Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

“Captain!” Hawkes shouted, barely audible over the klaxons and equipment of the damage control teams. “Their weapons are coming to bear.”

“What do we have left?”

Hawkes did not even bother to consult his console. “Three starboard beam emitters at reduced power, only one with functional targeting systems,” he reported. “Two port emitters, fore and aft, are online, but their operational condition is unknown. One torpedo, starboard forward, manual launch and guidance only.”

Elizabeth watched the Captain, wondering what she might be thinking.

Go out in a blaze of glory, with all guns blasting? Attempt to ram one of the vessels? Retreat? Surrender?

Devereux’s expression revealed nothing but thoughtful determination. Something in her deep green eyes, though, told Elizabeth that she had made her decision. She turned toward the Tactical station.

“Lieutenant—” she said, her voice firm and clear.

Elizabeth never found out what Devereux’s decision was.

“Captain!” Gho called out, her voice rising toward a high-pitched register.

Devereux’s head snapped toward the Science officer.

“I’m picking up slipstream events,” Gho reported, her voice trembling. “Lots of them.”

“Where?”

Gho stared down at her console, her eyes darting across the displays. Elizabeth felt an ache of sympathy of the young officer, clearly in over her head.

“All over,” Gho stammered, wide-eyed. “Everywhere.”

“On the center screen,” Devereux told her, nodding toward Hawkes to verify the readings.

The middle bridge display flickered into a view of the edge of debris field. Computer-generated false hues showed the multiple event horizons rippling into existence.

“I guess this is it,” Elizabeth whispered aloud, without meaning to.

Devereux glanced at her, but there was no chastisement in her look. She began to open her mouth, but was interrupted by Hawkes.

“Captain,” he said. His voice carried an undeniable undertone of relief. “I’m reading Fleet transponder IDs.”

Devereux’s posture changed from rigid determination to one of cautious relief.

“All of them?”

Hawkes consulted his console. “Confirmed,” he reported as he looked up. “All new contacts are transmitting verified Fleet IDs.”

Around them, the enemy cruisers began to break up under the concerted onslaught of the Fleet armada.

“Helm,” Devereux ordered. “Take us to a safe distance, best possible speed.”

“Aye, Captain,” Pyrafox acknowledged. Blood matted the russet-tinted fur along his jaw. “Engaging thrusters.”

Now, nine hours later, Elizabeth stood, clad in a space suit, outside the emergency hatch on Deck Four aft.

Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

The First Officer watched after her for a long moment before her eyes too turned toward the pair of caskets.

“Does it ever get any easier?” she asked him. “Do you ever forget?”

Hawkes paused for a moment before answering. Several sharp memories flashed across his mind. Each remained as vivid as the day they had happened. For him, they would always remain that way.

“No, Commander,” he answered her quietly. “I do not.”

Elizabeth turned to him, studying his face. He did not turn away, certain that his expression revealed nothing. She frowned slightly, failing to find the answers that she sought there.

“If you’ll excuse me, Commander,” Hawkes said solemn respect. “I shall resume my duties.”

Elizabeth nodded once, slowly. “Of course.”

Hawkes left the chamber, feeling the gaze of the First Officer on him as he departed. It was the right thing to offer her truth. He also knew from experience that rarely made the truth any easier to live with.

#

Hope checked the vital signs on Lieutenant Karr. Although still lightly sedated, she was recovering well from her injuries. Depending on the results of the functional tests of her new arm, she might be released from the infirmary sometime the next day. Beneath the transparent antiseptic band, Hope could see the bright red suture line. The scar would fade in time, leaving no boundary between where the old skin and newly manufactured flesh were joined. Hope made a minor adjustment to the pain medication feed and then moved over to the next bed.

Ensign Martine remained in critical condition. Hope believed that he would recover, but the process would take several weeks. It had been necessary to resuscitate him twice before she was able to perform the surgery necessary to stabilize his condition. The functions of several of his key organs were now handled by artificial surrogates. There had been insufficient time to grow all of the biological replacements he needed due to grave nature of his injuries and the number of other critical casualties that required immediate treatment.

A ruptured chunk of deck plate had sliced across his chest, gouging out a large section of his torso. Hope had been surprised that he had arrived at the infirmary still alive. She had noted this in her medical log. As a result, she learned, both of those crew members had received special commendations from the Captain. That had not been her intent, only reporting the facts were, but both officers seemed pleased by the attention. They had even verbally expressed their gratitude to her, confusing her further.

The main hatch opened. Hope paused. The Captain had already come to the infirmary twice to check on the conditions of the Lieutenant and Ensign. Hope found her visits unnecessary, as the Captain’s presence provided no medical benefits. She was, however, the Captain and was entitled to inspect any section of the ship that she wished.

The heavy cadence of footfalls that followed did not belong to the Captain, as she expected, but to the Chief Engineer. Hope turned, watching as he came closer.

“Do you require medical attention?”

“I don’t think so,” the Chief Engineer said with unusual solemnity. “But I thought you might.”

Hope found herself caught completely off-guard. It took a moment before she could form an answer. She reviewed her understanding of the Chief Engineer’s behavior and mannerism, looking for a secondary meaning in his statement. She found none. His present behavior was inconsistent with her previous experience.

“I am not injured.”

“Are you sure?” the Chief Engineer asked her with a strange seriousness.

He walked slowly past the diagnostic beds. His gaze lingered over the occupant of each one, a frown forming shallows lines on his face. He continued on toward her desk, studying with interest the image suspended above it.

On it were three views of the Star Wing. Along the bottom scrolled strings of data that was certain the Chief Engineer would be unable to decipher. He seemed uninterested in it, though. His gaze remained fixed on the images of the Star Wing.

“She was something special, wasn’t she?” he said.

Only because she was the only other conscious being in the room did Hope believe that his question might have been directed to her.

“She was . . . unique.”

The Chief Engineer continued to stare at the image. “Yeah . . .” he whispered.

Hope waited silently, trying to understand the Chief Engineer’s unusual behavior.

I should run another neural activity scan.

The Chief Engineer looked away, seeming to struggle even as he did so, as if his gaze was locked in by something in the image.

He casually picked up a tablet from her desk and looked over its visible content. Only because she knew that it did not contain confidential patient data did she not immediately challenge him.

“Going to build yourself a new one?”

The Chief Engineer looked up from the tablet. Hope could tell from something in his eyes and expression that he had understood what he had read. She hesitated, not wanting to provide him with the truth, but knew that he would most likely persist until she did.

“I cannot.”

It hurt her to admit it, but her analysis of the data she had gathered so far pointed to that conclusion.

The Chief Engineer looked genuinely surprised. “Why not?”

“The template is gone.”

The Chief Engineer frowned, trying to understand. “But you have her cells . . . DNA . . . whatever?”

“I do.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The template is gone.”

“You keep saying that like I’m supposed to understand it.”

Hope studied the Chief Engineer. His heightened emotional state appeared similar to one he had exhibited when the ship had first entered this region of space. It felt different, though, as if something else were driving it.

“I am not a Creator.”

The Chief Engineer stared at her.

“I am not Human. The Star Wing was not Human.”

“That’s hardly news, Doc.”

