Dione's War

Part 1: End of Order

Legacy’s Lament

Red alert! All hands to stations!

Lieutenant Junior Grade Jack Corbitt dove from his bed, glancing to the chronometer on his nightstand as he slipped his legs through the flight suit and into his shoes waiting on the floor. Ten more minutes and he would have been up anyway. Emergencies never pay mind to the time or to duty shifts. Just like his shower and breakfast, Corbitt had to accept the loss of those ten precious minutes.

A red alert signaled only the most severe emergencies. Every second counted which was why he couldn’t pause to finish dressing. He grabbed a meal bar between his teeth and raced out to the corridor, into a sea of half-dressed officers and crewmen. Each one threw their shirts on or set their belt buckles in a chaotic dance of preparedness.

As a flight officer, Corbitt only had his one-piece flight suit to navigate. His arms entered the sleeves, managing to avoid striking one woman just then darting from her cabin. Then in a smooth movement suggesting plenty of practice in speed dressing, he grasped the zipper and closed the suit.

Reaching the fireman’s pole, he threw his hat onto his head while awaiting his turn. With almost five hundred men and women all rushing off to their duty stations, the lifts were impractical. Ladders at various points throughout the ship made for movement up the decks without waiting for a free car. For downward movement, the fireman’s poles spaced throughout provided the fastest and most thrilling route.

Corbitt wrapped the pole in his elbow and placed it between his feet as he stepped off. It took a bit of skill to stop oneself at the desired deck, but since the flight deck was all the way to the bottom, his only concern was not hitting the floor in a pure free-fall.

The meal bar was consumed on route to the hangar bay, and spying the flight chief, Lieutenant Commander Park, Corbitt raced over with the other flight officers while he stowed the empty wrapper in one of the pockets.

This is it boys and girls, Park boomed out to officers and support staff alike, The Vandals left Mars and are on their way here. You have thirty minutes to get through your pre-flight checks. I want fighter pilots locked in and ready in forty-five. Troop transports, standing by for the Marines in sixty.

Corbitt and his fellow pilots dispersed to their craft. All five of the fleet’s battle carriers carried twenty fighters, five troop transports, a cargo shuttle, the captain’s personal shuttle, and trained pilots for each.

Like the other pilots, Corbitt had his own craft. In a pinch another pilot could take it, but for the most part, each fighter and shuttle had become molded to the specific pilot like a worn glove or a comfortable pair of pants. Officers who never flew never understood how or why, but a pilot could always tell if someone else had been sitting in their cockpit.

A heart split by a lightning bolt with the word hopeless identified Corbitt’s fighter. His aide already had the clipboard, waiting to begin. As the pilot ran through the list of systems, buttons, and displays to check, the lowly Seaman quietly made note on the checklist.

The fighter itself was like a giant dart, long and sleek. The main fuselage was about twelve meters long and only a meter and a half wide. Wings adorned either side, swept back as close as possible to provide stabilization in an atmosphere. It was designed to present as small a face as possible to enemy cannons.

A pair of 50mm lasers adorned the nose, capable of firing short, alternating bursts of superheated light at a rate of two blasts per second each, or a long continuous beam to drill through a difficult target. Beneath each wing hung two high yield missiles. Only a meter long, each one had the punch to destroy a fighter or pierce the hull of the Vandal battleships. The whole package was a smaller, compact version of the carrier’s armory.

Despite being a one-man craft, the fighters carried a second seat behind the pilot. Rarely used, but sometimes a second man would be required on a mission. And since the pilots would suit up into a modified pressure suit prior to launch, the canopy could be opened in space to recover another pilot who had to bail on his or her fighter.

The controls in the cockpit, like those on the bridge, were very tactile. The whole thing could have been a giant touch screen, but the fear of damage to the screen spooked designers into sticking with ancient buttons and levers. The displays though had to stay modern for the sake of practicality. Every read-out projected across the clear canopy so the pilot wouldn’t have to take his eyes from the fight outside to read a warning or line up the sights.

With the pre-flight check finished and everything working perfectly, the Seaman ran off to present the report to his ranking officer, returning moments later with the Lieutenant’s pressure suit.

Think this is it, Sir? his assistant asked, helping Corbitt into his suit. Think the Vandals really mean to strike Earth?

Corbitt knew the man only intended to break the tension between them, but the question was defeatist. No one could afford to think a chance of success stood for those barbarians.

The Vandals are nothing but terrorists, Seaman. We knew it was only a matter of time before they came after Earth, but they haven’t yet encountered the full force of the EDF.

* * *

Commander Sadiq raced onto the bridge fearing the wrath of the Captain. A stop in the armory delayed his coming, but it would not spare him from a dressing down over being the last to report.

In unison, the other officers turned anxiously in his direction, as if they had been trained to fear the sound of the door, but with a collective sigh of relief they returned to their stations. With the red alert, Sadiq would have expected his humiliation to last a mere second before work intruded.

The Legacy, however, seemed to operate like no other ship he had served on before. Never in his years of service had the Commander ever dreaded being on the bridge. He had as much disdain for the Captain as the Captain had for his men. When he brought himself to look on the captain’s chair and face the tongue lashing he expected, his eyes met with neither surprise nor relief – nor did they meet the Captain.

Where is Captain Petron?

A nervous silence hung in the air as each of the officers around him pretended to focus too much on their work to hear his request. In truth, there wasn’t one man or woman on that bridge who wanted the responsibility for calling out their Captain’s fault; and in truth, Sadiq didn’t need anyone to answer him.

He reached across the armrest and punched a direct line to Petron’s cabin on the intercom. Captain Petron, you are needed on the bridge.

