Spinward Fringe Broadcast 10: Freeground - The Prologue

Do you know what I like about this prologue? The main character, the fact that it's unexpected, and that it happens in the middle of the war.

Spoiler alert for anyone who hasn't read up to Spinward Fringe Broadcast 9: Warpath!

It's that time again, when a few previews land on this page. This prologue takes place in a different part of the Iron Head Nebula as the Triton and Revenge are encountering Freeground Alpha.

The Nafalli are coming...

More previews are coming soon, so sit tight and enjoy!

Prologue

The Rahgha

Order of Eden fighters swarmed between the ships of the Iduoi Tribe convoy, hatefully blasting the most heavily armed ships before Woone’s young eyes. An itch had been burning on the top of her dark furred snout, but she was a nafalli warrior, and her hands were steady on the turret controls.

“Shoot anything coming for your turret first, we need to keep our gunners safe,” came the order over the comm stick she had pinned into the fur next to her ear. The order came from her father, the Captain, and she thought it was cowardly. Woone was sure she should fire at the enemy ships that were causing the most damage to the least well defended, but she followed orders regardless.

A trio of Order of Eden ships rose up from behind the Elloo, one of their oldest ships. The round edged, long vessel was already losing power to most of its critical systems, she feared for the thousands of nafalli aboard. The enemy trio took a sweeping turn, and she opened fire with her quad cannon, scoring hits by the time they were facing her.

The shields protecting her emplacement started taking hits, flashing blinding light across the front of her turret. Gritting her teeth, she concentrated on what her visor was showing, three dots with the speed, distance, shield strengths, and operational status of each fighter in simple codes. “These pilots are so stupid,” she grunted as she set her four cannons to fire at maximum power.

Her fingers were going numb from holding the triggers down for so long. These would be the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth kills she made in less than fifteen minutes. The energy shield protecting her turret was slowly depleting, the trio were trying to take her out, and she hoped that the bolts of contained super-hot plasma her quad cannons were spewing would take them out first. Their assault was so brazen, Woone was positive they would be slag before she was.

The middle fighter’s shields dropped suddenly, and Woone aimed for the sweet spot, right above and behind the narrow fighter’s canopy there was a thin armour panel, and behind that was some kind of fuel cell. The middle fighter exploded violently, sending the one to its port side spinning sideways.

Small shards and chunks of the exploding fighter collided with her shield like droplets of red hot metal rain as she aimed for the other fighter, tearing into it at such a high, intense rate that the barrels of her turrets were turning red. Woone activated the coolant gas to slow the heating down, making sure she didn’t release so much that it would damage her turret. The white plume of the coolant entering the heated space around the barrels filled her view, so she completely relied on her tactical visor, ignoring the obstructed view outside.

The second fighter was about to break off when its shields failed, and she ripped into the side of the ship with cannon fire. The third was regaining control, turning and flying away, and she blasted the ship from behind. “Your shields were set to cover your nose, weren’t they?” she growled to her enemy, even though they couldn’t hear her. “No running, you little bug.”

The shields covering the aft side of the enemy fighter winked out, and the pilot didn’t get a chance to spin their ship before several high speed plasma bolts tore through the thin armour. “Burn!” she shouted as the ship’s interior let a jet of atmosphere out then exploded as one of her shots struck a fuel capsule.

That explosion was followed by a much larger blast that lit up the dark corner of the nebula they tried to hide in for several seconds. Large chunks of hardened hull plating drifted across her view, some of what remained of the Order Carrier that attacked their peaceful convoy. She wished she could spit on the massive shreds of hull plating, or make trophies of a few of the crewmembers who still clung to hope inside sealed compartments, like her ancestors did. They knew how to make examples of their enemies.

There were a few fighters in range, all flying away. Woone squeezed a few rounds off at the closest ones for good measure, striking sporadically and fairly ineffectively. “Better run,” she muttered as the last of them made it out of her range. “Prepare for an emergency short distance jump,” came the announcement through her communicator. It wasn’t her father, but her uncle Rikin speaking.