The Chief Engineer appeared to relax slightly. Still, Hope remained concerned.

“I still don’t see the problem.”

“The template is lost.”

“Then let’s go find it,” the Chief Engineer said, his emotions rising once again. “I’m sure the Cap’n’ll—“

“Long ago.”

The Chief Engineer stared at her suspiciously. “How long?”

“Millennia.”

The Chief Engineer’s expression visibly slackened. “Oh.”

Hope and the Chief Engineer stood silently. It was still unclear to her why he had come. He was not injured. Unlike the Captain, he appeared to have no intent to visit the Lieutenant or Ensign.

“And no one knows where it might be?”

“Not on the home world.”

“Oh,” the Chief Engineer said again. “That doesn’t leave a lot of options, does it?”

“No.”

“You’re sure you can’t—?”

“No.”

Hope gazed hard at the Chief Engineer. His shoulders lowered slightly and he turned his head away. Hope turned to look once more at the floating images of the Star Wing.

“We will remember her.”

“Yeah, Doc,” the Chief Engineer sighed. “We will.”

Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

Hawkes stood with the other senior officers, wearing his dress browns. Although both required and appropriate, he was still surprised to see that the Chief Engineer had chosen to don his dress uniform as well. Lines of the fatigue were clearly evident on the Chief Engineer’s face, as they were on many of the other officers present. The emotional impact of the loss of their crewmates, and long shifts required to repair the severe damage to their ship, were both clearly taking their toll on the crew.

A figure appeared in the hatchway. Even before Hawkes was certain of the green hue of her uniform, he recognized the Captain’s distinctive stride. She entered the chamber with a slow, deliberate pace. When she had taken two additional steps forward, Hawkes glanced toward the First Officer. Her focus appeared to be elsewhere, turned somewhere inside.

“Attention!” he called out.

Around him, the postures of the surrounding crew members stiffened. In his peripheral vision, he noticed the First Officer glance at him with a thin, grateful smile. All eyes were then on the Captain as she approached. Hawkes waited in silence with the rest as she approached the small podium.

Her expression seemed filled with grim determination. There was a bright shine to her eyes, though, that betrayed her feelings of loss. She stepped behind the podium, staring down at its polished surface. Hawkes noticed that she had arrived without a tablet or other notes.

“Parade rest,” Elizabeth called out, appearing to have recovered from her earlier lapse in protocol.

A soft wave of sound followed as those gathered shifted into slightly more comfortable positions. Even when that was completed, the Captain remained silent for several moments before beginning.

“We are assembled here today to honor those of our comrades who gave their lives in the service of this ship, in defense of the lives of those with whom they served. They will be remembered . . .”

The Captain continued on and, as she spoke, Hawkes found himself recalling their faces as she named each one. For everyone of them, he remembered some gesture or pattern of speech that made each of them unique. Two were members of his Security staff and would have to be replaced.

When the Captain finished her short speech, Hawkes waited with the others as the four members of the honor guard gathered and folded each of the flags. When they finished, they stepped back.

“Honors!” Elizabeth called out.

Hawkes, along with everyone else present, returned to attention and saluted, holding it for the prescribed count of three before lower his hand.

Elizabeth looked toward the Captain, who nodded at her once.

“Company dismissed.”

The assembled crew members broke ranks and, in small groups of two or three, moved past the two remaining caskets and out of the cargo bay.

“Can you please see to the disposition of the flags, Commander?” the Captain asked her First Officer.

Elizabeth looked uneasy at first, but recovered her composure quickly. “Yes, Captain.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Devereux said quietly. She paused, looking down at the almost featureless caskets. “I’ll be in my quarters.”

“Yes, Captain.” Elizabeth’s response was almost a whisper.

The Captain exited the chamber, disappearing into the corridor.

Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

Devereux moved slowly through Cargo Bay Two. . Although the memorial service was still more than a hour away, she was already in her dress uniform. It seemed that her fall crew deserved at least that much respect. She deliberately left the lights dimmed. It felt more solemn somehow. She doubted, though, that the dead collected there truly cared

She had lost seven of her crew in the battle. Two had been recovered, thanks to Elizabeth and her team. The remaining five would likely never be found. That was often the way it was in space, she knew. Explosive decompression had a way of making the remains difficult to locate and reclaim.

Remains. They were members of my crew. People. With names, families, friends, dreams.

It was not the first time she had lost members of her crew. Life in space was dangerous, particularly in times of war. These eight added only a small amount to the total number of friends and colleagues she had lost since beginning her service in the Fleet. Devereux knew, though, she would remember every one of them for a long time to come.

A few more steps took her into the middle of the two perfectly spaced rows. On either side of her, a Fleet flag marked each of four spaces. Only two contained bodies beneath them. It was these that she approached first. Kneeling, she a medal of valor upon the one on her left.

Ortiz. Weapons systems technician. She had not known him well. He had joined the crew for their second tour of duty. Second . . . and last.

de Marco. Security specialist. Expert with short-range munitions. Devereux managed a faint smile. Probably why his racquetball game was so good. She knew, of course, of his nascent relationship with her First Officer. I need to talk to her, before she gives up.

Devereux continued her silent recognition and remembrance, pausing to remember something about each of them, before coming to stop at the eighth flag. It lay flat on the deck, a symbol only of the life that had died in the service of her ship.

Ilisee, she thought, pronouncing it far more correctly in her mind than she had ever managed aloud. Star Wing.

There was no reason that the ancient Aerian should have sacrificed her life for her ship and crew.

She was probably protecting Hope.

The explanation rang hollow in her mind. It seemed easier to believe that, in the end, the Star Wing had chosen to defend them all. Believing it might be the height of hubris, but, whatever the reason, the result had been the same. The Star Wing’s efforts had kept her ship from total destruction. The final cost had been seven—no, she corrected herself, eight—lives. It would have almost certainly been much higher had the Star Wing not acted as she did.

Devereux knelt and placed the medal upon the final banner. A part of her wondered who it should go to after coming ceremony.

“May the Goddess and your Creators watch over you,” she whispered.

After a moment, she rose and headed to her office to wait.

Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

Rusty strolled through the main Engineering Deck, only half-aware of the steady chatter around him. While Engineering had suffered its share of damage during its engagement with those behemoth ships, it consisted mostly of blown conduits and overloaded subsystems. Almost all of them could be repaired, replaced, or at least temporarily bypassed while more critical repairs were made through the ship. He doubted that they could manufacture enough material to fully patch the hull. A trip to a station with repair facilities seemed inevitable. The possibility unsettled him, although he could not put his finger on exactly why.

Isn’t that how this whole mess started?

“Sanderson,” he called out absently as he strode by one of the repair teams. “Watch your hand.”

Sanderson turned, startled by the Chief’s sudden warning. As he did, an access hatch slammed shut. Sanderson looked back over where his hand had been a moment before, wiggled his fingers, and then breathed deep with wide-eyed relief when he discovered that they were all present and intact.

Passing Aruna, Rusty handed her a set of calipers that had slipped out of her reach.

“Thank you, Chief,” she murmured, still disconcerted by the tool’s sudden reappearance in her hand.

Rusty continued on toward his office. On his desk awaited several tablets containing status reports for his review and approval. He ignored them all and switched on the overhead display.