* * *

Captain Robin Petron stirred beneath his blanket, trying to ignore the call, but when his executive officer repeated the page, he rolled over to study the time. Then with a displeased sigh, he tapped the call button on the intercom beside the chronometer.

Commander, what time is it?

Sir, we have a fleet-wide red alert.

Petron cut him off with his usual condescending drawl. And I asked you what the time was.

0525, Sir.

He heard the annoyed frustration in the Commander’s voice but ignored it. Everyone under his command was annoyed with policy and procedure. If he entertained their frustrations even once, he knew performance would slip.

And what time am I scheduled to be on duty?

0600.

Then why are you bothering me now? You are the executive officer, not some seaman new to the fleet. I expect you to be fully competent to handle any problem you have up there. Now if you can’t handle the bridge while I’m off duty, then maybe we should sit down with the Admiral about finding you a new posting.

He turned off the comm system before Sadiq could bother him further, then rolled over and shut his eyes to get those last minutes of sleep in before his alarm went off. His mind filled with the ineptitude of his executive officer, keeping a mental note to place him on report as soon as he reported to the bridge. However, he was so angry and so focused on that report, his thoughts would not calm him enough to enjoy the quiet.

The alarm awoke, and he sat casually upright in his bed. Taking a moment to stretch, he placed his feet on the floor and rose to begin his morning routine. After a quick shower and shave, he made a bowl of oatmeal while he made his bed and stowed his dirty clothes. When the chronometer read 0559, he took one last look around to make sure the cabin was squared away.

He took up a clipboard and stepped casually out into the corridor. With everyone already at their duty stations, there wasn’t a single individual around. He knew though, in the rush a red alert tends to cause, there were those who slacked in the duties they felt were unimportant. His officers especially tended to cut corners in their haste.

Petron started with the officer’s deck. Sure enough, the first door he opened met him with an unmade bed and dirty clothes left on the floor. As he crossed the room to find the intercom on the nightstand, he noticed empty wrappers on the floor. If they saved time on breakfast by eating a meal bar, he figured, the least they could have done was spend some of that time placing the wrapper in the trash disposal.

Lieutenant Kwan, I need to see you in your quarters.

* * *

Lieutenant Kwan turned to the Commander with a mix of panic and frustration. Her job was to monitor the myriad of communications coming in from all over the fleet. With the flag officer issuing steady orders and the other ships returning regular updates, Sadiq counted on her to wade through the noise and pass along what was important.

It wasn’t that Kwan feared her captain’s reproach. She knew whatever his problem was this time, she would find herself on report. She expected she might even receive an Article 13. But with conflict drawing ever closer, leaving the bridge now, even at her captain’s request, meant shirking her duty.

Sadiq knew the frustration all too well. He could call down to the Captain and remind him once more of their situation, but in the end, Petron would threaten him with an Article 13 for insubordination, and Kwan would have to report anyway.

Sooner you get down there and get it out of the way, sooner you’ll be back here at your station.

She rose from her chair, hanging her head the entire way off the bridge. Sadiq could do nothing but assign a junior officer to take her place while he waited for the next officer to leave him.

* * *

Captain Dahlia Min sat in her chair on the bridge of the Vandal battlecruiser Fury. Her elbow pressed into the armrest, supporting her chin as she waited for news. The view out the windows ahead was of the asteroid hiding their approach.

They’ve taken the bait, one young man announced, spinning in his chair looking for approval from his captain. The Earth Defense Forces are moving off toward our fleet.

Excellent, Sergeant. She cast the youngster a rewarding smile, almost tired of the constant need for approval all around her. But then again, it was their need for that approval that brought these youth to the Vandal settlements.

For hundreds of years the elders on Earth sought to better their lives and situations with false wealth, promising better pay, better health, or better whatever each generation felt they lacked. But in those hundreds of years, the wealth required to back those promises could not be produced and society’s leaders pushed the burden onto the children and grandchildren of the future.

Each generation pushed that burden to the next, then the next. Once it reached the point the accountants and bureaucrats no longer knew how much was owed from the future, the promises increased. Each generation of young bore an increased burden that could only be shaken once their turn came to rape the future.

Each new generation rose up with hopes and dreams of a brighter future. Each new generation tried to right the mistakes of their parents, spending those years of youth spinning their heels before their attitudes shifted toward practicality. But two generations ago, a handful of young men and women realized the system was too far gone for change. They realized early on that the resistance from the adults to pay for their own largess would block their own efforts at change. Those youngsters realized the only way change could be achieved was through forceful upheaval.

Space had long ago been conquered, but the worlds discovered and the resources abounding had been wasted on generations too comfortable to exploit them. For the rebellion to start, it had to be away from the status quo. Those worlds became places for the young to hide and make their plans and build their forces.

As others followed, Earth welcomed the departure, believing the loss of the troublemakers would protect their status quo. At first they heard nothing from the colonies but the calls of recruitment. Eventually, those camps needed more. If they were to truly rebel, they needed weapons and more powerful ships.

They called themselves the Vandals after the barbarians that brought down the ancient Roman Empire. Like the Vandals of ancient times, this modernized group desired more than anything to bring about a new order. They raided the handful of research stations for medicine and equipment. They pirated supply ships to boost their own fleets

Earth had created the Defense Force to combat the rising threat. Expecting the massive gunboats to instill fear in the Vandals, instead they became easy targets. Word of each capture spread through the news outlets intending to stir fear and hatred toward the wayward youth, instead providing those rebels with the strongest recruitment campaign they could have hoped for.

The decades passed as the Vandals stockpiled arms. They knew something was coming as it was only a matter of time before Earth would rise from their comfortable chairs and make an earnest effort to wipe out their scourge.

