. Unfortunately, that trio proved the exception rather than the rule. The crop he and his two squadrons of Freespacers were mowing down were much tougher kills than most of the GENOM pilots. The wings in this bunch, he noted, weren't making mistakes. Each victory scored by a Freespacer represented long minutes of struggling for position, just to get the three or four shots in needed to spack your average TIE. "FUCK!" a voice shouted through Kris' headset. "This TIE has SHIELDS! - AAAAHHH!!!" A flash of light to starboard caught his attention for a moment- one of Cavalier Squadron's X-Wings had fallen into a classic lead-bait trap and gambled that he could make the kill before his shields went down. Apparently, Kris thought, the pilot had forgotten that TIEs travel in threes, not twos. Kris's attention turned to the lead TIE- the 'TIE with shields' that had lured one of his fliers to his doom. At this distance, it looked like a strange mutant cross between a classic TIE/in and a TIE Interceptor, bent panels solid end to end, longer and wider than on a normal TIE. As he watched, the prototype TIE regrouped with its two wingmen and turned to face Red, then turned past him, firing their blaster cannons in alternating fire on - "I'M HIT!!" Rebel Three- Kris couldn't remember her name- screamed as her shields flickered and died. A moment later, her fighter fragged horrendously, spraying fire and fragments past Kris' fighter. Kris' heart sank into his boots; he'd let down someone -else- under his command. Damn if it was going to happen again. Kris pulled his fighter around, sliding into the prototype's ion backwash as the TIE wing targeted another X-wing. The targeting computer read its transponder code as GENOM Alpha-One, TIE type... unknown. Yeah, big surprise, 'unknown,' Kris thought bitterly as he fired a few rounds into the TIE's aft shields. Switching his radio to cover both the GENOM command channel and the WDF squadrons' channels, he said, "Alpha One, calling Alpha One, this is Rebel One. Do you copy, over?" To punctuate the statement, he fired a few more rounds, three of them adding to the drain on the TIE's shields. "This is Alpha One," a female voice replied- in an accent very similar to his own, only less twangy, broader... Kris could practically smell the crawfish on her breath. "We thought we took you all out in the Enigma Sector." "Well, you didn't quite finish the job, did you?" Kris fired again, but the TIE sideslipped around his firing arc, attempting to dip beneath him and come up behind. As Kris countered the move, the voice countered, "We'll do a better job this time, then, won't we?" The voice contained no amusement, no anger, no malice; it was the cool, composed voice of a dedicated professional. "We'll see," Kris grumbled. "Alpha One, I'm callin' you out." This time there was a touch of amusement in the GENOM pilot's voice. "Please, Rebel One, don't be joking me at a time like this. This is no time for petty dueling." "I'm deadly serious," Kris replied. "If you want a formal challenge, how about, 'One shall stand, one shall fall?' Works for Transformers, anyway." There was a long silence, as Alpha One dodged and wove to evade Kris' intermittent fire. Finally, her voice replied, "What are your terms of combat, Rebel One?" "My fighters don't fuck with you, your fighters don't fuck with me," Kris answered. "We don't call for help. Fighters outside our control- well, we can't do anything about them. No using friendly ships for cover fire. This is strictly you and me, the best pilot wins." "Acceptable," Alpha One replied. "Let's begin, then." In an impossibly small turn radius, the TIE prototype turned around and returned fire, forcing Kris to dodge. "FUCK!" he gasped, slamming his yoke to one side and curving around to try and catch his quarry. He switched fully over to his command channel, saying, "Powerglide, take over for me. Rebel Squadron, Cavalier Squadron, do not interfere with me, repeat leave my target alone. That's a direct order." "No arguments, Commander," Powerglide answered. "Primus be with you." I sureashell hope so, Kris thought to himself. I'm gonna need all the help I can get. The word -magnificent- makes only the faintest beginning in the description of the carnage taking place above the Utopia Planitia Shipyards. Diffusing laser light illuminated the ships of both sides with the shadows of a grand lightning storm. Star Destroyers and Iowa-class battleships exploded in balls of flame, taking with them smaller ships and fighters. Already dozens of ships on both limped away from the fighting