The lights in the rear section of the Elloo lit back up, and their main thrusters fired despite the terrible damage the large ship sustained. To her relief, a wormhole split the space in front of it and the ship slid inside, accelerating out of sight within seconds. Woone took a moment to secure her post so the weapon couldn’t go off by mistake, and to scratch the itch on top of her nose. The relief she felt at seeing the Elloo get away safely was so intense she felt she could cry. While most of her immediate family was on the Rahgha, one of their only fighting ships, she had over a hundred cousins on the Elloo, and there were children aboard because it had a heavily armoured core. Their entire tribe was set on breeding back to full numbers, and she was left out because there were so few males left to couple with, not that she liked her choices over the past year. That meant she could concentrate on being a warrior, a passion of hers since she learned to track at a very early age, and that she could visit the Elloo whenever she had time and be surrounded by baby nafalli without having to take care of any of them after leaving. Truly, the best of both worlds.

Their ship shuddered as it crossed into a wormhole, something that had never happened before. The alarm went up and the flexible panels of her containment suit closed. “Emergency, reactor three has failed,” announced Rikin. “We are not going to be able to jump again. The convoy will be going dark as soon as we arrive at our destination. If there is anyone near Primary Junction Twenty-Eight, please deactivate the power flow to the rest of the ship.”

That wasn’t good. It meant that enough of their convoy was so damaged that they had to go dark in order to hide from sensors. Dead dark, no systems running, scary dark. All so they could hide and make essential repairs. With a start, Woone realized that she was close to Junction Twenty-Eight, it was only a few strides behind her turret door.

With care, she turned her chair around and opened the hatch. With a whoosh the atmosphere in her pod escaped into the vacuum in the hallway. “Command Centre, I’m responding to your request,” she said. “The hall behind my turret is depressurized.”

“Woone? Thank goodness you’re still alive. That section was heavily damaged,” her aunt said. She was the Tribe matron, and the woman Woone admired more than any fictional or real person in the universe. “Is there anyone else nearby? Any sign of other survivors?”

Woone looked down the hallway in both directions. The strange shifting white and blue light of starlight reflecting off of particles in the nebula, amplified by the wall of their wormhole was the only illumination in the broad hallway. The light was coming in through a broad rip in the hull that ended three paces away from her turret pod. It was so still and quiet, it made Woone wish she’d never opened her pod. People were lost somewhere behind. People had died. It was the reality of war, but she couldn’t help but wonder who she’d never see again.

Woone shook her head solemnly as she concluded that there was only torn deck plating and the remains of a half-slagged reactor to her right, and an empty hallway to her left. “I don’t see anyone, there aren’t even any remains.”

“We can confirm that a few got into a secure room before that area was damaged, but if what you’re seeing is right, most of them were pulled out into space,” Loashi said. “Can you see the Junction Panel? Is it still intact?”

Woone saw it right away. Several paces down the undamaged end of the hallway there was a black panel with red stripes across it. “I can get to it.” The ship emerged from the wormhole, and she pushed off from the hatch of her turret pod.

“We have to shut down now,” Loashi said. “It’s going to get very quiet and dark down there, Woone, so stay calm until we can get to you. In the meantime, you can use your personal scanner to see if there are any other crewmembers stuck back there. Do you think you could do that?”

“Pfft! Don’t worry about me, my suit didn’t take any damage, so I can look for crewmates for days.”

“Okay, be careful,” Rikin said.

“Is my father all right?” Woone asked, dreading the answer.

“We’ll discuss that when you’re safe,” Loashi said.

“No, is he safe?” Woone asked, making contact with the Junction Panel and opening it.

“Woone-“

“Tell me, I need to know.”

“He was killed when the port shields failed,” Loashi said. “I’m sorry.”

Woone found the control that would cut off most of the ship’s power. “Ready to go dark?”

“He didn’t suffer,” Loashi said. The light flickering around her dimmed. They were out of the wormhole.

“Are we ready?”

“Yes, Woone, go ahead.”

Woone pushed the mechanical button in and it sprung back with a click. She knew the entire ship lost power then, they would be difficult to detect using long range scanners. She turned back towards the rip in the hull, it was broad and long, and she hadn’t noticed it thanks to the position of her turret. What did that damage was so close to killing her too, she found herself wondering if her family had been cursed. First, she’d failed to find a good mate, then the Order of Eden raided their world and killed most of the humans there along with her mother, and now her father was gone.