Captain Min considered the Sergeant at communications. This proactive strike against the decay of the ancestors would not have come about if their children had the approval they sought. Had they been valued, these young men and women would not have found that value in this rag-tag collection of colonies.

Maintain position until they’re fully engaged. We can’t afford to let them learn of our presence until it’s too late for them to stop us.

Min glanced around at all the young kids monitoring their stations. She herself was only a couple years older than they were, yet she felt so much older.

This wasn’t a real military at her command as evidenced by the unkempt uniforms and confusing mess of ranks. In fact, the whole structure had been created by people with no knowledge of military matters. Though no one could tell by ranks or insignia who was in charge over whom, somehow the individuals themselves commanded the respect they were owed.

It was the system all of them felt should have existed on Earth. The true leaders rose to command through their own skill and efforts, and not through a system that rewarded seniority or elbow rubbing. Captain Min herself commanded some individuals ten to twenty years older, and she was by far the youngest captain on this campaign. It was a position earned through cleverness in smaller conflicts. Providing the suggestions that allowed a smaller gunboat to commandeer an EDF carrier three kilohours earlier earned her this commission.

To be fair, the Fury was not a premier ship, and she would have earned more glory commanding a decoy with the rest of the fleet. However, she remained proud of this ship and its crew, and took on her role with the same level of enthusiasm. And though her role wasn’t the most prestigious, it was the most important. Since the rest of their forces played decoy for the Fury, Min figured she had to be certain her crew was ready for their roles when the time came.

How long before they launch fighters?

Her bright-eyed sergeant turned once again, proud to answer. Based on past engagements, twenty minutes.

She shook her head still resting on her hands, then rose from her chair. On her way toward the rear hatch, she paused by her executive officer, Colonel Evermore. I’m heading to the lab to make sure they’re on track. You have the bridge.

Min glided through the corridors, greeting each and every crewman she passed. It was as tiresome as it was on the bridge, but the horse-and-pony show was important. She knew too well one of the things setting them apart from Earth was that feeling of importance and connectedness. No matter how low on the food chain someone was, it made them feel better about themselves and their work believing their captain cared about them personally. Without that, it was doubtful any of them would have gone along with this plan.

Inside the lab, she found a bunch of young scientists busy screwing warheads onto a handful of missiles. The Vandals hadn’t attracted merely vagabonds and drifters; they appealed to all manner of youngsters. The men and women before her donning the white lab coats bore similar gripes to the underprivileged youth with no future plans in their old lives.

These were the people with ideas to change the world through science and medicine. Maxwell Hugo for example had finished his doctorate in chemistry. He wrote his dissertation on an idea for new type of fuel cell that would break the current reliance on Tysonium. While his older peers applauded the research, he found himself blacklisted by the manufacturers of the superheavy element. He could find jobs in his field, but no one would let him explore and develop his own work. Like the other scientists around him, he joined the Vandals because they promised him the kind of freedom in research he dreamed of.

The special warheads they attached to the missiles were the result of more than five kilohours of experimentation. His work now allowed them the means to end the Earth threat once and for all.

Fifteen minutes before we make our move. Will you be ready in time?

Hugo handed off a missile to a couple young men to cart away, then turned his attention to the Captain. We’re tightening the last of the warheads now. If there is a delay it won’t be on my end, I promise you.

Min returned his news with a genuine smile. Maybe it was because they were the same age, but she genuinely enjoyed being around this man.

Have you given any thought to your next project?

He looked at her as if he hadn’t considered it. This current project was everything to their cause. He feared if his chemical concoction failed to deliver as promise, he wouldn’t live long enough to propose another. Still, their colonies had practical needs he hoped to supply.

I was thinking farming. We’ve been too reliant on local vegetation because each planet has a different soil composition making it difficult to transplant crops from one world to another. I’ve been thinking of teaming with Doctor Vanjay and his genetics background to create some kind of formula that would allow our crops to adapt to those soils.

Min found it amusing when the Vandals promised excitement and purpose, their direction would shift towards the more mundane aspects of a society. Still, something about settling down into a calmer life almost appealed to her.

* * *

Corbitt held his eyes shut allowing the chatter on the radio to anchor him to the waking world. Once the cockpits were sealed, the waiting for orders became the worst moments for most pilots. The order to launch could come within seconds, or it might not come at all. Usually it was somewhere in between, leaving him to sit in that fighter while they waited for the Marines to show up and take their seats in the transports, and then wait some more while the carrier maneuvered into a position favorable for launch.

But with the order to suit up likely to come at any hour of the day, Corbitt, like his fellow pilots, learned to sleep lightly. It was advantageous during those waits in their fighters, especially when he longed to reclaim the ten minutes robbed from him because of this red alert. He had shut his eyes and drifted off to the sounds of Park and his crew coordinating the preparations, and the confirmations from the Marine lieutenants that their squads were properly secured.

He didn’t bother tuning into the bridge chatter which the flight chief monitored. From his control room, Park had a channel opened allowing him to receive updates on the Vandal fleet, as well as updates on their own approach. Had Corbitt been tuned in, he would have heard their captain pull the officers from their duty stations, one-by-one down to their quarters to complain about clothing left on the floor, beds left unmade in the heat of the moment, or sinks not properly dried. Then again, he didn’t need that man ruining his powernap any more than he needed to worry his mind with advance warning of the launch.

The fighters were split into four distinct wings, of which, Corbitt was assigned to the last. Park received the order to launch from the Commander, and he relayed it to the fighters, giving Alpha Team the go-ahead to take off.

It was enough warning for Corbitt to open his eyes and shake off the mild dream state he shared with the radio. While the five members of Alpha Team took their turns launching, he brought his systems to full power, firing the engines first before reactivating his sensors, targeting scanners, and every other piece of tech crammed into that tube.