to lick their wounds. Through it all, starfighters dueled, bombing larger ships, intercepting bombing runs, and dueling each other for space superiority. And in the center of it all, the WDF Concordia pressed home, firing volley after volley of impotent phaser bursts into the Dreadnaught's phase shields. The Dreadnaught pounded home on Concordia in turn, slamming against the smaller ship's shields with devastating force. With each hit, the Concordia's shields weakened, and it appeared that, without intervention, the WDF lead ship would be destroyed by the more powerful Dreadnaught. The WDF Bismarck, seeing the Concordia's growing distress, disengaged from its pounding of an Ikazuchi carrier and swung its helix cannons to bear on the Dreadnaught. The deck guns fired, sending a wave of deadly but ineffective force into the invincible phase shields. Dreadnaught fired three almost contemptuous volleys into Bismarck in reply, knocking its shields out and blasting large chunks of armor into vapor, before returning its attention to the Concordia. Bismarck chugged slowly away, wounded but not mortally so, attempting to restore its shields and make repairs. Three Ikazuchis, seeing easy prey, swooped in to make the kill. Before the GENOM ships could fire, the Bismarck's escort, the cruisers CFMF Valiant, WDF Excalibur, and RSN Kanly bore down on the lead Ikazuchi, rendering it into a powerless hulk within thirty seconds. The other two GENOM ships veered off, and Bismarck limped away, quickly out of immediate danger. Powerglide, having monitored the exchange while closing on his next torpedo target, flashed his lights in salute at the passing Valiant. The day was a day for uncommon valor... hopefully, he mused, it would also be a day for victory. Before his target lock had quite completed, his targeting scope was replaced by a split view of two Ben Hutchinses, and for a moment the battle around him paused as the two commanders faced off. "And you managed to get out of the prison on Tantalus V and make your way to your masters, who gave you command of this entire fleet? Largo is still too much the coward to face us in combat when the odds are even, is he?" "Oh, the odds are far from even, my pathetic predecessor. Your weapons cannot even harm my ship--and yet you threaten to destroy me? An empty threat, I think." "You know me. You were fully briefed on the man you were to frame. You know I don't make empty threats. I possess the power to destroy your vessel, and if you do not surrender and prepare your fleet for boarding at once, I mean to do just that. The animal side of me, who hungers for revenge after what you put me through, wants to just push the button now, but the Starfleet officer I was trained to be is giving you a chance. I wouldn't blow it if I were you." "Ah, but you are me. Did not all your friends believe so? Did not the woman you loved believe so? Tell me, Gryphon--if the people you love can think you so full of evil and deceit as that, what kind of lovers and friends does that make them? No, my friend, there will be no surrender today. Think about what I have just told you, before I send you to the void. Then, think on it for eternity." The Dreadnaught opened fire, alone among all the ships of both fleets, as both sides waited for the final act of this mini-drama. "Last chance." "I'll see you in hell!" Concordia's keel crackled and glowed in response to the Butcher's final rebuff, and suddenly a single burst of LIGHT shot from the WDF ship towards the Dreadnaught. The bolt passed through the phase shields and kept right on going, lancing the immense battleship from hull to bridge. The engines exploded, rocking every ship nearby with the massive burst of energy and debris, and Dreadnaught II was no more. Enraged by the loss, the GENOM ships pressed forward, overwhelming a handful of WDF ships before they could react. Laser blasts flooded past Powerglide, and as he jinked out of the line of fire, he mused to himself; let's get back to work, guys, this battle ain't over yet. The GENOM ships pressed home their counterattack, building a slow momentum against the WDF forces even without their strongest battleship. A Colonial Battlestar, a Yamato-class battleship, and four other vessels fell almost immediately, bringing the tally near even between the two fleets. The ships drew closer together, brushing against each other on occasion as both sides exchanged point-blank, shield-grinding volleys of every kind of starship armament known. Nanami Kondo observed the battle from her center seat on the Camelot. As per Fleet orders, the