In the space above his desk, a scene shimmered into existence. On it was a single image captured from the sensors logs of the recent battle. It showed the Star Wing, her wings unfurled, proud and mighty against their foe. Her white uniform and flame-red hair gave her an almost supernatural glow against the dark background of the stars.

It’s not right.

He reached down and pulled out a drawer. Searching through it, he failed to find a flask or vial, neither having been replaced since he had returned to this ship. With a single, sharp motion he slammed the drawer closed, not caring whether the sound carried beyond the boundaries of the small office. Several of the tablet clattered to the deck.

By the Morris, it’s not right!

Time passed, and Rusty had no idea how long he stared at the image of the time-lost Aerian. In truth, much of what he saw existed chiefly in his mind, among the memories of the brief time that she had been among them.

She was just another arrogant . . .

He stopped, unable to convince himself that the dull ache of loss he felt was unjustifed.

Pull yourself together, Rayna, he chastised himself. It’s bad enough that the ship’s in more pieces than your great grandfather’s pocket watch without you acting like some lovesick teenager.

Reaching down, he began to gather up some of the fallen tablets. Although he stacked them in no particular order, the one from the Engineering team that had performed the damage assessment on Deck Four Aft landed on the top. He was surprised to see Elizabeth’s name listed as a member of that team.

She and the Captain must be running low on overdue paperwork, he mused sardonically as he began to skim through the report. He was out of his chair before he realized it.

I’d better check on her.

He was through the hatch without another thought. Behind him, the Star Wing continued to hover majestically in space.

Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

“We’re ready, Commander,” Xi said.

Elizabeth checked the status of her suit again and then nodded. “Open it.”

Xi manually unlocked the hatch and, with Carson’s help, opened it. Through the insulating layer of the suit, Elizabeth could not hear the faint hiss as the last of the remaining atmosphere fled from the compartment, but it was present in her mind.

“Careful, Commander,” Xi’s voice said in her helmet.

A faint smile crept along Elizabeth’s lips, despite her best efforts. “I’ve got it, Ensign,” she said, amused and allowing it to show in her tone. “I have done this a few times before.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Xi responded, sounding downright contrite.

Elizabeth chuckled, wishing she could reach over and squeeze the Ensign’s shoulder. “It hasn’t been that long, Xi.” She moved forward, checking her footing on the ruptured deck plates. “You do remember that repair outside the B deck?”

A noise somewhere between a gasp and a snicker sounded over the helmet speaker. Elizabeth could not tell whether they had come from Xi, Carson, or both.

“Oh yeah,” Xi replied, clearly laughing now. “I mean, yes, um, Commander.”

Within the confines of her helmet, Elizabeth shook her head slightly.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this . . .

“Just don’t lock the door behind us,” Elizabeth told Xi. “I don’t have my keys.”

There was definite laughter this time. It helped. Elizabeth felt some of her earlier melancholy fade. She moved carefully forward, focusing now on the job ahead.

With amount of damage to the ship, and her frustration at having little else to do but sift through the updated reports, Elizabeth had convinced the Captain to allow her to assist with some of the repairs.

It hadn’t taken all that much convincing, Elizabeth noted without a smile. Her last image as she had left the bridge had been of Devereux stripping off her duty tunic and helping to clear out fallen debris.

This section, one of the first compromised by the enemy assault, was also one of the least critical. Their goal was simply assess the damage and add it to the growing list of needed repairs.

Engineering’s are going to be putting in a lot of long shifts. She remembered several extended shifts with the Chief and the Engineering team, fueled by coffee and mutual exhaustion.

Xi let out a low whistle. Elizabeth turned her head to look in the direction of Xi’s gaze. Her breath caught for a moment. The sight was both breath-taking and horrifying. Open space was visible through a gash several meters wide and tall. The scene beyond it was astonishing. So was the realization of how badly the hull had been damaged and what it would take to repair it.

“Over here,” Carson’s voice whispered.

Elizabeth turned away from the view and made her way carefully to where the Engineering technician stood. Less than a meter away from him were two uniformed figures, each of whom had managed to cling tightly to emergency handholds even as the immense section of hull had been sucked away.

It had not saved them, Elizabeth knew, for the effects of exposure to open vacuum had killed them within moments.

At least there’s two more that won’t have to be reported as “Missing and Presumed Dead”, she considered, finding it only a small comfort.

Seven crew members remained unaccounted for, according to the status reports. She could not remember their names, and then remembered that she had been distracted by another incoming report before she could read them. In the rush of activity that followed, she had not yet gotten back to it.

She moved toward the closer of the two. Dressed in Security colors, its face was turned away from her. Stiff from the effects of vacuum, it resisted at first when she tried to turn it toward her. The fingers slipped free and the figure spun freely, turning abruptly until its face only centimeters from Elizabeth’s faceplate.

Elizabeth gasped. At first, it was in astonished surprise, and then, a moment later, with horrified recognition.

Oh gods.

The face of Manuel de Marco floated before her. Eyes closed, his features were oddly composed in that moment of death. Elizabeth wondered if he had been spent his last moment in prayer.

Her throat tightened. She found herself unable to breath, feeling as if she had been struck hard low in the abdomen. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes and then began to cling to her cheeks as she found herself unable to stop them. It took every ounce of her will to not sob openly.

“Commander?”

She realized that Xi was speaking to her.

“Yeah, Xi,” she choked out. “I’ve got this one.” She swallowed hard, managing to regain a sliver of her composure. “You and Carson bring the other one in.”

There was pause before Xi responded in a hushed tone. “Yes, sir.”

Trying hard not to allow her shuddering breaths to be heard over the suit radio, she wrapped her arm around de Marco’s frozen form and, hugging him close against her, slowly and carefully guided them both back toward the waiting hatchway.

Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

Ilisee soared between the two gigantic vessels. Even as charges exploded around her, she felt exhilarated, free once again to serve the purpose for which she had been Created. Even through her joy, she remembered her goal.

Protect the Revered One. Protect them all.

Fueled by the energy discharges around her, power surged through her. She rent into the vessels’ hulls, tearing away shards of hull material with ease. The damage she inflicted did not yet slow the vessels, but their cumulative effect would be of benefit when she reached more vital systems.

They are two. I am one.

The odds did not bother her; she had faced such foes before. She knew their weaknesses, where to strike to [] the most damage.

They are large. They are slow.

Their hulls, while dense and difficult for conventional weapons to penetrate, were far from indestructible. From the shadows within, she saw the faces of her enemy. Most stared back at her with surprise and hatred, even as the life drained from them.

She felt as much as saw the concussion as the drive from the Revered One’s vessel flared and died. It took her only a moment to perceive that the Revered One still lived and had suffered no harm. Her ship, though, now moved more slowly through the gap between the two enormous enemy vessels.

Too slow. They will be destroyed.

Ilisee spread her wings, more for the sensation of freedom than for effect, and adjusted her flight path. The enemy’s weapons tracked her, leaving a gap in her wake through which the Revered One’s ship might pass more safely. The density of the weapon discharges around her increased. She avoided some, even while drawing needed energy from others. She continued onward, managing to remain just ahead of the enemy’s targeting systems.