Through the hull breach she watched three of their lesser armed ships go dark, the lights in their portholes flickering then going out. It suited her. Let everyone feel as alone and lost as she did. They would work in the dark, repairing whatever it was that kept them from trying to escape the Iron Head Nebula.

A small green light appeared on her visor, indicating that there was someone alive down the corridor, just past the breach. Woone took a deep breath. “Father and Mother are both watching now,” she said, feeling a tear roll down her furred cheek. “I will show you how I can save people.”

Spinward Fringe Broadcast 9 Prologue: Freeground Alpha

It's my pleasure to present a brand new prologue to Spinward Fringe Broadcast 9: The Gathering. This prologue is unique in the fact that it is not so much the beginning of a new storyline, but an answer to a few questions (what happened to Freeground? and others...), and the natural continuation to a story that began way back in Broadcast 0.

Before you read any further, you should know that there are MAJOR SPOILERS for anyone who hasn't read the entire series. That's Broadcast 0-6, The Expendable Few, as well as Broadcasts 7 and 8 (in that order).

I hope you enjoy this, it's the raw copy without any work from my editors, so this is what most of my work looks like before they get their hands on it.

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Spinward Fringe Broadcast 9: The Gathering

Written by Randolph Lalonde, 2014-2015

Copyright © 2015 Randolph Lalonde

Spinward Fringe is a Registered Trademark of Randolph Lalonde

All Rights Reserved

3rd draft

Prologue: Freeground Alpha

Holographic images were not Admiral Jessica Rice’s preferred method of watching anything, but there was something about watching news about Ayan Anderson as a full sized hologram that made her feel better overall. She admitted her desire to make amends and accept Ayan as her daughter to no one. When the burden of command lessened, and she had time alone, the young woman was always in the daydream future the Admiral tried to avoid indulging in.

“-through this conspiracy of ownership and the denial of rulership, Commander, or shall we call her ‘Queen’ Ayan Anderson has barely represented her settlements to the rest of the Rega Gain system,” said the announcer over the holographic playback. “This news agency wasn’t allowed access to their monitoring systems, so all our information is from testimony, our news gathering drones, and stories from the Stellarnet. This reporter is fairly confident in saying that, while it seems like the Queen of Haven Shore turns a cold shoulder towards the people outside her safe haven, those who have been fortunate enough to make it through her recruiting process are happy with their placements. They are given accommodations in trade for labour that are becoming increasingly rare as the fringes of human territories falls to the Order of Eden, corporate rule or lawless chaos. It’s old socialism, or a new trade of freedom for safety, labour for a cot under a shield. Or, is it?”

Admiral Rice watched as holographic footage of Ayan arriving with a recruitment ship amidst a razed landscape. Small downed ships, pools of toxic materials and broken earth surrounded her and several heavily armed soldiers as they ushered people who looked no better than their surroundings into combat shuttles. Footage of what looked like a military complex followed, taken from a great distance by one of the news drones the announcer mentioned, Admiral Rice supposed. She immediately recognized it as a prefabricated Order of Eden base that Ayan’s people had converted.

Several still images of Ayan and members of her council followed as the announcer continued. “With the history of selective humanitarianism Ayan has become somewhat well known for, I can’t help but wonder why her Haven Shore council seems to have turned against her, along with Haven Shore’s original populace. Information recently obtained by this reporter has revealed that fewer than forty one percent of her voting population supported her continuing activities on the Council, and she has not participated directly in proceedings for over a month. Even though she is the sole owner of nearly all of Haven Shore’s assets, and has strong ties to the new Triton Fleet, I cannot help but wonder how much of the peace Haven Shore seems to enjoy is just an illusion created by her and the British Alliance.” Admiral Rice couldn’t help but scowl at the supposition. “How about you go get recruited and find out for yourself,” she said in response to the story, dismissing the hologram with a flick of her wrist.

“I’m sorry, Admiral, it was the best recent news story I could find in the Sunspire’s database,” said the gentle voice of Gus, her personal artificial intelligence.