With Alpha-5 away, Park ordered Bravo Team to launch. Corbitt opened multiple channels on the communications system. Each team had a separate channel assigned to them for communication between the team members. Each team leader had another channel open to coordinate their efforts with Park back in the hangar bay. And in addition, the pilots kept all those channels open as ears only; in one sense so they could prepare for changes in orders before the team leader passed them on, but in another sense they wanted to keep tabs on their friends to make sure they stayed safe.

Charlie Team was given the green light when Park himself squawked on Delta Team’s channel.

Delta-4, this is home base. Corbitt could hear in the commander’s voice he wasn’t going to like what would come next. Corbitt, Captain Petron wants to see you in your quarters.

We’re about to launch into combat, Corbitt protested. I’m two minutes away from takeoff!

He knew it wouldn’t do any good. The Captain was off in his own little world. Though the pilots had little interaction with the man, what little there had been taught Corbitt it made no difference arguing against his wishes. The man had a knack for dumping the serious work onto his executive and junior officers while he occupied his time with the most asinine and mundane things he could like these surprise inspections as his ship was on the cusp of battle.

Corbitt powered down his fighter and climbed out, watching his team leader launch out through the massive bay doors ahead of his diminished team while he crossed the flight deck in the opposite direction. It annoyed him to miss combat, and if he didn’t blame Petron at that moment, he might have felt as if he were the one letting his buddies down. Still, when this exercise in futility was over and he was allowed to return to his fighter, he knew the other pilots would be recalled from battle to go through this same exercise.

Strolling back through the corridors and upward toward the officers cabins, he came to see this as his sacrifice. If he could keep Petron occupied long enough, the other fighters would lose the option of returning home once the Vandal fighters initiated target locks. Petron could fume and lob all the court-martial threats he wanted, but his requests would be physically impossible once the enemy had been engaged.

Corbitt found the door to his cabin opened. Petron stood in the center of the room with his back to it and his hands by his hips, shaking his head in disbelief at the state of disorder. He took up the clipboard and made a notation when he sensed the occupant behind him.

You know, Lieutenant, he started in his calm yet disapproving drone, I’ve talked with you before about maintaining military standards at all times.

You do know we’re in the middle of a red alert situation, Sir? He was about to politely explain to the Captain the urgency of such a situation and how reporting to stations was far more crucial than making the bed when Petron cut him off.

That’s no excuse. We’re due for an inspection any moment now. Do you want Rear Admiral Duffy walking onto my ship with your quarters looking like this?

He strolled to the bed casually and picked up the army-green blanket as if presenting evidence in a trial.

I just don’t understand how you can leave your quarters in this state.

He dropped the blanket and took up the clipboard once again, studying it as if taking in figures from an official report. Corbitt knew as well as his Captain did that it was nothing more than a list of his day’s whining.

You currently have the worst inspection scores on this ship. Last time the Admiral inspected, we nearly failed because of this room.

I know for a fact that’s not true, sir. Normally it might have seemed dangerous challenging the commanding officer, but everyone knew the results of the last inspection. Half your bridge staff scored worse than I did, and in fact, it was your own cabin that nearly cost you the inspection.

Corbitt took great joy rubbing that one in. Everyone serving beneath him had felt some sense of redemption when it was Petron’s own living space which failed to pass muster after his obsession with the crew’s habits.

What made that brief moment of victory so sweet was knowing the Captain had been sabotaged. Some industrious ensign or petty officer had broken in while Petron was off with the Admiral. Even better, the culprit was smart enough not to trash the room. Instead, he or she left enough traces to make it appear the Captain had been careless enough that Petron wasn’t able to pin the blame away from himself, especially when he had been unsuccessful in finding the saboteur.

But Corbitt’s dig rolled right over his back. You were the worst on the entire ship, he repeated. His playbook came directly from the politicians of old: get caught in a lie and keep repeating it until either people believe it, or they get tired and give up calling him out on it. The worst.

Petron studied his clipboard once more, continuing on while ignoring Corbitt’s protests and challenges of truthiness.

I don’t want to have to talk to you again about the state of this cabin. If you can’t clean up this mess, I will have to ground you.

Corbitt fought back the smirk. If you do that, you might not have anyone to pilot your shuttle when the time comes.

For the first time, his digs gave the Captain pause as the suggestions of his cowardice were clear. Like everything else it was a game for Petron; to give the insult any rebuke would allow it to gain traction. It was better to let it slide than to let his subordinate think he had been rattled. He tucked his clipboard under his arm and brushed past the Lieutenant on his way out the door.

Don’t let me see this room like this again.

Corbitt waited for the man to disappear into another cabin before running off back to his fighter. On the way, he took note of the latest target and sure enough, Bravo-4 would be next to earn his reproach; but if he was right, those boys would be too busy with the Vandals to pay Petron’s complaints any mind.

* * *

Sadiq ordered the gunners to open up with cover fire.

The armory lay one deck above the launch bay. A dozen manned laser turrets circled the ship: two forward, two aft and four spaced along each side. The gunner would take the seat in front of a 100mm laser cannon. Once sealed inside, the pod would extend outside the hull where the operator had full 180 degree movement along all three axis. If they faced a single, massive target, a single gunner could operate the cannons remotely from a station within the armory. But more often than not, the carriers faced waves of fighters requiring full attention to each weapon; too much for one man to coordinate.

The missile tubes rest beneath the placements. There were three per side, each situated one behind the other. Two worked each tube, loading missiles which were three times as long as those on the fighters, and nine times as powerful. The loaded tube would then extend outward through the hull for immediate firing.

The three teams worked in concert, so that there was always a missile firing, one ready to move into position, and a third being loaded. Safety precautions in the launch programs prevented a tube from leaving the armory if one was already outside.