Camelot held back with the two other carriers in her group, keeping well clear of the clusterfuck battle in front of her, vulnerable only to the occasional starfighter run. On the bridge's main viewscreen, a Victory-class Star Destroyer lumbered into view, taking advantage of the confusion to slip behind a Alaska-class battleship. The WDF ship, noting its unwelcome pursuer, veered away and dumped a volley of photon torpedoes from its rear tubes. The VSD absorbed the full volley, completed its maneuver, and let loose with a broadside against the battleship. The Alaska's shields sparked and flared under the bombardment, visibly weakened and flickering as the Victory recharged its guns for a second blast. "Mr. Kaiju," Captain Kondo said quietly, "lock our forward phasers and torpedo tubes onto that Star Destroyer and fire when ready." "Aye, Captain, with pleasure." The Camelot reoriented itself just slightly, bringing its bow directly to bear at the Victory, Atop its crystal-shaped alpha hull, a dim blue gleam rose from the emitter coils of two massive phaser banks. Then, with a brilliant flash of light, a long, lancing phaser burst struck the VSD on its aft quarter. Close behind it came a barrage of torpedoes and mass driver strikes, slamming into the shields just before striking the exposed engine exhaust ports. With a surge of ions, the Victory lumbered away, realizing at last its error in exposing its vulnerable engines to the bulk of the enemy fleet. Camelot's escort ships added their firepower, and with a brilliant flash the VSD's aft shields died. A moment later, the engines exploded in a burst of flame and smoke, setting off secondary explosions throughout the ship. Cheers rose from the Camelot's bridge crew, and the comm officer smiled as he said, "Captain, compliments received from the USS Vermont." "Return the compliments," Nanami smiled, "and keep us clear of the heavy fighting, helm. I want to be ready when Operation Blaze of Glory goes down." Powerglide pulled away from the fireball which moments before had been a -very- surprised TIE Interceptor. Beneath his armor, the Autobot smirked as he considered just how surprised the GENOM pilot, human or Buma, must have been by the A-10's speed and maneuverability. Of course, he hadn't been surprised for very long, but then again, maybe surprise carried over into the next dimension of existence. For the moment, Powerglide had no other targets to engage. With the arrival of the Discordia and the Silent Service, the tide of battle had begun to turn decisively for the WDF, as the GENOM fleet struggled to protect its flanks and rear from the swift cloakship force. In particular, the remaining GENOM starfighters had taken an incredible pounding; now, maybe one out of every three GENOM fighters originally launched remained to harass the WDF fleet. A quiet voice in the background of his command channel muttered something about the SDF-23 being cleared to depart drydock, and with a sigh Powerglide banked around to watch its exodus from the Sphere. This was it. With the star fortress in the battle, the victory was just about sewn up. A shimmer to his port side caught his attention, and Powerglide focused his sensors on it. The shimmer grew into a portal- a fold effect, Powerglide noted, and a damn big... DAMN big... The portal grew to immense proportions, dwarfing the fleet, dwarfing anything short of a planet. A solid steel world slid through the fold and into the space above the Zeta Cygni Dyson Sphere. At the relatively close distance, Powerglide's scans showed a great equatorial trench and thousands of smaller trenches criss-crossing the warworld, which itself bristled with anti-ship, anti-fighter gunnery turrets. On its northern hemisphere, like a giant divot, sat what absolutely had to be the largest tandem laser emitter dish the Autobot had ever seen in his life. PRIMUS. Even as he stared, the giant emitter dish flared to life, ten 'feeder' beams coalescing in the focal point, balancing, and leaping forward in a giant green beam of death. The beam lanced the Dyson sphere, and went through, vanishing into its interior. A moment later, another whispered voice percolated through the command channels; the Arizona had been hit, and now drifted powerlessly within the sphere. That can't be Unicron, Powerglide thought, but what else is that BIG? What in the name of the Matrix IS it? Cursing, Kris yanked his X-Wing into a hard loop, leaving Alpha-One's laser bursts trailing mere inches behind his fuselage. His eyes caught a glimpse of the fold effect as it manifested; he sent