“Don’t give it a second thought,” she replied. It was time for her to walk the ship, and she wouldn’t do it without looking like a crewmember. Admiral Rice took her sidearm, a stout, powerful plasma pistol, from her side table drawer and slipped it into the holster on her upper thigh. “Next time I’ll have you review it for me though, then you can relay the facts.”

“Along with the best images of your daughter,” Gus said into her sub-dermal earpiece.

There was no arguing with him, after a year of using Gus, he’d learned everything there was to know about her, twice. The first time he’d become highly competent at predicting her moods and needs, he had to delete himself as a failsafe when political enemies managed to hack into his database. They got nothing, but she would make them pay for the setback as soon as she found out who was responsible, because Gus had to start learning all over again.

“How is the Freeground Alpha doing?” Admiral Rice asked.

“The wormhole generator is almost finished charging, and all remaining residents have evacuated to the primary ring,” Gus replied as he provided an image of the thick inner ring of Freeground. The lights from thousands of transparent metal windows made it look alive, well inhabited compared to the rest of the station. Most of the original rings surrounding Freeground Station were completely dark, abandoned as all but the most steadfast citizens left for other parts of the galaxy.

“Perhaps this is the wrong image,” Gus said, changing the view so it focused on the lighted main ring.

“It’s all right for me to grieve, Gus,” Admiral Rice said. “This is the home I came to love, and it’s near the end of its decline. That’s some consolation.”

“Ah, Freeground’s population increased to two hundred ninety eight thousand and three last night, Admiral. Two children were born, both boys.”

“Thank you for the silver lining.” She made sure her uniform was in good order, a thick armoured red and black vacsuit, before leaving her sparsely decorated quarters. The Ironside was a fine ship, one of the last produced by Freeground Shipyards. It was a direct descendant of the improved Sunspire design, and had already seen nineteen engagements under the command of her captain, Harold Behr, a man only a few years her junior, but somehow he looked twenty years older. It was his twelfth ship, and he’d only lost one in combat.

She walked the well polished metal halls from her quarters to the port gunnery section, then to engineering. Only two crewmembers saluted out of the hundred or so she passed. They were new, unaware that she’d put out a standing order that crewmembers were to disregard the tradition of saluting the Admiral if they were working unless they were addressed.

“Admiral, we have an emergency,” Gus announced in her subdermal communicator. The left side of Admiral Rice’s vision was filled with an overlay of scrolling sensor data from the Ironside. She was receiving it at exactly the same time as the bridge, and recognized what was happening immediately.

“Channel open to the bridge,” Gus informed her.

“Captain,” was all she had to say.

“I know, this is the largest incursion yet,” Captian Behr replied, “Battle Group One is already responding with energized flak bursts, we’re moving into position.”

It had become standard operating procedure over the last four months, since the Isek began their attacks. Opportunists to the core, a large faction of their society recognized that, with the Order of Eden on one side, and no major allies on the other, Freeground was truly alone again in a vast empty span of space. The Isek began jamming Freeground’s communications, then they begain bombarding missions. They realized after losing an outer ring and nearly a quarter million people in one of the first attacks, that energized flak and energy shielding was their only defence. The outer patrols were only so effective, the fleet they had was not large enough to maintain their borders.

Admiral Rice reviewed a segment of the sensor data and shook her head, walking into a lift at the same time. The readings indicated that the Isek were sending clusters of missiles in from almost all directions. “Battle Groups Two, and three are to fall back to the departure point, reinforce the energy shielding surrounding Freeground’s primary ring. We are leaving, Sir.”

“Aye,” Captain Behr replied.

Admiral Rice signalled the Sunspire, the lead ship for Battlegroup One to disband and begin their faster than light journey immediately.

When Admiral Rice arrived on the bridge, he was finishing relaying the orders to his staff, who were calmly conducting themselves. She took the seat beside him and immediately began monitoring the countermeasures. The gleaming hull of the Ironside was as yet untouched by the long-range attacks as her many gun emplacements fired a stream of counterpunch rounds. They were made specifically to halt and obliterate incoming projectiles head-to-head, and the computer was managing their firing patterns so well that they were able to contribute to the defence of Freeground Alpha.

“Freeground Control reports that they only have enough power to create a wormhole to the near side of the Ironhead Nebula,” Captain Behr said. “It’s a no-go, Ma’am.”