One problem with the missiles was that they were a unidirectional weapon, meaning they could only launch forward. It was more a practical issue than a flaw. As the carriers had a similar profile to the fighters, the geniuses designing the ships didn’t want to give the captains a reason to present the broadest face to the enemy. Since the forward face of these ships presented the smallest target, the engineers made sure the captains had to present that face to the enemy in order to fire those missiles.

There was always one captain though who relied on the laser cannons too much and steered the ship into battle accordingly. Thankfully for Sadiq, Captain Petron remained lost somewhere in the officers quarters. Though Kwan had yet to return, and two more of his senior officers had similarly vanished into the abyss of the Captain’s misery, this situation meant he could carry out Legacy’s role in what he perceived to be a competent manner.

Remind our gunners they are laying down cover fire only, he called down to the armory chief. Last thing we want is to hit our own fighters.

The Commander looked to the battle map generated by the computer and presented to the screen on his armrest. Each ship was represented by a point of light on the black field, from the tiny fighters to the midsized battle cruisers and the massive carriers. The flag officers had assigned targets to each ship, and the Legacy was responsible for a particular pair of Vandal cruisers.

The Earth Defense Forces were outnumbered, but the Vandals were outgunned. The EDF expected to win the day with their armaments coupled with their advanced training and tactics. Legacy only had two smaller ships to take care of.

And those two ships split up.

Keep your eye on that second ship, he warned his navigator. They know by now we’re their buddy so they’re trying to flank us.

If he had his senior man at the controls he would not have had to issue the reminder. As much as he hated the Captain right now, Sadiq reminded himself this junior lieutenant needed the combat experience anyway.

He spied the movements of the dots on his screen, advising the navigator on his course corrections. The two Vandal cruisers tried to split up to outflank the Legacy, so he ordered his navigator to swing their course outward and force the second ship back inside. If they wanted to continue, however, that second ship would have to swing farther out and farther away from its companion.

At the same time, Sadiq’s maneuvers split him gradually away from the main fleet. If his two buddies took the bait, he would pull them away as well, so that in the unlikely event they knocked the Legacy out of the fight, they would not be in such an advantageous position to shift their focus onto another EDF vessel.

Still, the ultimate confrontation between these ships was a ways off thanks to the distance that remained between them. In the meantime, the Vandals still had the waves of incoming fighters to contend with.

* * *

Corbitt raced to close the gap between him and that first Vandal cruiser. Like all Vandal ships, it had once belonged to his side, and was thus identical in design to those supporting the Earth fleet. About a third the size of the carriers, its armory was the dominant feature. Weapons platforms lined the top and bottom of the ship rather than the sides. Each of the decks supported two emplacements forward and two aft, with one on either side toward the middle.

Eight torpedo tubes rest at the bottom, four facing forward and four facing back. Unlike those of the carriers, these were situated side by side for simultaneous firing, but like the carriers, the tubes were fixed forcing the ship to face its target rather than expose the sides.

The hangar bay was far smaller, supporting a single wing of five fighters, one troop transport, and a cargo shuttle. Those of the EDF didn’t support a Marine platoon, but they housed the transport anyway just in case. However, there was never any telling what the Vandals crammed in their hangar bays until everything was launched. As Corbitt’s sensors began identifying the craft in the theater ahead, he found they threw nothing more than what was expected.

Teams Charlie and Delta had already engaged the Vandal wing from their assigned cruiser. Like everything else, those fighters were once EDF. Sometimes the Vandals seized their craft through piracy. Other times they salvaged damaged ships abandoned in the heat of battle. In some instances, they were known to sneak into the shipyards on Earth and make off with a prize before security realized the intrusion.

To distinguish between theirs and the Vandal fighters, the pilots had tiny transmitters embedded in the lining of their pressure suits. The frequency was reset ahead of every launch to prevent the Vandals from using an old frequency, though they had been known to discover the current frequency and clone it in the middle of conflict. At the very least, they could make a mental note of the Vandal fighters and try to maintain identity visually. But the biggest reason for placing the chips on the pilots and not the fighters themselves was to locate a pilot lucky enough to eject from his craft in case of damage.

Nice of you to join us, Hopeless.

Corbitt smiled at his radio, glad to put his idiot Captain behind him and get to the work he signed up for.

Looks like I got here just in time, he joked. I don’t see one kill on your belts.

We’re still softening ‘em up for ya, another joked.

He spied a Vandal fighter zip by Delta-5. Both fired their lasers, but missed the other in the brief time they faced off. As Delta-5 veered back for another shot, the Vandal pilot spied Corbitt and pressed forward hoping to remove him from the fight before he could join it.

Looks like I gotta clean up your mess again, Cloudracer. He adjusted course to bring the enemy square into his view. The targeting scanner identified the craft and flashed the advisories onto the canopy, indicating the course corrections needed to connect a shot.

What do ya mean, ‘again?’ Usually I’m the one on your six cleaning up after you.

It would have been far easier opening up with his lasers and allowing the pulses of superheated light to fan out, blanketing the space ahead with the modern day version of flak, but the power cores supplying those guns had a limited shelf-life, requiring replacement after each mission. With normal use, a pilot could survive a battle without draining the cores, but if someone got a little too trigger-happy, he might find himself in a bind when he really needed those lasers.

The lesser concern was that one of his own buddies might get caught in the net he created. Sure, the cold temperatures in the vacuum would kill the danger and turn that superheated blast into a harmless beam of light, but travelling at the speed of light, each shot carried danger anywhere from a million kilometers to as far away as a couple billion depending on whether or not there was a star nearby raising the background temperature.

