Starfighter Down Page 3

  The two of them had been working together for fifteen years. The number stunned her for a moment. Fifteen years was a long time—not to a Kryl Overmind like the Queen Mother, mind you. To her, a decade or two was the blink of an eye. A restful night’s sleep. Kira set her shock gently aside, wary of underestimating her enemy.

  “Any news from our automaton friends?” Volk asked.

  Though it wasn’t Kira’s favorite description, the Kryl were often referred to as automatons because they seemed to mindlessly obey the Overmind they served, often without thought or care for their own personal safety. It was one way soldiers distanced themselves mentally from the Kryl—if the bugs were mindless insects, no one had to feel bad about blowing them to a million slimy, invertebrate pieces.

  Kira sniffed. “Nothing significant. Still eating their way through the asteroid field. They’ve raided three different planetary bodies for ice, by our reports, but none we need to be worried about.” Meaning: None occupied by Solarans or of interest to the Colonization Board.

  “You still think it’s this colony they’re after?”

  “I have no reason to think it’s not this colony. Of course, I’d be happy to be proven wrong.”

  The colonel cleared his throat. “You and me both, sir. And yet, as you have pointed out countless times, this is the only planet in this volume of space that makes a viable target.”

  “Even if it is lacking in useful radioactive isotopes.”

  “And heavy metals.”

  A weighted silence fell between them. This was a familiar debate, one they had rehearsed many times on the journey to Robichar. Neither of them had been able to come up with a better explanation for the Kryl’s movements. Twelve years they kept to their own territory… why were they on the move now? It was a mystery to the Executive Council of the Solaran Defense Forces, and even to the galaxy’s preeminent xenobiologists. Unfortunately, they didn’t have time to study the hive’s movements further. They had to act. The lives of millions were at stake, and evacuating the colony was the only sure way to save them.

  Volk finally grunted, then crossed the bridge to retrieve a bottle of water from the refreshment dispenser. “Impressive sight.”

  Kira followed his gaze to the fleet of twenty-four Mammoths and the two hundred starfighters patrolling the region of space around the moon itself. She had about five hundred starfighters on this ship. They rotated out several squadrons at a time, taking shifts, remaining vigilant. She was sure to give her pilots plenty of time off to rest. As somber as the occasion was, evacuating a planet had become a routine operation, something the Empire had done many times in its century-long conflict with the Kryl. There were systems and SOPs to follow. So far, they had encountered no hiccups.

  Maybe that’s why Kira was so jumpy. What mission ever went off without a hitch?

  No one knew what the Kryl were looking for when they invaded a planet, but no one wanted to be there when it happened. Some people believed the Kryl came simply to devour. Others believed—rightly so, perhaps, as they had to build their ships out of something—that the Kryl invaded a planet primarily for the resources the world had to offer: radioactive isotopes to power their mountainous lairs, and the heavy metals they favored for growing drones, weapons and, of course, starships.

  Kira had always been skeptical of these theories. It didn’t help that they were put forward by xenobiologists who’d never seen the frontlines of the war, never looked into the eyes of a Kryl as it tried to introduce your intestines to the open air. For another, if it was simply a matter of resources, why did the Kryl seem to have such a voracious desire to expand? Critics of this line of thinking would point out they hadn’t expanded in the last twelve years. They’d retreated back into the core of their volume of space, to the planet the Queen Mother occupied and which was thought to be the species’ home world.

  Kira always found this rather suspicious. They had retreated, yes, after the Queen Mother’s hive was assaulted, and roughly a quarter of her species annihilated by antimatter bombs. They hadn’t disappeared. The Kryl species still thrived, and Kira didn’t think their memories were so short.

  “The evacuation is proceeding on schedule,” Kira told her XO. “We’re up to the equivalent of eighteen craft at capacity.”

  “I heard there were some holdouts among the population planetside.”

  Kira winced. “There are always a few.”

  “Do we know why?”

  “I’ve had some people ask around on the Mammoths. Rumor is it’s mostly religious fanatics.”