“We’ll see,” Admiral Rice said. “Open a channel.”

Captain Behr nodded at his communication’s chief, a young man who looked more like a security chief from his build. He opened a channel and put the communications on the bridge’s secondary display, a hologram just to the left of the middle of the room.

“Admiral Rice,” said the responder. He was a thin-faced man who always looked a little too high strung for her liking. He wrung his hands, chewed his fingernails, or scowled when he though no one was looking. Just a few years ago, the Admiralty would not have accepted him in their ranks, but needs forced them to advance people who barely made the grade.

“Admiral Pallon,” she replied. “We knew this would come, the Isek want to wear us down before they send their cruisers in to take the last segments of Freeground.”

“We do not have enough power in the capacitors to open a wormhole through the Ironhead Nebula. We will arrive on the inside edge, possibly sustain damage thanks to the particles there, and we will definitely be in Order territory,” Admiral Pallon replied, turning away from the holographic receiver.

“If we do not take this opportunity, while our ships are shielded and we have this much power in hand, we will not be able to leave at all. I am not looking forward to fighting to the death, or becoming the newest resident in the Isek slave camps,” she told him. “I’ve already ordered Battle Group One out of the area, and the rest are falling back.”

“Get them back in the field! Our defence will not be effective if-“ red light flashed on Admiral Pallon’s end, bathing the side of his face in its hue.

With a glance at her command and control console’s screen on her wrist, Admiral Rice could see that Freeground Station had been struck by a group of missiles. Dormant sections had lost shielding, and were open to space in hundreds of places. They were already empty, powered down for the most part, but the decompressing hull of the massive structure warned at the fate that awaited the main ring of the station, Freeground Alpha, if something wasn’t done.

“Pallon, deactivate the shielding surrounding the abandoned sections of Freeground and apply the energy to the wormhole generator. It’s the only way.”

“I’m sorry, Admiral Rice, I can’t split my attention between convincing you that we are on the right course, and keeping things running smoothly,” Admiral Pallon said.

Admiral Rice was out of her seat and on her way to the main communications console the moment Admiral Pallon’s image disappeared.

“Give her command control, Lieutenant Feng,” Captain Behr ordered as she arrived and pushed the heavily muscled communications officer out of the way.

“Aye,” he replied, standing back and watching as he resumed his duties at another communications console.

“Captain, I regret to inform you that I am about to violate several military and civilian laws, and you’ll probably have to take me into custody when I’m finished,” Admiral Rice said.

“I have no idea what you’re doing or what your intentions could be, so I see no reason to interfere,” Captain Behr said, feigning ignorance.

“Captain, she’s entering Freeground Alpha’s remote command codes, probably so she can-“ a junior communications officer started. He was silenced with a warning look from Lieutenant Feng. “Right, can’t tell what she’ll do Sir, probably nothing to worry about,” he trailed off.

The main display at the front of the bridge focused on the primary ring of Freeground Station. Its dark hull was alight in places as hundreds of weapon emplacements fired at incoming missiles. Blue light began to shine from several rows of old emitters built into the broad surface of its upper sections. They formed a glowing ring, crowning the thickest, oldest section of the station for several seconds before a high-compression wormhole opened above it.

“Helm, get us into formation and inside that wormhole as soon as Freeground Alpha is under way,” Captain Behr ordered.

“Aye, already on it, Captain.”

“Admiral Rice!” shouted Admiral Pallon over the communications band. “You will be court martialled for this!”

“I don’t care if both of us aren’t admirals when this is over,” Admiral Rice shouted back, “As long as we’re both free and alive, I’ve done my duty.” As if to punctuate her statement, emitters on the opposite side of the Freeground Alpha ring pulsed to life, pushing the massive ring into the wormhole above it.

The threshold of the wormhole was surprisingly rough, and Admiral Rice couldn’t help but wonder for a moment if she’d done the right thing as she watched old armour plating lift and detach from Freeground Alpha as it transitioned from normal space into the wormhole.

“Battlegroups Two and Three are in position, Group One is already out of the area,” Captian Behr reported.

“Proceed through the wormhole, this end will only be here for fourteen more seconds,” Admiral Rice said as she checked the energy readings scrolling across her vision.