The Vandal pilot weaved as he approached, making it difficult for the targeting scanners to find a lock. Even if he were to blanket the region ahead, that pilot stood a good chance of dodging whatever he threw at him.

Corbitt tried to figure out his pattern and match his own in order to guess. As they dropped from nine, to eight figures away from each other, he let off a couple of shots to rattle his opponent; but the enemy pilots were wild, crazy even.

All throughout the Vandal ranks, they found young men and women, still boys and girls in some cases. Despite seeing Earth as the enemy, the military life and open combat had a certain romanticism for them. Their forces had been so successful against the Earth Defense Force because their leaders organized their military without all the ho-hum, tedious, or asinine tasks that drove most of Earth’s enlisted out of the service at the end of their first term. Whereas Corbitt’s military life more resembled Captain Petron’s ideas of kempt beds, swept floors, and freshly-painted, battle gray walls, the Vandal leaders ensured their rank and file lived this nonstop action hero existence he had flown into.

The boy or girl in the oncoming cockpit weaved and rolled the fighter as if this was all a video game, whereas Corbitt’s maneuvers were carefully selected. Had that pilot more discipline, he might have better predicted Corbitt’s moves and taken smarter shots with his lasers. Instead, Corbitt had to contend with his disciplined training and hope for a lucky shot.

His trigger saw increased action as the Vandal fighter closed to within ten thousand kilometers, then a thousand. And in an instant as quick as a single laser blast, they had overtaken each other without any scars to show for the exchange.

Corbitt immediately ordered a sharp turn. His joystick controller commanded a combination of maneuvering thrusters and directional flaps behind his primary thruster to begin a loop back.

Halfway through the maneuver, he noticed the Vandal pilot had rolled his craft while pulling it into an upward loop. While he tried to circle around, his opponent hoped to get the drop from above.

Corbitt pulled his stick back hoping to gain some elevation. All he managed to accomplish was to prevent his friend from finding a target. Instead of lining back up for another shot at each other, both craft were once again pointed away from each other.

The race for position was on!

The Vandal looped upward once more as Corbitt spiraled around, maintaining his upward momentum. He slowed his speed, hoping his inexperienced nemesis wouldn’t notice until he was facing that tail; but when Corbitt levelled out in relation to the other fighter, that sneaky foe slammed on his breaks, as it were, forcing Corbitt ahead and into his line of sight.

The EDF pilot realized his mistake and immediately entered into another turn before the Vandal had his engines running again. Corbitt tried to loop around for another attempt, but the Vandal had the space to attempt his own turn to cut him off. His lasers fired wildly, forcing Corbitt into a hard push downward to avoid crossing the T.

The Vandal tried to follow, but it was too late to reconnect his shot.

Corbitt tapped mildly on the reverse thrusters hoping to slow his speed without the Vandal pilot realizing it this time. Fortunately, the child in that cockpit was too anxious to use his guns. All that pilot was focused on was trying to line up the next shot. With more subtlety, Corbitt learned he could better manipulate his speed and fool his foe.

The Vandal came close to lining up the shot again before realizing he moved too fast.

Corbitt only had to tap on his breaks this time so that he would have less speed to make up once the Vandal had passed. And as the craft pulled by him, just when he swore he could see the mistake on the pilot’s face, he opened fire and held it, worrying about the aim afterwards.

That superheated beam closed in on the Vandal craft as Corbitt nudged his stick in the appropriate direction. He swore it singed the tip of the wing before the pilot had recognized the danger and pulled up and away.

A shriek rang out on one of the open lines as Alpha-4 scored a kill.

That’s why I’m an Alpha!

Eh, lucky shot. It sounded like Beta-2 was jealous. It didn’t really matter to most of them. A kill was a kill, and it meant one less bad guy to worry about.

While his own bad guy attempted to regain his bearing after the near miss, and circle around, Corbitt pulled sharply upward. He gained altitude over the Vandal’s plane before turning sharply down again into a dive. The young fool headed back and into his path. Clearly he had lost sight of his target, and Corbitt hoped he wouldn’t find him until his lasers bore down on him.

Still, Corbitt had to time his fire perfectly. If he opened up early, the youngster would have the warning needed to veer away once more. Too late, and his shots would reach the Vandal’s position after he had passed.

Come on, he muttered. Don’t notice me.

The little targeting bullseye on the canopy started flashing, slowly at first, to indicate it was near time to pull the trigger. The faster it flashed, the tighter his finger wrapped around the firing button. Between the speed of that fighter, and the speed of the light he was about to send out, Corbitt had absolutely no room for error.

The bullseye on the canopy flashed angrily, and though he still had to crane his neck to spot the fighter, the time had come. Corbitt squeezed the trigger and sent out a fifteen thousand degree burst of light. The barrels of his cannons were lined with a material that could handle the heat, but it was difficult to produce and impractical to use in the hulls of their ships or the fuselages of their fighters.

Against the cruisers or the carriers, they would punch holes into the hull. Rooms would lose atmosphere to space and people would die, but the larger ships could survive the damage. The fighters however were so tiny, a strike from these lasers would prove fatal to the craft. It would only be through a miracle that the pilot could manage to eject safely.

But this time, luck was with the Vandal. He had decided to turn about for whatever reason, and the shot passed harmlessly by his starboard wing.

The dogfight would continue since he not only missed his target, but tipped the kid off to his whereabouts.

* * *

Sadiq studied his bridge. Another officer had been yanked from him while none had returned from Petron’s preposterous whining. His staff had thinned to the point where noncommissioned officers were filling the roles of his department heads.

This wasn’t the first time his Captain disappeared with the key staff in the heat of battle. Sadiq was never sure if he was truly that tone deaf to a situation, or (as he believed was more likely the case) Petron hid rather than display his command skills for the farce they were.

