Young Writers Society

So... Prepare to be confused! Mauhahaha. Don't worry, it'll all make sense a little later. So, I think that we all know the drill. Critiques and comments are very appreciated. And seriously, I mean it, considering I don't feel as happy with this one as the rest. Thanks a bunch.

Daniel

Chapter 3: System of Corrinthe; 1049 Hours.

“Alpha, Beta, Gamma,” Commander Amber Hart said, her once relaxed body, tensed as adrenaline began to pour throughout her veins, “form up on designated wing leads, we've got company.” Her hands scoured over the control panel of her fighter, making last minute adjustments before the imminent dogfight. There was no way that these freighter-like vessels were friendlies, at least, not in this sector of space.

“Commander,” the voice of one of Amber's pilots shot through the comlink, “we've got two modified Y-5 transports, with Viper escort.”

“Strange,” another pilot commented, “the Vipers have weapons down. And there’s no sign of
activity. This could be a trap.”

“I know,” Amber replied, her face contorted into a frown. Strange, she thought. Even if the small, three-winged fighters were escorting the freighters, they should have had weapons up at all times. “Approach with extreme caution,” she said suddenly. “Stay in range, but stand down, wait for an indication.”

“Yes sir!”

“Oh, and Sanders, do a heat scan on this area, just to be sure. I don’t like surprises.” Amber flipped a button on the communications system, changing the frequency. “Unknown craft, you are in restricted air space. Power off all systems and prepare to be boarded, or jump out before we come into range, my men will not hesitate to open fire. Do you copy?” Amber hoped that the enemy could not tell that she was bluffing; her men would hesitate before blindly firing at a vessel. Though her superior officers looked down on mercy, she had taught all of her men not to take a life unless absolutely necessary. After all, every person, whether male or female, was related in someway to another individual, despite their alignment to different governments or sects.

“Maybe they didn't hear it, sir,” another pilot filled the airwaves within her small, cramped cockpit, as if he actually believed that himself. There was no way the approaching craft could have missed her last transmission.

“Unknown craft, I will repeat myself once more. Leave the area, or we will open fire.” Still, silence echoed over the comm.

“Sir,” the voice of Sanders, broke the eerie silence, “I just did a heat signature scan on the area. There should be ten heat signatures in front of us. I've got over thirty. Should I-”

Amber cut him off, trying to suppress the panic that welled up inside of her. “Open fire! They're cloaked!” Her hand flipped the button on the communications system, changing the frequency once again. “High Command, come in!” Static, a bad sign. “High Command, this is Alpha One of the FireStorm Squadron, Come in!”

“Sir, they're jamming us, we'll have to pull back.”

Amber bit her lip in frustration, and began to focus on the situation outside of her craft. With their cover blown, the enemy had turned off its cloaking devices, revealing a swarm of enemy fighters.

“We've got two—no, maybe three—fighter squadrons, with maybe four wings each. That doesn't give us a very good ratio. Your commands, sir?”

“Pull back a little ways and get out of here. At this rate, I don't see the point of committing suicide.” Amber rolled the flight stick in a circle, around it's pivot point, circling her craft back towards where her squadron had come from. There was no way they could achieve anything in this battle; the best option would be to regroup and-

Her thoughts were cut off as a massive object emerged from the blue threads of subspace. A simple “no” was all she could manage to say before a blood-red beam of light shot out from the object's cannons, blasting two of her squadron's fighters to shreds. Amber closed her eyes, shaking her head, as if she wanted to wake up from an appalling nightmare. “Beta, Gamma,” she said, her voice smooth and calm, as if she had actually regained her composure, “get out of here. Alpha, your objective is to protect our retreating craft!”

“But sir-” one of her pilots began to protest.

“That's an order, do it!” Amber shook her head violently, frustration beginning to well up inside of her. She was not about to let her entire squadron go down in flames.

“Our jump drives are malfunctioning, looks like the destroyer, or something, is jamming them.”

She bit her lip, muffling a curse. “Get past the destroyer then,” she said softly, knowing they were hopeless words. Twelve small, fleeing fighters against a massive destroyer, equipped with anti-air weapons...

“Alpha,” she began to order, “let's see how much damage we can do. Target the anti-air, and forward beam turrets. Good luck.” It was suicide, and she knew that, but maybe, just maybe, it would give her other pilots a chance to escape.

“Time to die a hero, I guess?” a pilot asked somberly. “Let's do it.”

Amber accelerated her craft towards the rectangular destroyer. Its main body was curved at the front, while the back was rounded, allowing for enormous engines. Attached to the main body were two inwardly curved wings, that slanted downwards, likening the destroyer's appearance to that of a two-pronged scythe. And, within the confines of the ship's outer hull, lay the mass of gun turrets.

Amber targeted the destroyer's forward beam turrets, located near the front of the craft, and punched in her afterburner. With thirty or so enemy fighters chasing her squadron, there would be little margin for error. “Come on...” She gritted her teeth, and fired a pair of missiles at her target.

“I guess we should've brought bigger missiles, eh?”

“Yeah...” she grimaced as the enemy cannon took a direct hit from her missiles, but came away with barely a scratch. “Obviously, this tactic isn't going to work very well, let's just keep the gunners occupied with our ships, not-”

“Sir! We're getting another massive jump signature on-” Static filled Amber's cockpit; another of many pilots had gone down.

