The weird nightmares returned.
Somehow she floated in space, destroying the fleet. She tore ships apart and scattered the bodies from them like small insects from broken habitats.
The darkness overtook her.
The shape or form of a young man came to her in the cold horror of that devouring darkness.
He was blacker than the night, darker than the darkness itself, his eyes like the cores of singularities. Unlight. A darkness so deep that even light could not escape from it.
“Where are you?” he asked. “You know that it doesn’t have to be this way, right?”
“Who are you?” Naero asked. “What’s happening to me?”
“We all carry the seeds of the Darkforce within us. Yet we can control it. We can learn balance and wisdom.”
“Help me!” Naero begged.
“I don’t know how. We don’t even know where or what you are. But your wild energies frighten the universe. Your dark potentials fill the Void itself with despair and threaten all.”
“We?”
Naero’s eyes blinked awake. She lay naked and alone in the darkness of her cabin.
The fifth and final day began, before they came out of jump later that afternoon.
After PT, their morning studies concentrated on economics and trade, market and investment strategies, review of the ship’s business and projected itinerary.
Thank goodness the weird snakes or whatever popping out of her head were gone. But the insane voice in her head switched to a new chant.
Me. Me, me, me, me…
Like the other delusion, she did her best to ignore it. But it was still there, droning in the background of her mind.
With the added burden of the increased Spacer security alert, a lot of heated debate erupted among the ship captains and officers as to how they could still best maximize the fleet’s profits while maintaining an increased security profile.
They were still primarily in Triaxian Space, trading deep within the wide open Corps Sectors where almost anything could happen.
If only they were back home, in the Spacer Sectors among the Clans, even in Joshua Tech Space close by.
But Naero had helped her parents pweak deals and profits since she was nine. She scanned the manifests, and studied the market patterns on their next five stops.
“Captain Sleak,” she said, “we can’t improve much at Epsilon Sextanis-6; maybe a few points on the textiles and rare minerals. The electronics and machine parts are a loss, I’m afraid. Their markets spiked a few days ago.”
“I noticed that.”
Naero continued. “We can hold them for two jumps or trade for medical equipment, pharmaceuticals, grav equipment, and heavy mining machinery and paramilitary weapons, vehicles, and ordnance. Triax has big problems with a serious mining revolt across eleven systems and counting.”
Captain Maradi of The Ardala raised an objection. “Restricted Zones are popping up all around us. That’s not good, however you look at it.”
They haggled over the details for a couple of hours.
Naero made a few other decisions that the captains liked–even Aunt Sleak. And none of them took the fleet into the heart of the mining revolt.
Jan’s suggestions were just the opposite, all over the board. All of them screamed high risk, high profit.
Aunt Sleak remained somewhat more cautious, but she did take calculated risks.
Jan kept trying to convince them to run some of his plan, to no avail.
“We’ve got more than enough to consider here,” Aunt Sleak said. “We’ll post our final decisions on the Clan Net. All crews, take a breather. We’re out of jump in less that two standard hours. Everyone on duty needs to be at their ready stations. Dismissed.”
Naero went back to her quarters to do some laundry and a little more reading before they emerged. With regular effort, her quarters were less of a disaster than usual. She’d kept her bunk and her floor more or less cleared off, and slept in her bunk regularly now, instead of on the floor, or in zero-G, or a float bag.
And definitely not in her flex chair, as she had for years because she either couldn’t get her bunk panel out or it was too piled up with crap.
Being small had its advantages. She could curl up like a cat and get comfortable almost anywhere for a snooze.
But keeping her quarters in better shape was a promise she made and kept–to herself–and her parents.
They emerged from jump with the customary shuddering of the ship. The fleet spread out into is standard formation, emerging back into real Space-Time.
Naero punched up their positions on one of her screens, even though she didn’t have bridge duty for several hours.
The Shinai flanked The Dromon on the port side, with The Slipper posted starboard. Their two smaller ships, The Nevada and The Ardala, brought up the rear this time.
A red hot scarlet particle beam, 60mm in diameter, lanced through Naero’s walls like they were paper, disrupting her wallscreens.
A direct hit from a big gun.
At the very least, a heavy destroyer.
Warning lights flashed immediately.
The rupture in the hull led to an immediate explosive decompression.
Naero held on tight to her bunk and went flat on the floor as the hull sealed itself.
All ships were vulnerable coming out of jump. They couldn’t activate their shields until shortly after they emerged.