All that remained of Freeground Fleet, thirty-eight ships, made it through with three seconds to spare, and for those scant seconds Admiral Rice watched as thirty-four massive, lightless rings were pulverized by Isek missiles. They were the longest three seconds of her life.

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Spinward Fringe Broadcast 8: First Look

For Want Of A Cover: This is an unused cover mock-up from a
different Spinward Fringe Novel. Broadcast 8 does not have a cover yet.

This is the entire Prologue for Spinward Fringe Broadcast 8. I'll release another chapter in a few weeks. There is no release date for Broadcast 8 just yet, but I'm aiming for the first half of 2013.

Without any further delay, here's the Prologue!

Prologue

The Hell Shrike

“Captain McFadden,” addressed First Officer Eily Hogan from the communicator. She was excited about something, usually a bad sign.

“Go ahead,” Captain Moira Mcfadden said, the communicator hidden inside her jawbone picking up her response.

“We’ve been spotted by an Order patrol, corvette class. No fighter cover in range.”

“Run out the guns,” she said as she put the paper book she was reading down beside her on her bed and stood up. “Angle shields directionally, watch for surprises. Looks like we’ll have to finish our repairs in hyperspace.” She took her mid-length heavy jacket from a metal chair, put it on and then clipped on her gun belt. She couldn’t help recalling a descriptive passage from the book she was just reading that described Cathryn, one of the Irish Union founders, strapping a pistol on overtop a dress. The thought of wearing a heavy skirt and a gun belt made her smile. Fat chance anyone will get me in a dress unless it’s my own funeral. She thought.

The pair of pistols was a welcome weight, like the old armoured jacket she wore adorned in the colours of the Irish Union flag – green, black and orange. These were most of her surviving possessions, and she kept them with her always. Underneath she wore the simple uniform of an Irish Union naval captain, a black and grey fitted suit with practical pockets, and three thin red lines that ran from the shoulders, down over her knees to the feet. The flexible armour pads had already saved her life several times, even though the uniform was relatively new to her.

The captain’s quarters were basic, with a double bed, a desk, a wardrobe cupboard, overhead storage and a few small conveniences. The hatchway opened with a clink, the door swung with a screech but she ignored both. The surfacing on the floors and walls had been polished away decades before by the hands of hundreds of crewmembers, leaving the bare metal to shine dark silver. She could see her reflection in her decks and walls.

The two muscled guards on watch at the entrance to the bridge snapped her a salute as she passed. Their fibre-mesh plate armour and general condition was picture perfect, and they had a pride Moira hoped would hold through the coming months. She returned their salute as an ensign pushed the bridge hatch open for her. Feeling a little out of order after seeing the crisp condition of the guards, she rolled and tucked her shoulder-length brown hair into a bun and tied it.

“Update,” she ordered as she sat in the battered captain’s seat.

“The corvette is biding her time,” replied First Officer Hogan. “Firing beam weapons, testing our shields. They’re not getting past our sensor or communications jamming.”

“Any transmissions get through before we were spotted?” Captain McFadden asked, checking the tactical and operational panel attached to her seat.

“We saw them because they transmitted,” came the reply from Michael Durst, her communications officer. “Almost missed the signal, looked like noise, but I traced it back.”

“Good work,” Captain McFadden said. The Hell Shrike was handling herself well. Her shields were regenerating fast enough to keep up with the beam weapons raking her port side. The black and green hull of the Order of Eden corvette looked fresh, intact – a tempting target. She looked at their location on the sector map and shook her head.

“We’ve got boarding teams at the ready,” advised her tactical officer, Tawnee Rickard.

“We’re still too far behind enemy lines,” Captain McFadden replied. We’re also protecting a full hold of captured supplies and hauling four containers under our energy shields, she thought, but didn’t share. There was no need to justify her decisions. “Be a shame to get jumped by a destroyer this close to breaking free of Order space,” she muttered to herself.

The beam fire intensified, focusing on one section of the Hell Shrike’s shields. Three exterior doors began to slide open on the enemy corvette, and Captain McFadden knew what that meant: missile batteries. Her energy shielding would have to spread out; the beam weapons would start getting through and her ship was still undergoing repairs to her outer hull. “Slag this bugger. Fire all guns, load secondary gun magazines with bursters so we can get through her shields. Missile batteries one and three load fusion warheads and hold for my order. Come about one sixty, mark, point five.” She set up the ship’s course on her console and sent it to the helm. “Navigation, start calculating our final course to Rega Gain.”