Their collective mind makes them slow.

A ripple in nearby space told her that the Revered One’s ship had fired two projectile weapons. They seemed to pursue her. Ilisee considered their course with momentary confusion, wondering if one of those on the Revered One’s ship had joined her enemy in trying to defeat her. She increased her speed slightly, able to easily remain ahead of the two missiles. When one exploded against a chunk of drifting debris, its detonation destroying or disabling several of the enemy’s weapons, she knew what they had done.

They attempt to protect me.

Even through her mirth at the unneeded assistance, she was grateful for it. Not only did it mean that there were now fewer of the enemy’s munitions for her to deal with, but also that the Revered One’s ship remained functional enough to defend itself. Seeing that the Revered One’s vessel was still moving, albeit more slowly now, Ilisee turned her attention back to the enemy battleships.

She tore once again into their hulls, exposing their interiors to vacuum and disrupting power systems that fed the energy pulse cannons that lined their exteriors. Gouts of gas and flame erupted from many of these breaches. They did not harm her, providing only the smallest distraction as she flitted to her next target. So intent was she upon her task, filled with profound determination to protect the Revered One, that she did not sense the cataclysm until the moment before it happened.

Driven more by chance than deliberate action, several of the enemy’s beams converged on the second of the Human ship’s small projectiles. Its destructive yield was normally relatively small, based on what Ilisee had witnessed upon the earlier detonation of its twin. This one, though, fueled by the multiple and simultaneous energies of the enemy’s weapons, detonated with a force far exceeding that ever expected during its design. The explosive wave front cascaded through the relatively narrow gap between the two enormous vessels. Contained within the barriers provided by their hulls, its force turned the floating asteroid fragments into devastating chunks of shrapnel, piercing the hulls with a force that drove the shards deep into the vessels themselves.

Ilisee willed herself to outrace the blast wave, but her awareness of it came a heartbeat too late. Even as she tried to flee, it caught and enveloped her. Her body tingled, and then burned with effort, as it tried to convert the wave of energy into something that it could store and use. The dark spectrum that was her perception of space suddenly filled with light. Her sense of regret, that she had failed in her objective to protect the Revered One, was only half-formed before she no longer felt anything at all.

Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

Hope steadied herself as the deck shifted beneath her feet. The Ensign on the bed before her required surgery, but the best Hope could do for now was to try to stabilize her. With the ship shaking sporadically from the attacks, invasive medical procedures of any kind would be far too risky. If the two battleships managed to obliterate the Emerald Flight, then her surgical skills would be moot. She administered a sedative and metabolic inhibitor, slowing the Ensign’s body functions until performing the necessary surgery was either safe or unavoidable.

Gesturing to a female Security Lieutenant to move the Ensign to the surgical bay, Hope turned to the next diagnostic bed. This Ensign was less seriously injured. Her wounds were chiefly external, the result of fragments from a ruptured bulkhead. Hope filled a hypo with a mild analgesic and pressed it against the Ensign’s neck. Within seconds, much of the pain-driven tension left the Ensign’s body. Reaching for a tray of instruments, Hope began the process of removing the fragments.

The deck rocked again. Hope looked toward the display above her desk and froze, her patient momentarily forgotten. She watched as the Star Wing soared between the hulls of the two massive warships, inflicting a disproportionate amount of damage as she did so. Weapon blasts detonated around her, but she glided onward, seemingly oblivious to them.

The weapons fire increased in frequency and intensity. Bright flares blossomed, flooding the image with light until the sensors’ filters could adjust again. Hope recognized the glow of two of them came from their own torpedoes, wondering why the Captain had decided to fire on the Star Wing. She realized quickly, though, that while targeted on that same trajectory, those torpedoes were meant to provide the Star Wing with cover fire.

Only two?

It was possible that the Tactical Officer was attempting to ration their remaining armaments, but Hope suspected the real reason: those were last available torpedoes—and the Captain had been willing to spend them for Star Wing’s defense.

Hope watched as the first of them detonated, triggered by blasts from the enemy vessel on their port side. The resulting explosion scattered some of the remaining projectiles, sending several them wobbling wildly off course. Most of them impacted harmlessly against drifting shards from the debris field. At least one, though, collided with the Emerald Flight’s hull. The subsequent tremor was small, but Hope still wondered what additional damage the ship had suffered.

The second torpedo continued on its path, trailing the Star Wing. Its drive, hit from a glancing burst from one of the enemy battleships, flared brightly. A moment later, it went dark and, while still carried forward by its previous momentum, began to drift. The Star Wing seemed unaware of it, Hope feared, even as it slowly arced into her flight path.

Several of the enemy’s beams found it, although perhaps by accident. Fueled by energies far greater than those it normally contained, its payload erupted like a miniature sun. The screen was awash in a white-yellow brilliance, causing Hope to look away for instant. When she looked back, the screen faded back to reveal the customary darkness. Within it however, except for the shadows of the two immense hulls, there was nothing but a few small drifting fragments.

The Star Wing was gone.

Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

The smaller cameras on the sensor drone, compared to those normally available from ship, made the alien destroyers appear even more menacing that they had before. Bright flares glowed as the enemy vessels fired, with two bolts detonating uncomfortably close to the drone. Neither of those, Hawkes suspected, had been deliberately aimed at the sensor drone, as it still remained too far out of range to be reasonably threatening.

“Lieutenant,” Devereux said, watching the main screens intently. “Can you adjust the angle more to port? See if you can keep at least one of the cameras tracking on the Star Wing’s movements.”

It took Hawkes only a moment to realize that the Captain was addressing Gho at the Science station.

“Yes, Captain,” Gho replied. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Hawkes glanced covertly as the young Science officer worked at her console. The Captain’s request was not beyond the capabilities of the drone, but it did require some expert knowledge of its functions in order to achieve it. He was prepared at assist Gho, if necessary, but would not intrude until it was evident that his support was needed.

“There!” Pyrafox called out, pointing toward the leftmost screen.

“Enhance that,” Devereux ordered.

The image changed. The small white speck that had been the Star Wing now enlarged to show her clearly. She sped between the two massive vessels, staying just ahead of the incoming fire, and dodging blasts as they tried to track her position. It took Hawkes a moment to reorient himself and then to realize that the Star Wing was deliberately directing the enemy weapons fire ahead of the Emerald Flight, making its passage between the two enormous vessels relatively clear of incoming fire. Once the Star Wing moved back toward open space, though, the alien ships would be freed from their constraint of damaging their own vessels and able to focus solely on her destruction.

Hawkes adjusted his targeting strategy accordingly, trying to provide her with more covering fire. The ship’s weapons systems were slow to respond, a result of the severe damage they had suffered.

“Lieutenant!” Devereux spun to face him and then stopped when she saw that he had already anticipated her orders.

Hawkes managed to coax three wide, high-yield bursts from the portside forward emitters before they stopped responding. He switched to the starboard weapons, but the sustained bursts from the enemy visual kept blinding the already crippled sensors, making it difficult for him to determine accurate firing solutions.

“Captain,” Gho called out. “I’m reading a huge buildups in the enemy vessel weapon’s systems.”

They’re not holding back any more, Hawkes realized.