his fighter into a short corkscrew, and when he righted himself a giant metal planet filled up a third of his canopy view. While his subconscious kept his fighter dodging away from the TIE's shots, he watched with disbelief as an enormous laser beam leaped from the battlestation to the Dyson sphere, tearing a huge hole in the grey expanse. Largo's voice echoed in Kris' helmet, and his visage flashed momentarily on his console's viewscreen. "Is it not amazing, the places in which old friends meet?" "You mother fucking bastard," Kris whispered. His eyes locked onto the battle station for a long moment; then, in a swift blur of hands, he switched off his main engines, flipped his fighter end-over-end on maneuvering thrusters, reignited his engines and barreled down headlong on the stunned Alpha One. The TIE veered off, allowing Kris time to turn and get a better look at the battle station. Already the monstrous battle station turned in search of a new target, and as it turned, starfighters erupted from its equatorial trench, hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands. TIEs, TIE Interceptors, TIE Bombers, gunboats, blastboats, assault transports, all swarming forward into the WDF fleet. "Rebel Squadron, Cavalier Squadron," Kris shouted into his headset, "form up on the Camelot! Powerglide, you're in charge, keep her covered! I've got my hands full!" He wrenched the control yoke back, turning a tight U roll just in time to evade yet another concussion missile. The thrill of the duel evaporated; now he wished he could break off and protect the current flagship of the CFMF. The battle had just taken a huge turn for the worse. Aya Nakajima leaped up from her seat at the sight of the enormous station. "What the FUCK is that?" she shouted. "Receiving no transponder signal from the GENOM battlestation," T'Pall replied calmly. As she spoke, the battlestation in question fired again, incinerating a Battlestar in seconds. "That was the WDF Atlantia," she said, in much the same tone she might have said, This is a bar of soap. Aya shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "Shran, can we take the ship into battle?" Shran shrugged. "The automated controls are pretty shaky... one good hit and we'll be dead in space... but we can attack, sure." "Good!" Aya watched as the GENOM battlestation blasted yet another WDF ship into oblivion. "Irving, pick out a target! Homare, attack speed!" "Yes, Captain!" Shwarz's hands danced across his console. "Commander, the WDF Oregon is under attack from two Ikazuchi carriers and their bomber squadrons. Bring me a clean shot at the belly of the closer one." "You got it," Homare nodded. With a snap of switches, running lights appeared across the battle-scarred ship. The maimed weapons wing opened, the starboard side intact, the port side gaping with the wounds of Wilderness. With smooth, graceful speed the WDF Defiant entered the fray, skipping through the rear echelons of the WDF fleet like a child playing leapfrog, emerging in a spray of phasers, lasers, torpedoes and iron. The barrage struck the lower shields of the Ikazuchi, and its weaker belly guns retargeted to eliminate the new threat. As the Defiant circled around for another attack run, Aya growled to herself, "Dammit, where the hell is MegaZone?" Much the same thought occupied Kris' mind. While traded scissors-curves, dips and loops with Alpha-One, a swarm of TIEs had besieged the Camelot. Only a superhuman effort on the part of the Camelot's gunners, the fifteen fighters based on Camelot, and two of the Hornet's newly orphaned squadrons stopped the bombers from scoring on the carrier, but the other fighters were whittling away at Camelot's defenses... ... and Kris couldn't do jack about it, because he was too busy flying his butt off to get rid of -one- fighter. He'd taken out thirty-two already, but this woman, probably the leading ace GENOM had, was giving him the fight of his life. He hadn't been able to achieve an advantage yet, and if he broke off, the TIE would be on his butt in a heartbeat. Nothing for it, Kris thought, but to- WHOA! Without the least thought or purpose, Kris' arm yanked back on the yoke, sending his fighter up and away from the modified TIE. A moment later, Alpha-One followed, firing a couple rounds at Kris' retreating fighter. Kris paid no mind, he just kept running, as his mind rang with a sense of warning... ... and his fighter shook just slightly as, behind him, the SDF-23's Reflex cannon fired and fired and fired, a long, destructive salvo ripping through the core of the GENOM force, clearing the line of fire between the two battlefortresses. In turn, the AT&T turned to face its enemy, centering its main dish on the SDF-23's bridge. The battle around the two giants slowed, but did not cease, as ships and fighters turned their attention to the duel. The Wandering Child brought its bow around, centering itself on the AT&T, looking for the perfect firing solution. The AT&T already had one. The dish lit up, the beams merged, and the deadly shot lanced forward- -and scattered into a million fragments as it struck a lone man standing in the middle of space, totally unprotected. (Actually, he -was- protected, against B. O.