Her nerves broke, and terror ran rampant throughout her body as yet another destroyer jumped into view. She sat there, frozen in her seat, listening to the screams of her fellow comrades, knowing that there was nothing she could do about it. Unless...

Amber threw her body back into action, if she could return to her station and warn the others, then, maybe her comrades could repel the strike force, whoever they may be. She threw the flight stick towards the left, spinning her fighter away from the destroyer, towards the incoming enemy fighters. If there were a way to survive in this battle, it would not be in between the two destroyers. The enemy obviously expected this, and moved to match her new course.

“Sanders,” she said through the communications system, towards the sole remaining pilot of her squadron, her voice wavering in the sudden coolness of her cockpit, “Move to match me. We can’t do much about the destroyers.”

“Head-on tactic then,” his voice was clear and fearless, as if he had been expecting this moment from his day of birth.

“No—well, yes—but the second they start firing, break away and target the Y-5 Transport nearest you. My guess is that—”

“One of them is the communications jammer, and the other one jams warp-outs?” he cut her off, as if he could read her thoughts.

“Precisely. Makes sense, right?”

“Sure it does,” he sounded doubtful.

“Well, it’s a better plan than trying to destroy two destroyers, right?” She laughed darkly, the reality of the situation finally setting in on her. This was not a simulator run; it was the real thing.

“You got that right. Enemy incoming. It was nice serving with you, my friend.”

“Likewise…” she trailed off as the swarm of enemy fighters began to fire off rounds of laser bolts into the emptiness of space. Amber smashed the flight stick down, sending her craft into a slight dive, pulling the throttle out in the process as to increase speed.

Laser bolts slammed across her front shields and instinctively, she pulled her craft away from the energy particles. We’re not gunna survive long, she silently noted, sidestepping another series of lasers, there has to be something I can do. She was known for her daring ability to change unfavorable circumstances into favorable ones. But as of right now, there was no way those circumstances would be able to change. If only she could buy Sanders a little more extra time, he might be able to survive it through the day. If only…

Amber pushed the flight stick across her body, slamming her booted foot against the left petal, spinning her craft into a high, stomach wrenching turn. “Watch out boys. Here I come,” she said grimly to herself, aliening the crosshairs of her HUD’s targeting system against the silhouette of an enemy craft, and squeezing the flight stick’s trigger.

The enemy, completely baffled by her daring maneuver, reacted even slower that Amber had originally anticipated, allowing her to destroy two fighters before actually having to evade.

The piercing siren of the missile lock indicator screamed in her ears, as Amber unsuccessfully attempted to avoid the lasers that were tearing through her ship’s shields. Though she had been able to catch the enemy off guard, she was surrounded now, and her futile evasive maneuvers, would do little if lasers were attacking her from all sides. And with a missile on the way…

Amber attempted to shake off her thoughts of death. They would do little good right now. Her craft made an upward, corkscrewed turn, accelerating and then shot downwards, bashing into a few stray lasers. She then wiggled the stick to the left, looping her craft towards Sanders’.

His V-shaped Scorpion fighter was attempting to evade from the enemy fighters attacking him. “Sander,” Amber called out, “switch. You take my fighters, I’ll see if I can grab the Y-5.”

A click came over the comlink, acknowledging her command. He could not do much good surrounded by fighters, and neither could she. The switch in positions might open up a path to one of the freighters.

“Commander,” Sanders addressed her, “you’ve got a missile behind you, set a crash course towards me, and I’ll take it out.”

“You’re not leaving room for error, my friend,” Amber replied, caressing the afterburner and juking upwards as lasers shook her ship. She cursed her slowness, and, noting that her shields were completely demolished, wrapped her ship in a high arc, facing the enemy on her tail once again. “Too late. I can’t withstand much more of a beating and—”

A crimson ray of light cut through the space where her ship had been in moments earlier, silencing the last of her words. “No…” she said breathily, unable to peal her eyes away from the destruction of her sole remaining hope. “Sanders!” she screamed, her hands pounding against the control board of her craft in anguish as the yellow orange glow outside of her cockpit filled her sight.

With one last half-heartily attempt to escape, she triggered her subspace drive, but to no avail. Nothing happened, just like she had expected.

Missile lock warnings screamed at her, and her ship shook with laser fire, the hull integrity dropping rapidly. But she did not care. It was over. There was no hope left. There was nothing left she could do, but accept the impending death. She had failed her commanders and fellow comrades.
Blue light erupted in front of her, and her ship was slammed forward, hit by a missile. “Warning all systems critical,” a computerized voice said, as if it too was in acceptance of the death that awaited Amber.

She waited for the next impact, her eyes closed and body braced for the pain that she would experience, but nothing came.

“Alpha One, this is command, what the hell happened to you?” A gruff voice, masked by static, played through her communication system.

Amber sat there, against the leather that now felt soft and comfortable as if almost welcoming, sobbing. Why her? Why had she survived? How had she survived? How was it even possible?
“Alpha One, please come in.”

Amber took a breath, trying to calm herself, and regain her composure, but the tears would not stop. She was thankful to be alive. But why was it not Sanders who had survived? Why was it her, when all of her other pilots had sacrificed their lives?

She breathed deeply again, stifling some of the emotion that ran through her body. “Command,” she choked back her tears, “this is Commander Amber Hart of the 107th FireStorm Squadron. They jammed us and blocked off all escape… No one else survived…”