The seven-station bridge was busy as they carried out her orders. Several missiles broke through the Hell Shrike’s shields, sending white-hot shrapnel and explosive charges down the length of their port side. “Breaches?”

“Nay. We have weakened plating, though,” replied Tactical Officer Rickard.

“Roll the ship to compensate, we don’t want another hit on that section,” Captain McFadden ordered, aware that there wasn’t much undamaged hull left.

The twenty four railgun turrets running along the rounded sides of the ship fired with deadly precision, pounding away at the enemy’s shields. The corvette was starting to accelerate away, firing everything it had as its shield energy diminished. “Ready to fire, Missile Room,” Captain McFadden said.

“Missile Room reports: ready to fire,” replied Rickard.

Captain McFadden waited a moment, watching as the enemy corvette let loose with a battery of missiles and intensified beam fire, breaking through the Hell Shrike’s shields and through her outer hull. Moira didn’t flinch, even though three gunnery positions were immediately marked as destroyed. The enemy missiles struck right behind the missiles, liquefying metres of the Hell Shrike’s hull. It wasn’t time to fire her own missiles yet. “Helm, full thrust, set your course opposite to the corvette’s. We need a little more room.”

The corvette’s shields were almost completely depleted, and railgun rounds were breaking through, raking the enemy’s pristine hull. “Gunnery, switch to explosive rounds on even positions, flak on odd.”

“We’re out of flak rounds,” reported the other tactical officer, Trevor Walsh.

“Explosive rounds, all around. Fire at will,” Captain McFadden replied. “Missile Room, hold.”

“Aye, Missile Room holding,” replied Tactical Officer Rickard.

Captain McFadden modified the shield systems’ energy profile herself, running the remaining shield emitters past their safe limits to keep the Hell Shrike from taking more damage from the enemy’s beam weapons. They had to last just long enough to get out of their effective range, and the corvette was coming about, giving chase as the Hell Shrike retreated, interpreting the damage and retreat as a lack of resolve. Surprise, you Order Of Eden bastards, I’m getting ready to finish you off, she thought with a smile. “All guns, focus on the nose of that ship. I want all our non-nuclear missiles to fire on the same area, now.”

The crew was well practiced, resolute, and steady on their triggers. A hail of railgun rounds and slower missiles rained down on the enemy ship’s narrow nose, battering its hull inward and forcing the air out of her forward compartments. “Major damage to the corvette, Ma’am,” reported Tactical Officer Rickard. “We have her.”

“Now we slag her,” Captain McFadden said. “All gun and missile positions, cease fire.” She pressed her thumb onto her command panel for DNA verification, making her fusion missiles available to fire. “Fire one fusion missile.”

The crew of the Hell Shrike watched as a fusion missile crossed the distance between it and the enemy corvette-class ship in under three seconds and exploded in a bloom of light. Radiological alarms went off momentarily across the ship, and there was minor aft hull damage, but the Hell Shrike was whole enough.

There was nothing but a cooling hunk of metal left of the enemy corvette. “Helm, it’s time for us to finish this trip. Get us to Rega Gain – no point in hiding around here trying to make repairs.”

“Aye, making best FTL speed to Rega Gain system,” replied the helm.

“Treat the injured, have radiation meds passed out,” Captain McFadden said, remembering that they didn’t have enough left to go around. “Start with the higher ranks, oldest first.” She looked to the ensign standing beside the door. The blond-haired boy looked anxious; he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. With the ship three times overstaffed, there was little for him to do. “Ensign…”

“O’Reilly, Ma’am,” he replied.

“Fetch my book from my quarters,” she said.

“Which one, if I may ask?”

“Dawn’s Exodus,” Captain McFadden replied. I’d best read faster if I’m going to finish it before I give it to Shamus, she thought as she watched the ensign scurry off.

Spinward Fringe is a Trademark of Randolph Lalonde

Spinward Fringe Broadcast 8 is © 2013 Randolph Lalonde