- he was wearing deodorant. What he wasn't wearing was any sort of spacesuit or armor or anything.) Kris relaxed for a moment- just for a moment, and then laser blasts jolted him back to attention. Alpha-One, although rattled by the outer edges of the Reflex effect, was still very much in the fight. The X-Wing's shields fell for a moment, and Kris dipped out of Alpha-One's firing arc and worked to get behind her. Halfway through the curve, he saw the AT&T fire again, and the beam flew--- ** ** ** ** ** *** The management regrets to inform you that your regularly scheduled fanfic has been interrupted by a sudden end of the Universe. We therefore present this Intermission. Go ahead, go get a sandwich and a Coke. We'll wait. Honest. Nice and comfy? Feet warm, head cool, comfy chair? Good. We'll have this fixed any minute now, honest. Thank you for your patience. -Ah, the Universe is once again running. In just a minute we'll be returning you to the carnage in progress, so sit back, enjoy the show, and please do not reveal what goes on to your friends. Thank you again, and we hope you enjoyed this intermission.*** Ch. 10/NOW Above the Zeta Cygni Dyson Sphere August 18, 2388 --- towards the SDF-23... only to be deflected by another, smaller beam of brilliant yellow light. The source of that light quickly came into view- a slender, blonde woman in a sort of battle armor, pink and black mixed, flying in a nimbus of golden light towards the warring fleets. "Iczer-One," Kris gasped. He'd never seen an Iczer before, and the images he'd seen in the WDF history files hadn't done justice to the sheer power the cosmic woman radiated. As he watched, Iczer-One flew past his fighter, making towards the SDF-23, face serene without being grim. He could feel a sort of resonance, both within the Force and in his sense of the energy around him, as the power stored within his own body echoed that produced by hers. Obviously Kris hadn't been the only one to notice the new arrival. Alpha-One's voice came through his headset. "Another day, perhaps, Rebel-One, bon jour." As she spoke, her fighter pulled away, followed in ragged formation by the broken wings of her squadron. Even with half their strength destroyed in the battle, the formation looked impressive in its own right, and for a moment Kris just stared as it flew away from the battle, towards the immense battle station. "It is well that war is so terrible, else we should become too fond of it." he quoted to himself. For all the death and destruction it caused, there was a strange beauty to warfare... He shook himself head to toe in the cockpit, clearing his head of irrelevant thoughts, and turned his fighter back towards the Camelot, red-lining his engines. Battle's still not over... lotsa things can happen... On the bridge of the Defiant, Aya Nakajima watched the battle, looking at one ship and then another as the guncruiser raced through the battle wreaking confusion while staying milliseconds ahead of bright green destruction. The GENOM fleet fought on, still inflicting grievous wounds on many WDF ships, moving slowly into a rear-guard action as one by one the GENOM ships worked themselves free of the battle and turned to put distance between themselves and the WDF force. The Defiant bore new scars from the grand battle. The large shield generator 'abstracted' from the CFMF Charlemagne had blown out, leaving the ship's old, battered shield generators to provide what little protection they could. The weapons on the starboard wing had finally given out, the patchwork repairs overloaded in an attack run on a Victory-class Star Destroyer. However, the engines still worked, and the ventral mass driver turret still worked, keeping starfighters from getting too close to the ship. Despite the punishment the Defiant had taken, it had given better than it had got. Shadowed by the WDF Hawking, in the brief engagement she distracted three Imperial-class Star Destroyers from