But Sadiq’s complaints earned no consideration from the Admiralty, nor did the Captain’s pitifully low retention rates among the ranks. For some reason the top brass loved him. Their standard response each time was to point out his inspection scores. Despite the failure on the last visit, his scores overall were admittedly high, some of the highest in the entire fleet. But in these battle scenarios, personal cleanliness wasn’t going to win the day.

His fighters did their jobs in keeping the Vandal fighters away from his ship, but those cruisers continued to gain ground.

Adjust course thirty degrees starboard by twenty north.

Every time the first repositioned, determined to get around, Sadiq was only too happy to lure it further away from his own fleet. In doing so, he also forced the second cruiser inward from its intended arc.

The chief petty officer stuck monitoring the positions was frazzled. Her task belonged to a commissioned officer due to the training required to operate the console, and the expertise gained in multitasking among various targets.

It’s okay, Sadiq assured her. Take them one at a time; check one, then the other.

But as she took a deep breath, newly encouraged to throw herself into her monitoring, the second ship decided to open fire hoping to goad the Legacy back towards its position. She looked back to the Commander for further guidance.

What do I do now?

Sadiq rose from his chair, shouting orders across the bridge as he crossed to her station.

All you have to do is your job. Tune out the laser fire. Tune out the chaos. It’s my job to worry about that. All you have to do is tell me when those ships change position, or when they open fire. Got it?

I think so. Her voice wavered, but she seemed willing to give it a go.

So far, none of the shots connected with their hull. The Vandals generally didn’t have the self-control to calculate the distant bombardment. The lasers cut through the expanse too quickly to avoid them, but if targeting was off by just half a degree, a shot would pass over Legacy’s hull instead of into it as they did at that point.

Sadiq’s concern also turned to his fighters. As unlikely as it was for one of his shots to hit their own pieces, the EDF wouldn’t take the risk no matter how small it was. The selective shooting continued, but the Commander burned for the opportunity to open up with everything he had.

What I need you to do for me is find our fighters in that mass of signals and tell me if we have a clear shot toward that ship yet.

He could see the answer well enough over her shoulder, but he knew it would do more for her confidence if he didn’t cut her from the process.

Negative, Sir. Our fighters are still ahead of them.

Sadiq returned to his chair, barking more orders for the crew around him, and those within earshot of his communications.

"Flight deck, someone tell the wings to draw the fight away from those cruisers.

"Armory, tell your men they have permission to open up on the first cruiser, but maintain cover fire only on the second.

"Damage control teams into positions.

Medical Bay prepare for casualties.

He sat back, listening to the chatter from across the Fleet. Though he had an officer assigned to filter out the noise from the important information, it always helped him having the voices in his ear. Multiple channels across multiple ships, communicated between their own fighters, between the flag ship, and between each other. Most of it was nothing but background noise in the sea of voices, but he had trained his mind to take notice of certain words that would tell him which channel carried excitement.

As he waited to get close enough for full combat, it was a communication from one of their cruisers that drew his attention. The Vanguard pushed ahead of the carriers along with its sister ships, and it was the first to enter a full-on engagement.

Vandal fighters had shaken off their EDF intercepts and charged for the cruiser while the lone Vandal carrier let fly their missiles. The Vanguard took minor damage to its hull as the fighters raced by. Its gunners toward the rear targeted the tiny ships, while those forward remained focused on the carrier.

One of the fighters circled back for a second pass. The two gunners topside crossed their fire hoping to confuse the pilot, but he merely dodged and weaved to keep them guessing while he opened up and strafed the top of the ship. The starboard gunner narrowly avoided a blast, but his buddy behind him wasn’t so lucky. His canopy melted away instantly, and his body incinerated down to a handful of ash left drifting out into the vacuum.

Another carrier, the Stony Atoll, found its window against one of the two Vandal cruisers moving in for engagement. While the gunners fired toward it hoping to distract and confuse the enemy, the missile crews loaded the tubes and began launching their ordinance.

They were still far enough apart where it took almost three minutes for the explosive packed metal tubes to reach their targets, but the laser distraction worked. The Vandals mistook the new readings in the theater as new fighters. They didn’t bother to change course, and suffered the consequences.

The first missile tore open the forward compartments just below the bridge. The next missile followed into the damaged section and drove halfway through crew quarters while it detonated. Their commander tried to get out of the way, but three more missiles were able to unleash their payload throughout the ship.

Though they still had their uppermost laser emplacements, and sufficient navigational capabilities to remain in the fight, the surviving crew lost the stomach to fight. They turned tail and tried to run leaving their sister ship to continue without the backup.

The hatch opened behind him, bringing Sadiq back to the happenings on his own bridge. He spun around in the chair anxious to see which of his officers had been returned to him. Only it was Captain Petron finally making his appearance on his own bridge.

The Commander rose to relinquish the chair to its proper captain, but Petron pretended not to notice the invitation. Or the battle playing out around him. The faces of everyone anxious for his orders remained in their places with eyes wide and jaws dropped as the man merely shuffled along the side of the massive room to leave them once more for his office.

Petron closed the door behind him without muttering a word or even recognizing the crew fighting on his behalf. Sadiq swore he heard the lock engage. Had it not been the Captain’s habit to lock himself away whenever a tough command presented itself, the XO might have been stunned.

Still, some of the faces had been so fresh, they let out a collective gasp. The whispering started, and Sadiq slammed his fist noisily onto the armrest to arrest it.

How close are we to that first cruiser?

They just crossed the hundred thousand kilometer mark.

Excellent! Calculate their expected position one minute from now and adjust our heading to face squarely on that spot. Alert the armory to fire missiles the moment we’re in position. And keep the gunners focused on the second cruiser. I want it held off as long as we can.