  Volk sneered, taking a swig of his water. “The Spirit of Old Earth won't save you from being eviscerated by a Kryl talon.”

  Kira understood how he felt. He’d lost a brother in the war. She had lost someone she’d loved, too. She understood how long grief could burn, how a wound caused by the loss of a loved one never truly healed. Grief never vanishes. You just learn how to live with it.

  “How’s the crew holding up?” She’d been hearing increased reports of minor fights and scuffles onboard, indicators of jagged nerves. It may have seemed like a large ask to inquire after the well-being of thousands of people, for the Paladin of Abniss was one of the largest vessels in the Fleet, and fully manned, but Volk had always been able to assess the mood of a ship with striking accuracy.

  “A bit too eager, sir. Most of these pilots have never seen real action, except for the few squads who put down the rebellion on Ezekiel. And that wasn’t much of a fight.”

  “Our starfighter pilots are the best in the galaxy.”

  “That’s not under dispute. We do train brilliant pilots. But that doesn’t mean they can earn their wings by flying sim programs and peaceful recon missions.”

  Kira nodded and let the conversation lapse into silence. She kept her eyes on the screen, squinting, trying to suss out exactly what had her nerves on edge, but all she saw was the darkness of surrounding space pierced by pinprick stars.

  Volk recycled the water bottle and returned to stand at her side. He studied the next set of shuttles crossing the gulf between the planet and the longhaulers.

  They had been speaking loud enough for the officers to hear—she had wanted the officers on the bridge to know what the XO had to say. It was one thing to give her own opinions and quite another to elicit them from her trusted senior officers and be seen doing so. Now, however, Volk took half a step closer and lowered his voice so that the two of them could converse alone.

  “Admiral, do you still think the Kryl are up to something?”

  “I always think they’re up to something. The question is... what?”

  “You don't think, after twelve years, this movement is merely necessary survival?”

  “I think we should wait and see what happens.”

  “Yet you suspect something.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “After a decade-plus of keeping to themselves, a rearguard hive detaches itself from the bulk of the horde and begins to raid planets out on the edge of the galaxy. If it was a human fleet, I’d say there were two options. One, they’re pirates, deserters… they left the horde to rape and pillage.”

  Kira snorted. “And two?”

  “This rogue Overmind is headed here on orders from the Queen Mother herself. What I don't understand is, what are they after?”

  “That's always been the question, ever since we made first contact. What are the Kryl after?”

  “A warlike species who devours all they touch… The obvious answer is resources—radioactive isotopes, metals, water.”

  “But why this hive? Why would the Queen Mother not move from the center like she always has before?”

  “Maybe it’s a hive of rebels.”

  “Let’s hope we’re so lucky. I don't want to be right about this, but I've got a feeling something else is going on. We may have cowed the Kryl and forced them to retreat. Over the last twelve years, however, as you have rightly pointed out before, the Solaran Empire has grown soft. We’ve continu
ed to expand. The Fleet is larger than ever, but we have more colonies to protect and our forces are spread too thin.”

  Volk shrugged. “Maybe the Kryl are just annoyed we’re expanding and they’re not.”

  “It was stupid.” Kira felt the heat of her fury rising like lava from the crater of a volcano. “I told the Executive Council we needed to be cautious.”

  “They waited seven years before they started writing new charters.”

  “They should have waited longer. Do you think the Queen Mother thinks seven years, or twelve or twenty, is a long time? If you believe our xenobiologists, the Mother Queen has lived for over two thousand years. Each Queen Mother that rises to prominence lasts a couple millennia.”

  Volk just grunted and ran a hand over his face.

  An urgent chime rang across the bridge.

  “Report,” Kira said.

  “Kryl ships spotted in system, Admiral.” Harmony’s pleasant, androgynous voice sent a chill down her spine.

  “Where?”

  “On the far side of the moon.”

  “The whole hive? How’d they get here so blasted fast?”

  “It’s not the whole hive.” Volk raced over to a tactical display and parsed through a stream of information with focused intensity. “It seems to be some kind of advanced scouting party. Sixty to eighty fighter drones and one Mantis-class refueler.”