He tried to divert more power into the weapons systems, willing them to a faster response time. The portside forward power indicators remained dark. Those on the starboard side were down below fifty percent of capacity. The portside aft indicators oscillated between nearly depleted and showing a seventy percent charge.

Probably one shot at best from those, he considered, holding that one chance in reserve.

“Torpedoes are authorized,” Devereux called to him. “Full payload.”

Hawkes quickly checked their loaded inventory. There was one torpedo armed and loaded in two of the starboard bays. All of the rest were either empty or offline. There might be no time to try to fire any of them manually.

“Firing,” he acknowledged, and pressed the controls.

Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

The next shock rumbled through the deck like an earthquake. It did not knock Devereux off her feet, but she could tell from its briefly lingering ripples that the damage report would contain bad news.

“Port side engine hit,” Hawkes reported, shouting over the new set of klaxons. “Engineering has begun venting and shut down procedures.”

Devereux tapped Pyrafox’s shoulder, not wanting to yell over the din. The helmsman’s hands leapt across his console, repeating some motions with increasingly frustrated urgency.

“Port engine is completely offline now,” he told Devereux without looking up. “I’m doing the best I can with just the starboard one and thrusters.” He growled something unintelligible as he punched out another command sequence. “She’s about as quick as a gator in molasses, though.”

Under other circumstances, Devereux might have found the imagery amusing. Right now, all she could think of was that her ship was crippled—and stuck between the gun sights of two vessels that could blast her into pieces too small even for scrap salvage. She looked up to check the main bridge displays. Another tremor rippled through the deck, much smaller than the one that had preceded it.

Okay, she told herself. At least the engine cores didn’t go critical.

As if to contradict her, the scene on the leftmost screen flared into gray static.

#

“Starboard aft sensors are offline,” Gho called out. Rising tension was clearly evident in her voice.

“Can you still target?” The Captain asked the Tactical Officer.

Hawkes quickly confirmed his guess against the readouts on his console. “Yes,” he replied. “But with decreased accuracy.”

“I’ll take it,” Devereux remarked, not quite loud enough to be heard over the klaxons.

“We are, however, effectively blind on that side now,” Hawkes told her.

Devereux gave her Tactical officer a long look before turning toward Gho.

“Can we launch a sensor drone?”

Gho consulted her console. “I think so, Captain,” she replied hesitantly. “But—“

“Program it to stay close to one of the fragments,” Devereux told her. “Maybe it can protect itself that way , , , at least for a few minutes. We need to see what’s happening out there.”

“Yes, Captain,” Gho acknowledged, turning her attention back down to her station.

“Captain,” Elizabeth came up to Devereux and spoke softly. “Engineering says that engine is a lost cause.” Devereux turned and frowned at her. “It’ll take hours to repair.”

Devereux’s lips thinned into a tight line.

“Probe launching now, Captain,” Gho announced. “Telemetry is already active.”

Hawkes looked at the first screen, watching as the drone’s main camera showed it departing from its berth. The image rotated as the drone altered its course to take shelter, as programmed, in the shadow of a large asteroid fragment. Hawkes nodded with approval.

She chose her target well, he thought, silently commending the young Science officer.

Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

Half-consciously monitoring the intercom chatter, Devereux listened for any information that might require her to issue new orders. It was background noise, but useful background noise that served to indicate how her crew performed their jobs under the pressure of combat. Beside her, Elizabeth listened as well, making notes on her tablet.

Devereux watched the main screen as her ship slid past the hull of the enemy vessel. One hand gripped the back of Pyrafox’s chair, holding her upright as the deck shifted beneath her feet. Multi-colored flares lit the space around them. There was enough dust in the area around them here that the paths of the beams were largely visible. They were moving quickly enough that she could not tell as they passed it whether they were inflicting any serious damage on the enemy vessel or not.

Well, a distraction we needed, a distraction we got.

Pyrafox’s hands glided over the helm controls, coaxing maneuvers from the thrusters and engines that Devereux was certain violated nearly all of their operating specifications. His jaw was rigid with concentration, revealing a narrow line of teeth. He made small noises, like challenging growls, as he willed the helm controls to respond to his will.

Devereux glanced toward the Tactical station. Hawkes’ body remained stationary. Only his arms and hands were in motion, smoothly manipulating the console’s controls. Devereux had a brief image of him as a classical pianist on stage, expertly, almost effortlessly, performing a masterpiece.

I just hope it’s a masterpiece of expert targeting and high-yield beam emissions.

Her eyes returned to the main bridge displays. She glanced only briefly at the tactical readouts, seeing nothing there that she had not expected. They had nearly caught up with the Star Wing, requiring Hawkes to become even more precise with his targeting.

Not that he is ever anything but.

The deck rocked beneath her boots, forcing Devereux to tighten her hold on the helmsman’s chair. Even then, she nearly lost her grip.

“Collateral damage, Captain,” Hawkes reported before she could ask. “It was not intended for us, but the alien avoided it too late to deflect it.”

Devereux found the news uncomforting. Now that they were maneuvering in close quarters with the Star Wing, that particular problem was likely to become more acute.

“Captain,” Hawkes called out. “They’re concentrating their fire ahead, targeting the alien. We may not—“

“Understood,” Devereux cut him off as the deck jolted under her boots. Her fingers tightened on the back of the helmsman’s chair once more. “How much further?” she asked Pyrafox, not bothering to raise her voice above the din.

“Eighteen seconds,” Pyrafox answered her. The deck shook again, the entire bridge swayed as he made an abrupt course adjustment. “Give or take . . .”

Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

He felt as much as heard the sudden surge of power as the weapons discharged their fury. Several indicators shifted into the warning zone before slowly fading back to less dangerous levels, although not as low as Rusty would have liked.

“Sanderson,” he called out. “You and Xi go check the coolant levels. I don’t like how hot those relays are running. And wear gear!”

The last thing I need is two of my techs turned to jelly by a coolant leak.

He mentally shuddered at the memory of a young engineer trapped in the engine compartment of a cargo transport when the coolant lines ruptured under too much pressure. The young man’s screams were mercifully brief, but Rusty still heard them in his nightmares.

“On it, Chief,” Sanderson shouted back, signaling to Xi.

Rusty heard the steady thrum-thrum as another set of weapons fired on the starboard side. Their power status lights returned quickly to green after flashing briefly amber as the power spiked right before discharge.

He slapped the intercom control. “Klieg,” he called into it. “Any luck on Bay Four?”

“Not yet, Chief,” the technician’s voice crackled over the speaker. “It looks like the servo system is completely fried. We—”

“. . . can’t replace it when there’s ‘pedo in the tube,” Rusty finished for him.

“Not unless you’re planning to fire us out with it,” Klieg said. His hoarse laugh sounded like a burst of static. When Rusty did not respond, he added, “You’re not going to . . . are you?”

“Thinking,” Rusty replied, just barely loud enough to be heard over the din of the next weapons discharge. “Are you going to stop dropping my tools down the shafts?”

“Chief . . . ?” Klieg’s voice rose in pitch now.

“Stay at the manual controls,” Rusty told him. “We’ll worry about it later.”

If there is a later . . . he thought sourly as the deck shuddered underneath his boots.