Someone had been waiting for them.
The Dromon continued getting rocked by multiple hits from what felt like several spinal guns and secondary batteries.
But the big planetoid could take it and give back plenty, her quad main guns humming and whining to life, coming online.
Naero hit her wristcom. All her screens down.
“Bridge. Status?”
“We stepped into it. They were waiting for us. We’re under heavy fire. Multiple bogeys.”
The general alert sounded.
“Battle Stations. Battle Stations.”
Aunt Sleak cut over the com. “All hands. All hands, to your stations. Prepare for battle. All ships, all batteries, return fire. Launch all fighters.”
Naero suited up and raced to the drop bay of her fighter. She met Jan along the way.
More intense fire. Dromon reeled and fired back.
She and Jan almost got rocked off their feet again.
A security team intercepted them at the launching bays.
Their fighters had already dropped with their backup pilots.
“The Fleet Captain wants you two at your secondary defense stations, not out in the mix.”
Jan started to protest.
“Orders are orders. Get to your stations.”
They ran to their remote gunnery stations, small secured cubicles with a chair and a console, operating triple pulse turrets on the hardpoints above them.
Naero brought up her autotargeting displays, weapons already powered up and humming.
The secondary battery gunnery stations operated independently and were well-protected, deep within the planetoid. They were also fully automated, but they still functioned more effectively with a human interface.
Coordinated targeting profiles came online as she watched.
Jan operated a torp turret nearby.
Directly ahead of the fleet, twelve elite Matayan destroyers, each with a dozen escort fighters.
Half of the enemy numbers pursued and attacked a convoy of two dozen independent mining freighters.
Aunt Sleak’s fleet scrambled, launched, and deployed a total of threescore fighters in a standard Alpha-Charlie-1 defensive screen.
Outnumbered two to one.
“All batteries make ready. Incoming torps,” the Bridge com sounded.
Countermeasures took out half of the blips heading their way.
Spacer fighters and the forward defensive batteries blasted the rest.
“That attack’s a diversion,” Naero muttered, reading the battle flow.
Shinai’s
fire control and com computers fixed on and monitored all channels, including those between the hapless freighters and the corsairs.
“Mayday, mayday, we are under intense corsair attack. All ships. Assistance, assistance. Heavy damage and casualties.”
“What do you want?” another panic-stricken voice cried out. “We’ll surrender. You can board us. We have no goods and few supplies. Please, stop firing. Our ships are full of workers–full of people. You’re killing civilians. We’re on fire!”
Scanners displayed an awful, one-sided battle among the transports.
Most of the old bulk freighters didn’t even have weapons.
Each of the heavily armed Matayan destroyers was more than a match for them or most of the ships in Aunt Sleak’s fleet.
Except for the 6m quad spinal guns of The Dromon.
One crippled freighter broke apart and exploded under concentrated corsair fire from three destroyers. It didn’t have any shields, and minimal armor. Its two turrets either didn’t work or had already been taken out.
Static and Matayan battle language rang out in triumph.
Dromon’s four primary guns cut loose, lighting up the entire sector. Its blue-white blasts ripped into the lead corsair flagship and its wingships, disrupting their shields.
The starboard wingship took two hits and listed to one side. Its aft section exploded.
“This is Captain Sleak Maeris of Clan Maeris. Enemy vessels, be advised: Cease hostilities and vacate this system—or be destroyed.”
Matayan curses and laughter were the only reply.
“Clan Maeris,” one of the freighter captains cut in. “This is Captain Philsen of The Botaru. Help us! Our situation is desperate. The corsairs are trying to destroy us. We don’t know why.”
“Acknowledged. We’re coming in. Disperse if you can. You’re still too bunched up. Scatter and concentrate on defensive actions. Jump if you’re able. We’ll try to draw them off. We’re boosting your distress call.”
Three more corsairs turned on the fleet, with all twelve dozen fighters full front on intercept.
The other trio of Matayan attackers kept after the freighters.
Naero heard the pleading and the screams on the open channel, just before another freighter got blasted to oblivion.
Naero realized she had tears on her face.
Was that how her parents went? Blasted to death by Matayan guns?
The rage she felt nearly overwhelmed her reason.
She checked her systems, gripped the controls of her gunnery station, and forced her emotions to go cold.
Against superior numbers, Naero and her Clan Fleet closed for battle.
20