  She locked eyes with Volk. Their orders were to evacuate the planet and get out of the system before the Overmind realized what was happening.

  So much for that idea.

  “Time to give your fresh-faced young starfighters a taste of Kryl blood. Give the order, Colonel.”

  A flash of worry creased Volk’s forehead, but it was quickly hidden beneath a veneer of experienced focus. He straightened up and planted his feet. “Sound the alarm! Activate battle shields. Charge the fore and aft laser defense arrays. Scramble all available starfighter squadrons. I want those drones to be sucking vacuum before they catch sight of a single Mammoth. Patch squadron commanders through to the bridge so I can brief them on their way out. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”

  Kira sank into her command couch and practiced stillness while sitting at the nexus of this flurry of action. Screens flashed as senior officers hurried around her, running checklists and performing the necessary duties to deploy additional starfighter squadrons and ready the destroyer’s defenses. She inhaled deeply, trying to control the way her heart thundered in her chest.

  No matter how old she got, the rush of battle still made her feel more alive than anything ever had.

  Come on, you bug-faced bitch, she thought furiously. Show me why you’re here.

  Four

  Mechanics raced down the columns of Sabres parked on Deck One, unsealing cockpits and priming engines while the concave threshold protecting the hangar yawned wide.

  The serrated metal mouth was six hundred meters high and twice as long. It petaled open like a steel flower to reveal a star-studded midnight expanse. Soon the only thing separating the hangar’s atmosphere from the vacuum was a breathtakingly thin energy shield through which the battalion of starfighters would be launched.

  Elya rushed into the hangar with a stream of pilots called from his part of the ship. Hundreds more came through the other two entrances, but he didn’t see anyone from his squad yet. No matter. Everyone knew exactly what to do when they heard the klaxon.

  Elya’s sharp eyes picked out the flag for the Furies—a winged sword over the number “137th”. He ran toward the green banner, weaving through the parked starfighters and hundreds of other pilots all clambering toward their craft. The dampened roar that rose from the chaos of rushing mechanics, pilots and bots was swallowed in the vast space, through air criss-crossed by the support craft taking off from Decks Two and Three, overhead and behind them.

  Elya finally reached his Sabre. He double checked the tail number, took a slow lap around the ship to inspect the exterior, then scurried up an angled wing and dove feet first into the seat. These were the best starfighter models the Fleet had ever designed, equally capable of flying in vacuum as in air, with adjustable fins and wing configurations to handle any kind of atmosphere.

  Boo BE doo, Hedgebot hailed as he hopped into the cockpit behind Elya. The bot’s magnetic toes plucked at the hull and then clacked across the instrument panel in front of him while Elya fitted on his oxygen mask, buckled the safety harness across his chest, and pressed the button that would lower the transparent canopy, sealing the pair inside.

  Through the window, Elya shot a thumbs-up at Petty Officer Mick Perry as the Fleet’s friendliest mechanic worked his way down Elya’s row, unhooking cables tying each jet into power and diagnostics, and lashing them down to avoid damage if they encountered unexpected turbulence. Perry jerked his chin and returned the thumbs-up, flashing grease-stained knuckles while counting under his breath. He ducked under the wing of Elya’s Sabre and moved on to the next ship.

  Osprey ran in from his right and vaulted into a starfighter ahead of him, followed by Park, Yorra, Lieutenant Colonel Walcott and the rest of their squad. The jets had been preflighted, so it took the whole squad less than ninety seconds to complete their checklist and get situated on comms. Elya’d rehearsed this routine until his eyes swam, but with his nerves shooting off like jury-rigged fireworks, he’d never been so glad for the muscle memory his relentless training had instilled in him.