“Aye, sir,” Klieg’s voice cracked over the speaker and then it went silent.

The power generators thrummed again.

“Bailey,” Rusty called out without looking. “Don’t touch that.”

Behind him, at one of the starboard panels, Ensign Alexandra Bailey turned away in surprise just as heat shimmered from the power conduit she was about to rest her hand on.

“Cheng, redirect the power from primary starboard conduit eighteen and then check the flow regulator,” he told the engineer. Tapping the intercom again, he said, “Bridge, watch your starboard emitters. We’re having to reroute some of the power while we make repairs.”

“How much time will that require?” Hawkes asked.

“As long as it takes,” Rusty replied, and then shut off the intercom. The deck vibrated beneath him again.

Or maybe longer . . .

Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

“All stations report ready, Captain,” Elizabeth announced.

Her voice remained steady; she wished her pulse rate would do the same. Her heart raced and she silently willed it to slow down before someone else noticed.

“All available weapons systems are online,” Hawkes reported. “Torpedoes loaded in bays one through three. Bay four will require manual launch. A team has been assigned.”

“We’re ready down here, Cap’n,” the Chief’s voice sounded over the intercom. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing.”

Elizabeth looked toward Devereux. Nothing in the Captain’s expression or posture revealed anything but the surest confidence in her decision. She turned her attention back to the main bridge displays where the Star Wing continued to rend layers of plating from the enemy ship’s hull.

A message appeared on Elizabeth’s tablet. “Hope says she’s ready to accept casualties, Captain.”

A slight smile quirked at the corners of the Captain’s mouth. “Subtle, isn’t she?”

Elizabeth did not respond. Their Aerian Medical Officer’s opinion on voluntary combat was well-known.

Not even to protect one of her own kind? Elizabeth wondered.

It was, she decided, just one of the many mysteries of trying to understand an alien culture.

“Captain!” Hawkes called out sharply. “The starboard vessel is bringing its weapons to bear.”

“Acknowledged,” Devereux replied without turning her attention away from the main screens. She laid a hand lightly on the helmsman’s shoulder. “Are you ready, Lieutenant?”

“I’ll show them what it’s like to make the Kessel run in less than twelve parsecs,” Pyrafox announced.

Elizabeth turned to look at the vulpine helmsman in confusion. His statement was not only inaccurate, but it made no sense. She had never heard of a system with that name before. And everyone knew that . . .

Her thoughts slowed to a stop as she noticed that Devereux did not seem the least bit puzzled by the helmsman’s remark. If anything, Elizabeth thought she caught the hint of a smile on the Captain’s face. She wondered if the pressure had finally gotten to everyone.

Either it’s some obscure reference to those old movies he likes, or what the Chief had is getting to everyone else.

Elizabeth was willing to put equal odds on both possibilities.

“Go, Lieutenant!” Devereux ordered the helmsman, interrupting her distracted musing.

Elizabeth felt the deck shift beneath her feet as the ship accelerated on its main thrusters. The effect was definitely noticeable, but not enough to throw her off-balance.

“Tactical,” Devereux called to Hawkes, her eyes alternating between the readings on the helm station and the main bridge displays. “Prepare to fire all beam weapons,” she told him. “Hold on torpedoes until my order.”

“All beam weapons charged,” Hawkes responded. “Targeting systems active except for portside aft. Manual control is available.”

On the center screen, Elizabeth saw the shape of both alien destroyers grow larger, increasing in size faster with each passing second.

“Optimal firing range in eight seconds,” Hawkes reported.

Elizabeth began a silent mental countdown: . . . seven . . . six . . . five . . .

“Redirect Aft Fourteen laser to the Star Wing’s position,” Devereux told Hawkes. “One-eighth power.”

Elizabeth saw the momentary confusion behind the Tactical Officer’s spectacles before understanding came to him.

“Of course, Captain,” he replied. “Retargeting Aft Fourteen.”

Elizabeth looked toward the Captain, still puzzled, and then she understood.

To recharge the Star Wing, if she needed it, she realized. She must be burning through power out there . . .

“Tactical,” Devereux called out. “Fire at will, Lieutenant.”

#

“Aye, Captain,” Hawkes’s came over the comm system. “Firing all beam weapons.”

Rusty watched as a spectrum of individual bursts appeared on the screen. Sections of the alien hulls glowed, but in the brightness it was difficult for him to tell whether they had managed to actually inflict any damage.

“Keep an eye on the energy flows to those weapons,” he shouted to his Engineering teams. “Particularly the ones on the port side. Some of those conduits are held together with chewing gum and prayer.

Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

Hope paused, reviewing the readings being fed to her tablet. The data they reported showed no improvements since the time she had last checked.

They are not worse, Hope noted with some relief.

She studied the shrouded form on the diagnostic bed, surrounded by a flexible barrier: Ensign Terrino. She had been flung hard against a bulkhead when a sudden pressure change blew out a maintenance access panel in front of her. Her injuries from that had been severe enough, although not life-threatening. In her stunned state, though, she had been unable to avoid the vented plasma that burst through the breach moments later.

More than eighty percent of her body was covered with burns. It was wrapped in protective shroud of semi-permeable translucent material, layered with gel that would promote healing and provide some pain relief. She was also heavily sedated, nearly in the state of a medical coma. Her recovery, Hope knew, would be a long one, provided that the Ensign survived the next few hours.

Hope approached the Ensign. Putting her tablet aside, she placed her hands over the Ensign’s chest, just above her heart and lungs. Hope watched the readings on the monitors for a moment, and then closed her eyes, allowing her own senses to probe the Ensign’s condition.

Her life force remains strong.

Hope was relieved to find that the Ensign had not surrendered to the pain and uncertainty of her damaged body. Some Humans, she had discovered, released their souls quickly after suffering traumatic injuries. Even when she tried to offer them strength, they chose instead to free themselves from this existence. She had studied many Human belief systems, and could understand why they would willingly release their souls based on the promises made by those, but she would never willingly support such an act.

Such an act, while not unknown on her world, were so rare as to be almost legendary. A sane Aerian did not free one’s soul, or that of another, unless there was a new body ready to receive it. To do otherwise was one of the gravest offenses against Aerian spiritual law. While one who committed such an act on another could be caught and reformed, there was nothing to do for one who had freed their own soul, except to mourn its loss.

Hope eased the pain and stress on the Ensign’s organs, more confident now that the Ensign would survive. She pulled her hands away, pausing a moment to steady herself while her own strength returned. Looking at the monitors again, she saw that they showed only a small improvement. She knew, though, that often that was all that was needed.

“All hands,” the Captain’s voice sounded over the intercom, breaking through Hope’s concentration.. “This is the Captain.”

Hope was at first shocked, and then accepting, as the Captain reported on the Star Wing’s actions.

She could do no other than what she was designed.

Hope listened while the Captain outlined her plan. The likelihood of additional casualties, particularly serious ones, she noted, would be very high. She made a mental note to verify her inventory of medical supplies. Additional stores were secured in one of the cargo bays, but they would be much more difficult to reach when the fighting had begun.

When the Captain’s announcement finished, Hope switched one of her overhead desk displays to match the one on the bridge that tracked the Star Wing’s actions. She watched as the Star Wing flung herself at another section of the enemy hull, rending it into ragged shards.