their targets, put a Victory-class Star Destroyer out of commission, and assisted in the destruction of three Ikazuchis and one of the helical supercarriers. With her battle capability nearly exhausted, the time had come to pick a target for the Defiant's objective- Operation Blaze of Glory. Aya scanned the ships, looking for a good target- close range, good position, and little damaged from the battle. Finally, she pointed at one Star Destroyer, separated from fire support, roughly a third of the way in from GENOM's left flank. "That ship," she said. "That's our target." T'Pall nodded, hitting a few keys. "Target has been identified as GSS Warspite, GENOM Imperial class Star Destroyer. Shields read at 81% capacity, armor untouched." With a quirk of the eye, she added, "Confirmed as having destroyed three Freespacer vessels at Wilderness." "Perfect," Aya smiled. "Claire, send to Camelot, one word: Go." "Sending," Claire replied, and then, "Sent and acknowledged, Captain." "Homare," Aya said, pausing. She looked around her, at the bridge she'd held for the past year, which she and her crew- her friends- had made their home. Then she looked at the GENOM fleet, turning away, attempting to disengage from the WDF fleet, and her eyes hardened with the grim resolve and unholy joy of combat. "Power dive. Target the Warspite." "With pleasure!" Homare's hands moved on the console, and the Defiant's ion engines lit with stellar flame, leaping hard from its casual drift to significant fractions of c. "Impact in twenty-five seconds, Captain." "Okay, this is it! Claire, send: Now!" Aya shouted, standing up from her chair. At that exact moment, the Camelot shuddered under the combined volley of two Victory Star Destroyers, and its main engines, still weakened from Wilderness, died. On Nanami Kondo's bridge, the lights dimmed to red, and in one corner, the console which had been replaced with a Starfleet-issue interface quietly exploded. "Damn," Nanami whispered. Then, she shouted, "Message to Defiant! Abort! Now! And put some distance between us and those Star Destroyers!!" "Message from Camelot! Abort!" Claire shouted. "Point of no return reached!" T'Pall replied. "Abort impossible!" For three long seconds, the officers of the Defiant looked at each other in stark disbelief. The Star Destroyer grew larger and larger in the viewscreen, as the Freespacer ship roared unstoppably down on it. Aya's mouth opened, and she said, "Oh, FUUUU..." And she, along with the others, vanished in a shower of blue light. Kris flew through the fireball of a TIE that hadn't pulled out with the GENOM retreat, looking up just in time to see a white streak flash past, striking a GENOM star destroyer. An instant later, both ships exploded in a giant antimatter detonation, forcing him and thousands of other crewmen on both sides to squint and shield his eyes. "DAMN!" he shouted, flinching. "Sparky, what the hell was that?" A scrolling line of text appeared on the cockpit computer screen. THAT WAS CFMF DEFIANT. AYA DID IT AGAIN, BOSS. "Day-mmn," Kris drawled. "If she lived, I just might kill her... or give her a medal." WE'LL SEE, BOSS, Sparky said. On the heels of Sparky's observation, Daver's voice echoed in Kris' headset. "All fighters recalled, repeat all fighters return to assigned hangars. Prepare for immediate relaunch, orders coming down within the hour. Daver out." Kris' eyebrow went up at this. Wasn't the battle over? What did the WDF dudes have in mind now? And how many more of his dwindling numbers would it cost him? ".....UUUUCK!" Aya completed the word in totally new surroundings; instead of the transporters of the CFMF Camelot, she looked around to see a WDF transporter room surrounding her. "Ano..." she muttered, "... permission to come aboard?" "Granted, Captain," the transporter tech smiled. "Welcome aboard the WDF Hawking." Keying on the intercom, he said, "We got them all, Captain." "Excellent work, Chief," a gruff voice rumbled. "Let them know that the Defiant went out bravely, and the Warspite went down hard and fast. We're turning back to the reserve elements, where you will be transferred to Commodore O'Keefe for safekeeping... OUR safekeeping. My compliments, Defiant." "Thank you, Captain," Aya smiled. "Sis," Homare muttered, "this is the second command you've lost us in two years." "Oh, don't worry," Aya smiled. "The Admiral might be upset, but he'll give us a new ship. Who knows?" Aya grinned even more cheerfully. "He might even give us the Charlemagne when it's done!" "Ummmmm..." Homare couldn't quite put his misgivings into words. The