  As they waited to be cleared for takeoff, they taxied toward the tinted blue barricade separating the hangar’s atmosphere from the life-threatening vacuum on the other side. Elya double checked his oxygen to make sure it was flowing. Usually, he enjoyed watching the other starfighters get catapulted from the deck and then arc out of sight around the hull of the destroyer. This time, his mind wandered off in a dozen different directions of its own—had the money he sent home made it there yet? Should he have sent his mom a longer message? Or a video? There was real danger on the other side of that energy shield. Did he have time to make up with Captain Osprey? He liked her, in spite of her unique ability to goad him.

  Captain Osprey short circuited his train of thought before it skittered too far off track. “Furies one-eight, check?”

  “Two,” said Elya.

  “Three,” said Naab.

  “Four,” said Gears.

  Osprey relayed their readiness to the squadron commander, Lieutenant Colonel Walcott, a somber veteran pilot and steady leader who had fought in the Kryl War and was never caught smiling.

  When they got clearance, they rolled into the catapult one by one, fired up their engines, and rocketed out of the Paladin like avenging angels.

  Three minutes from preflight to take-off.

  Though he’d performed these maneuvers countless times, only a handful of those had been in actual combat situations. As Elya crossed the energy shield and burned toward the flotilla of longhaulers, he found his hands trembling against the controls. Hedgebot circled the cockpit three times before pausing directly overhead and pulsing a nervous pale-yellow.

  “I know, little buddy,” Elya said. “I’ve got butterflies in my stomach, too.”

  Hedgebot’s light flickered questioningly.

  “I don’t know. I’ve only ever seen pictures of butterflies. It’s just something my grandmother used to say when she got nervous.”

  Hedgebot puffed its whole body up and then deflated as if giving a big shrug. It continued to pulse in anticipation, cycling through a series of colors.

  Hedgebot had no trouble withstanding the G-forces that Elya’s own body underwent during the course of a hard flight. The bot was also helpful to have with him, as it was designed to warn planetary colonists of incoming danger in hostile environments. Elya had programmed it to perform the other typical duties of an astrobot as well, such as calculating coordinates for navigation, implementing minor repairs, and operating some non-critical controls. It made him a particularly useful flying partner.

  “Captain Nevers,”
Lieutenant Colonel Walcott said over squad-wide comms. “Is that your bot flashing like a lighthouse? Knock it off. We don’t want to broadcast our position to the Kryl.”

  “Yes, sir,” Elya said, chagrined. He muted his mic and looked up. “You heard the man.” Hedgebot purred in a minor key, but did as instructed, dimming its light so that only Elya could see it. “I know, you didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “All right, squad,” the commander’s voice continued. “Flight paths have been relayed to your nav. Our job is to protect the Mammoths while other squads engage the Kryl drones directly. We’ll act as support and swap in if needed.”

  The squad’s collective groan was only stifled by the need to maintain comms discipline. A few moments passed in silence as they all realized how unlikely it was that anyone would be killing any drones today. Another unit had drawn that honor. Instead, their job was to protect the civilians—and sit with their thumbs up their butts.

  “I don't want to hear it,” Lieutenant Colonel Walcott said. “You have your orders. Over.”

  A yellow path appeared, superimposed on the transparent aluminite shell of the cockpit. Elya banked right, in sync with the rest of the squad, Osprey at the vanguard and himself bringing up the rear. Soon they were soaring toward the fleet of twenty-four longhaulers, orbiting above and behind the fleet in the controlled sequence mapped out by the AI.

  Although his fingers were itching for action, Elya didn’t mind taking a defensive position as much as the others seemed to. Being assigned to protect the refugees lit a deep, warm glow of pride in his chest. Every person he served with, down to a man, had endured some kind of personal loss during the Kryl War. But as far as he knew, among his immediate comrades, only Elya had been a refugee himself.

  The bulky Mammoths floated in a loose cluster, like a pack of giant blimps. His flight path curved around them in a clockwise direction from his position. These enormous transport vessels were heavy on armor and defensive turrets, but severely lacking on maneuverability. They took a full fifteen minutes to come about and, to an offensive segment of the fleet, were nothing more than dead weight. It was no wonder the admiral had dispatched her starfighters to defend these fat sitting ducks, loaded as they were with nearly a million civilians.