* * *

Captain Min shifted in her chair to get a better look at the crew to her left. She spied the anxiousness in everyone, but didn’t want them to notice her attention. They were anxious for battle, each of them. It burned these youngsters thinking of their friends enjoying the fun while they remained stuck behind that asteroid. If she made eye contact at this point, one of them would question the sense in holding the Fury back

So she studied the reports from the main fleet, stealing looks only while waiting for the next report to load. If anyone looked to her for the word to move, they would see nothing but her attention on those little screens, not the irises straining their way.

They wouldn’t have to wait much longer for that word. The battle seemed to go as well as their strategists anticipated. The fighters were busy swarming around each other, and the cruisers and carriers had closed in. Their lasers and missiles had been unleashed with all their fiery fury.

The Earth ships and the Vandal ships were about to circle each other and exchange positions. Her orders were to sit tight until their ships stood between the Earth and the EDF. Close wouldn’t work.

Evermore moved about the stations trying to keep the crew focused. They were too prone to mistakes, and his job while Min commanded the bridge was to catch those mistakes before they proved deadly.

You’re burning the maneuvering thrusters too hot. That’s why you’re making constant adjustments. If you’re not careful you’ll expose us early, or worse slam us into that rock.

It wouldn’t matter much longer. The dance at the front continued as the sides exchanged partners. Min didn’t care how the battle progressed or who seemed to be winning. All that mattered was that those ships remained busy.

The readings on her screens pleased her. For the first time, excitement rose in her soul and she rose from the chair with it.

Fire port thrusters! As soon as we’re clear, engage main engines and find the course…to Earth!

* * *

Corbitt and Delta-3, piloted by a talented young woman nicknamed Amber for the color of her hair, tag-teamed a single Vandal fighter. Amber lured the Vandal back around, hoping to trick him into Corbitt’s line of fire. But the Vandal figured it out and banked away before Corbitt could take the shot.

This one’s a slimy bastard! Amber called.

I’d tell you who he reminds me of, Corbitt answered, but I’d probably get an Article 13 for it.

He turned after the fighter while his partner circled around hoping to head the thing off. The Vandal pulled up sharply when it spied the second fighter, and Corbitt had to push downward or risk passing too close to his friend.

Amber pulled upward and around before Corbitt had a chance to recover himself. And now with the Vandal in control of their course, he took full advantaged and lured them further away from the larger ships.

Corbitt caught a glimpse of the main battle while his fighter arced around, and it pleased him to spy heavy smoke drifting out from the second Vandal cruiser.

Looks like the Commander is doing better than we are, he told his partner.

What makes you think Sadiq has the bridge? They both chuckled knowing the answer.

Amber took a few shots when the Vandal entered her crosshairs, but it was gone again before the lasers could discharge. As she let up, Corbitt finally returned, managing to fall in on their target’s tail.

The Vandal tried to shake him, but Corbitt thought he had the fool’s pattern figured out. He weaved when that fighter weaved, dove when he dove, and turned when he turned. The only thing Corbitt couldn’t do was keep his tail within the crosshairs on his canopy.

As he fine-tuned the pursuit, the Vandal was too focused on shaking him. The fighter hardly noticed Amber getting ahead to attempt an oncoming assault. Corbitt readied his finger on the trigger for that moment of realization. In that split second when the Vandal realized Amber’s position, Corbitt expected to get a target lock just before he could react.

But as he readied the shot, Park squawked in his ear.

"All Legacy fighters are ordered to return to base immediately and stand by for redeployment."

Dammit! Corbitt slammed his fists against the canopy as he heard one of the other pilots openly question the order.

We’re just about to clean up out here, Commander.

Negative. This is a priority-one order. Return to base immediately.

Amber broke off to head back while Corbitt remained beating on his canopy.

You win some, you lose some, Hopeless. And today we lost this one.

He took a few deep breaths before breaking off the pursuit. After the Captain caused him to be the last one to the battlefield, he certainly didn’t want to be the last one back to the hangar bay.

* * *

Sadiq called to the captain’s office with their updated status. He already knew the response he would receive, but had to cover his butt regardless. If this went south, he would have a dozen witnesses around him to overhear the conversation for when Petron would inevitably blame him for a poor performance in battle.

Sir, we have new orders to intercept a lone Vandal ship on course for Earth. I thought you might like to come to the bridge.

The exasperated sigh was loud enough for all to hear. Commander, he finally replied in that condescendingly calm drawl of his, you know I have to approve next week’s duty rosters and send them to Admiral Duffy by 1600 hours. Do you want to explain it to the Admiral when he calls at 1605 demanding to know why he doesn’t have our duty rosters?

Sadiq said nothing. His question was a trap. Petron came across as the biggest idiot on the ship, but his XO knew he was far more clever than anyone believed. A lesser officer might have told him no. If they failed to stop that ship, Petron could lay the blame on him, claiming he was told the situation was handled and his presence on the bridge wasn’t required.

Conversely, he might have said yes, demanding the Captain take his place on the bridge where he belonged at that particular moment. Then, come 1605 when the Admiral called wanting to know why the duty rosters never arrived to his desk, Petron could blame his subordinate for his inability to handle the situation. Of course this Vandal invasion didn’t excuse the lack of paperwork because a good captain would have anticipated unexpected problems and had those rosters in a day early.

Sadiq knew the only safe response to Petron’s question was no response at all. The decision to take his place on the bridge or remain locked away in that private office had to be left to the Captain.

You do what you feel you must, Sadiq told him. Regulations require I inform you of the change in orders. And he silenced the comm line before Petron could get in another dig concerning his command abilities.

He turned