techs aboard the Camelot moved like mad ants around the hangar deck, re-arming, recharging, and making minor repairs to the remaining fighters of the CFMF. However, the crews were doubly busy, as the deck housed not only the CFMF's Rebel and Cavalier Squadrons, but the late Hornet's Jungle Cats and Teddy Bears as well. All in all, twenty-six X-Wings and one Transformer sat on the Camelot's flight deck, taking up virtually every spare inch of space and barely leaving room for techs to wheel replacement concussion missiles around to reload the fighters' torpedo launchers. In the middle of the crowded flight deck, Kris stood with a hastily drawn up diagram on a whiteboard, explaining the plan he'd just gotten from Daver moments ago. "We have only a couple of minutes, so I'll make this quick," Kris barked. "First off, Cavalier Squadron will be detailed to cover Camelot in our absence. Sorry, Powerglide, but our mission is strictly antistarfighter, you'd be wasted there." When the Transformer plane made no comment, he continued, "Ace, you'll be replacing Rebel Five. That brings Rebel Squadron up to seven fighters, leaving Cav at six. That'll have to do, Powerglide, use it wisely. "Now, Rebel Squadron, and the two squadrons from the Hornet, will join the mass assault on the giant enemy battlestation." He pointed to a region near the north pole of the immense spherical station. "Our purpose is to suppress and eliminate all on-station fighter forces, most especially in this area here. Eight Ball Squadron will be escorting a boarding operation into a secondary hangar somewhere in this area. Above all, do not allow GENOM fighters to organize a counterattack against this position. It's our job to keep their escape route open." One of the WDF Hornet's pilots raised his hand. "What if that monster starts firing again?" Kris shrugged. "We know it's got substantial anti-starfighter defenses," he said, "but I really don't think that big popgun it has counts as a flak gun." A few of the pilots chuckled at this. "Our mission goes ahead whether or not that thing starts firing again. WDF high command thinks this is the best chance not only to take the battlestation..." He looked around the room, smiling with cruel joy as he completed the statement, "... but to bring Largo to justice as well." The pilots hushed and looked at each other; Kris had expected them to shout and whoop. He shrugged mentally, not concerned enough to worry. "Are there any other questions?" he asked. When there were none, he nodded. "Get to your fighters, we launch in three minutes." The deck officer shouted, "CLEAR THE DECK! CLEAR FOR LAUNCH!" and the pilots dashed to their waiting fighters. Terri glared at Redneck as he scrambled to his fighter; then, with a sigh, she jogged over to her fighter, the markings of MASS-02 Cavalier Squadron almost illegible beneath the carbon scoring of dozens of near-miss blaster and phaser shots. Are you all right Terri? she grumbled to herself, fastening her helmet to her flightsuit collar. How did things go out there? Would you like to fly on my wing, Terri? Dammit, Red, what's WRONG with you? General Rayna Tangril grumbled as her pilots waited in Auxiliary TIE Hangar 54, briefed, resuited, and waiting for maintenance to clear their fighters for relaunch. The Buma techs in charge of the hangar maintenance cared as much about speed as they did about vacuum, and they crawled around the TIE racks outside with a deliberate pace, not slow but not fast either... not nearly fast enough to suit Rayna. Rayna allowed herself to lean against the bulkhead wall, slouching just a hair in the fashion of impatient fighter jockeys everywhere. She forbore pacing up and down the room and cursing in Acadien as she felt like doing; it would be bad for discipline to let her pilots see their leader acting unprofessionally. She settled for drumming her fingers against her cyborg leg, the usual clunking sound dampened by her TIE environment suit. Of course, that was a large chunk of what was driving her to get -out-, back into space, as soon as possible. She -was- a professional, and like any good professional officer, she had analyzed the tactical situation, the strategic situation, and the political situation, and come to the conclusion that it stank on ice. Her chain of reasoning ran something along these lines. One. The AT&T's weapons systems are down, except for a minimal screen of anti-starfighter guns running off independent power supplies. Iczer-One's interference had shorted out the power regulators for the superlaser and much of the antiship defense grid; it would be hours before the battle station was back to full combat readiness. Its only real space-borne defenses lay in the starfighters it could launch. Two. Largo had ordered the fleet to pull back well ahead of the AT&T's capacity to follow. Any starfighter support to the station from the fleet would take fifteen minutes for TIE Interceptor squadrons, closer to twenty for the older TIE/ln fighters. As for the huge capital ships themselves, it would take as much as an hour for the immense Star Destroyers to come about and come up to attack speed. Three. The only humans on the entire planet-sized AT&T station were those from starfighter squadrons like hers, transferred to the AT&T after the Dreadnaught and other carrier ships had been destroyed. The station was crewed one hundred percent by non-sapient Buma, controlled from a central bridge by Largo himself. Literally one switch could shut down the entire station. Four. The WDF forces could see all of this information, either by scanners or by just looking at a tactical display of the space above the Dyson sphere. There wasn't the least bit of sensor jamming between the AT&T and the WDF fleet. The station's sacre-damn shields were even down. Five. These facts, put together, only make sense if Largo wants the WDF to attack the AT&T and attempt to capture it. Which presupposes a trap. Six. Did Largo actually have the intelligence or sanity to plan this? She could think of a dozen or more things she might have done with the huge battle station- rammed the Dyson Sphere, set the fold drive to jump out of the station and into the middle of the new star fortress- SDF-23, the numbers were- ordered the remaining Star Destroyers to attack the SDF-23 in a pincer movement while the AT&T drew fire... and instead, Largo was unlocking the bank vault door and laying out a welcome mat for the robbers. Six point five. Of course, she was just a fighter jockey and starfighter engineer. What did she know about fleet tactics? Seven. It could be that this is precisely what Largo wanted. His personal feud towards the people who thwarted him way back at Neo-Worcester was common knowledge; only stupid or suicidal people broached the subject in front of him. It would be like Largo to want to personally take down the very top of the WDF- and based on history, the very top just plain loved risking themselves in front-line action. Eight. Whether or not Largo planned anything, the WDF was coming. The potential gains apparent by taking the AT&T intact were just too great to ignore. Starfighters would come to tie up the defenses, a crack team will secure a beachhead, and then the landing troops will come aboard and attempt to cut their way through to the control center. Nine. While General Rayna Tangril couldn't do a thing about a boarding party once it's on board, she could stop their transports from even making a landing. If only she could just GET MY SHIPS APRES LE SACRE-DAMN MAMAN-LE-FIQUEN- "General Tangril, your squadron is cleared for immediate launch," a cold electronic voice called from the hangar. The Buma techs jumped down from the boarding ladders, leaving her pilots free to scramble across the gantries and into their fighters. Rayna went last of all, dropping down into the 'eyeball' of her advanced prototype TIE and powering up the fighter's systems. Around her, in a TIE rack designed to hold a flight of twelve fighters, five spots lay empty. In the hangars around her, four to six fighters were missing from each. Out of one hundred forty-four fighters, only ninety-two remained, with all but eight of the casualties coming from the battle just an hour before. Rayna seethed at the numbers. Her squadron, her private elite handpicked squadron, had just lost one of three pilots in one battle. These were casualties -average- TIE squadrons took in combat. Not hers. The lights went out in the TIE hangars, yellow warning lights flashing in the darkness as the station's artificial gravity shut off. (The station itself had a good deal of natural gravity, nullified in most places to allow systems to run more efficiently.) The grips on the tie racks rotated down ninety degrees, moving the TIEs into launch position. Rayna ran through her checklist quickly, checking systems without needing to look at the pull-down screen on her scanner. Finally satisfied, she keyed on the squadron command channel and said, "Alpha Leader to all fighters, prepare for launch. Alpha Squadron report in." As each of the fighters reported readiness, she cracked her knuckles through her gloves and thought, This is it...