May the Grace of the Creators preserve you, Ilisee.

Emerald Flight: Season Two: Elizabeth

“Is there a problem, Lieutenant Commander?”

Elizabeth shifted awkwardly, staring down at the orders in her hand. She could not convince herself that she was dreaming, but neither could they possibly be real.

“Lieutenant Commander?” Admiral Adamson repeated.

Elizabeth swallowed hard, feeling her cheeks flush and her ears buzz. “Um, sir,” she managed to get out. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

Adamson nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Elizabeth’s face. “Granted.”

“Sir,” she started again, trying to keep her voice steady. “I think there’s been a mistake.”

Elizabeth was not at all certain, but she thought she saw a small glint of amusement in the Admiral’s eyes.

So help me, Pyr . . . if this is one of your jokes, I’ll turn you into a hairless cat. She took some comfort in her belief that participation in one of her crewmate’s pranks would probably not include an officer of Adamson’s high rank.

Adamson looked down at his desk display. “You are Banks, Elizabeth R.?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve served on the Emerald Flight and the Washington?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered more confidently.

To her knowledge, there had not been another officer on either of those ships with her name. There had been two other Elizabeth’s on the Washington, but there was no way that either her last name or service record could have been confused with one of theirs.

“According to this,” he went on, gesturing toward the screen, “the commanding officer didn’t want a First Officer with only the rank of Lieutenant, but specifically wanted you. You had the points and recommendations, so . . .”

Recommendations? From who? Certainly from no one on the Washington. Maybe Captain Devereux, before she . . .

Elizabeth nearly froze as the rest of the Admiral’s words sank in.

First Officer? She encouraged herself to keep breathing. This has to be a mistake.

“Are you listening to me, Lieutenant Commander?”

“Yes, sir!” she returned sharply, feeling her cheeks flush at her lapse.

Adamson eyed her skeptically for a moment. “Do you feel that you’re not up to the job?”

Elizabeth found herself unable to speak. She willed herself to, but her throat and mouth refused to cooperate.

Relax. Take easy. Real easy.

She straightened, feeling her body relax despite the more rigid posture.

“I will do the job to the best of my ability,” she responded, feeling once again like a cadet under inspection. “Sir.” She amended quickly, feeling her cheeks grow warm again.

Adamson gave her a small smile, clearly amused. All Elizabeth wanted to do was to leave before she managed to commit any more breaches of protocol.

“Lieutenant Commander?”

“Yes, sir?” Elizabeth managed, swallowing again.

“May I have that for a moment?” He gestured toward the small box that held her new rank insignia.

Elizabeth handed it over.

He’s changed his mind. I knew it. She was not sure if she felt more disappointment or relief.

He opened it and looked at the polished emblem inside. Elizabeth thought he was going to close it again and put it away in his drawer. Instead, he stood up, reached inside the box, and removed the insignia. After studying it for a moment as he held it between his fingers, he reached across the desk and fastened it to Elizabeth’s collar. Taking a step back, he saluted her and then, after receiving her salute, returned the box to her.

“In my experience,” Adamson said. “The best officers I’ve ever served with have been the ones who weren’t sure they were ready.” He offered her a salute, which she quickly returned.

Adamson smiled. This time it filled his entire expression. Holding out his hand, he said, “Congratulations, Lieutenant Commander.”

Elizabeth stared down at his hand for a moment. Her stomach tightened as she accepted it. His grip was firm and sincere, not at all ceremonial. Still, that moment of contact caused a chill to travel down Elizabeth’s spine.

“Thank you, sir.”

Adamson’s smile remained even as his face took on a more serious cast.

“Will there be anything else, Lieutenant Commander?”

“No, sir,” Elizabeth replied, hoping her relief did not show too much.

“Very well then,” Adamson said. “You are dismissed.”

“Thank you, sir,” Elizabeth said, saluted one last time, and then headed for the hatch.

Outside, when she was certain that she was out of sight of the Admiral’s hatchway, she paused to collect herself.

Lieutenant Commander. First Officer.

She stopped, realizing that the Admiral had given her neither the name of her new ship assignment or her commanding officer.

“He must have thought I already knew,” she murmured, looking quickly around to see whether anyone had caught her talking to herself. It must be part of my profile now.

She brought up her tablet and accessed her personnel record. A moment later, she frowned deeply.

Ship assignment: pending final Fleet Command approval

Commanding officer: pending final Fleet Command approval

The knot formed in her stomach once more. Although her promotion seemed to be official—the Admiral pinned it on me himself—the details of her new assignment were not.

At least I know it won’t be the Washington.

Elizabeth cleared her tablet and then lowered it, wondering what to do next.

I guess there’s always one of the bars . . .

The thought reminded her of the Chief and a new ache formed in her chest.

I wonder where he is now?

She’d received no news from him after the crew had separated on their respective leaves back on Earth. Her messages to him had gone unanswered, but not bounced back as undeliverable.

He never was one for keeping up with the paperwork, she mused, remembering logging countless Engineering shift reports, finding it less effort than coercing him into completing them.

Lieutenant Commander.

Her fingertips rose to her collar and lightly touched the new bar fastened there. She could not conceal her faint smile of pride.

I wonder what he’d think now?

Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

It took only moments for the Captain to inform the crew of her plan. She explained it briefly, outlined the risks, but did not invite discussion. Hope would have found that unusual, had she not witnessed such behavior from the Captain many times before. The Captain had decided on a course of action, was certain of it, and expected her crew to obey her. She was the Captain. That was her purpose.

“All stations report ready, Captain,” the First Officer announced. “Engineering is standing by on a dedicated channel.”

The Captain nodded her acknowledgment. From experience, Hope understood what the First Officer meant. Shipboard communications shared a common set of frequencies and pathways. During combat, though, that system could be overwhelmed by the volume of communications traffic, leading to garbled and misrouted messages. For the bridge to lose contact with the Engineering Deck during a battle could prove disastrous. Without power transferred to the right place at the right time, the hull might be breached or weapons deprived without needed power.

Hope completed her treatment of Ensign Nan. A conduit had overloaded while she had been attempting to replace another component in that same access panel. The damage to her hand and arm, while painful, would not affect its function. The synthetic skin layer Hope had applied would be slowly absorbed by the Ensign’s body as the skin beneath it regenerated.

After inspecting the graft one more time, Hope sealed the translucent covering. She pressed a hypo against the Ensign’s arm, administering a longer-acting analgesic.

“Ten hours,” Hope told her, indicating the hypo. “Return if there is pain.”

The Ensign nodded hesitantly, studying her swathed hand.

“Complete function will be restored.”

The Ensign visibly relaxed, offering Hope a grateful smile. “Thank you, Doctor.”

Hope inclined her head slightly in polite acknowledgment.

“You may depart.”

“Can I return to duty?”

“Yes. Although not advised.”

The Ensign frowned unhappily. “Yeah.” She rose from the diagnostic bed. “Thank you again, Doctor.”

Hope’s head tilted once more.

The Ensign gathered her duty tunic, carrying bunched in her uninjured hand and as she left the infirmary. Hope looked away and picked up her tablet, completing her notes on the Ensign’s medical treatment. Carrying it with her, she approached the form on Diagnostic Bed Two.

Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

The Star Wing worked her way methodically along the enemy vessel’s hull, alternating with blasts of energy and the raw fury of her claws. The vessel released a swarm of drones, but the Star Wing swatted them easily aside or engulfed clusters of them in clouds of destructive fire. The vessel itself began to turn slowly, but Devereux knew there was nothing it could do against its tiny assailant.

“Captain,” Pyrafox called out. “The other ship is turning, changing course.”

It took only a glance at the tactical display to tell Devereux what it was doing. It was bringing itself into position to fire at the Star Wing.

They must have decided they didn’t care what happened to their other ship.

Considering the damage that Star Wing was inflicting upon it, Devereux guessed that she might have made the same choice.

Still . . . talk about swatting a fly with a sledgehammer . . .

Despite her rapidly receding doubts about the veracity of the Star Wing’s tales, Devereux held grave concerns whether their Aerian savior could survive a concentrated onslaught like that. So far, though, the Star Wing was ahead on points.

An idea began to form in Devereux’s mind. A quick study of the tactical display confirmed it. It would be risky, but, if it worked, could accomplish several objectives at the same time. Looking toward Hawkes, she wished she had time to consult with her Tactical officer, but she was not sure that she had time—that the Star Wing had the time—for her to plan it out as thoroughly as she would liked.

And that’s why you’re the Captain.

“Helm,” she called out, moving with purpose toward the navigation station. She reached down and tapped out several commands on his console. “I want a course that will bring us out from behind this rock and shoot us as fast as we can between those ships.”

Pyrafox’s eyes widened. ”Between them?”

“Between them,” Devereux repeated. “I’m hoping they might be a little less trigger-happy if they know they might be blasting holes in each other’s ships.”

Pryafox’s throat pulsed as he swallowed hard. “Aye, Captain.” His claws made light clicking noises as they danced across the surface of his console.

“Tactical,” Devereux said. Hawkes was already eyeing her when she turned to face him. Even veiled behind his glasses, his eyes revealed perhaps the closest look to incredulity that she had ever seen from him.

“Yes, Captain.”

“I want a full barrage as we pass between them,” she told him. “Fire everything we’ve got at them, at both ships.”

Hawkes studied her for a moment, not bothering to consult his console before stating, “A full barrage will seriously deplete our weapons stores, Captain. If we—“

“If the fleet doesn’t get here soon,” Devereux him off, “then it won’t matter if we have one torpedo left or ten. Just one of those ships can turn us into a pile of junk without breaking a sweat. I don’t know why they haven’t, but maybe we can use that against them.”

Her Tactical Officer stared back at her for only a moment. “Yes, Captain,” he replied, his posture straightening in an informal salute of obedience. “Preparing full barrage. Bringing all weapons systems online.”

A grim smile tugged at the corner of Devereux’s mouth. She walked back to the command deck, using those few moments to mentally rehearse the next part.

It’s one thing to have a bold plan. It’s quite another to risk other people’s lives while doing it.

She tapped the intercom control. This was not an announcement that she would delegate.

“All hands,” she said. “This is the Captain.”

Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

“What about the targeting systems?”

Hawkes consulted his console again. “They are still unreliable. I recommend that we continue manual targeting.”

Devereux grimaced, but then nodded her agreement. The ship’s weapon systems could compute complex firing solutions, reacting far more quickly to change in battle conditions, than could their human counterparts.

But if they going to calculate inaccurate trajectories, then what’s the point?

She glanced up at the main bridge displays. They gave her no new information. The view of the two gigantic cruisers still dominated the second and third screens.

“How are our friends out there doing?” she asked Pyrafox.

His eyes remained on the main screens as he answered her. “The same as before,” he said. “They’re just . . . drifting.”

Devereux considered their position. Pyrafox had done an expert job of positioning them within the shadow of a large fragment, also conveniently located right in the crosshairs between the two behemoth vessels. Neither of them could fire their weapons without inflicting collateral damage on their sister ship. Devereux suspected, though, that was not the reason for the current, and unexpected, cease-fire.

“Captain?” Gho called out hesitantly.

Devereux turned toward the Science station. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

“I’m . . . not sure, Captain.” Her fingers tapped uncertainly at her console. “I’ll bring it up on Screen One.”

The tactical view on the first screen blanked out, replaced by an exterior view. It displayed a section of the debris field. In the top left corner of the image, a section of an enemy hull was visible. Along the right, Devereux could see a section of the Emerald Flight’s hull. She recognized it as somewhere portside aft. A dark, ugly gash was visible.

“Deck Four?”

Gho nodded. “But that’s not it.”

Devereux winced. That’s not bad enough?

Gho tapped some controls and the image on the screen enlarged. It took Devereux only a moment to recognize the white-clad figure, fire-red hair floating like a flaming nimbus around its head, streaking toward the enemy vessel.

“What the—“

Devereux stared, open-mouthed with amazement, as the Star Wing released a volley against their enemy. Both she and her barrage might have been small, but their effect was devastating. Sizable sections of the vessel’s dark hull disintegrated into shards no larger than the Star Wing. As Devereux watched, the Star Wing neither stopped nor slowed her approach. Instead, she approached the hull and , upon making contact with it, began to tear pieces from it with her claws.

“And I thought she made that part up . . .” Pyrafox whispered.

Devereux continued to stare at the surreal scene taking place on the main screen. Like her navigator, she had doubted certain parts of the Star Wing’s story, but had seen no reason to challenge her publicly on it. She wondered now what other incredible claims the ancient Aerian had made would turn out to be true.

Breaking from her astonishment, Devereux spun toward her Tactical officer. “Target weapons in her direction,” she ordered. “Be ready to give her some cover fire.”

“Yes, Captain,” Hawkes responded crisply. “Configuring all weapons for manual targeting.”

Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

Within the chamber beyond, she found two Humans. Their life was clearly gone. They had managed to cling to handholds prudently built into the hull. While that had prevented them from being sucked into space, it had not preserved their lives. Seeing their lifeless forms, Ilisee reflected once more on the fragility of these beings.

They are either particularly brave or particularly foolish. They are not designed for this existence.

She left the Human corpses behind her, giving them no further consideration. The shells that remained were the concern of the other Humans now. Their souls, if indeed Humans had them at all, were gone. There was nothing more she could do for them.

Drawn to the ragged gash in the hull, Ilisee stared out into space. She remembered a time of flying freely through its expanses. Standing there, she could feel the wash of faint radiation across her flesh like the light breeze upon the surface of a world. This was the environment in which the Creators had designed her to survive and thrive.

In the darkness beyond, she could make out the black hull of an enemy vessel. The second one, she knew, held position on the other side of the ship in which she stood, and slightly below it. Their enemy would allow them no escape. It had already inflicted critical damage to this one and Ilisee did not understand why it had not yet simple destroyed it.

The Revered One.

Even their enemy valued the Furies, for reasons no one on Aeria knew.

They will not destroy this vessel until they have claimed her.

Ilisee felt a restored sense of purpose. A flood of anger washed over her, filling her with renewed energy.

I must protect her. I must protect all of them.

It took her a moment to recognize it, but these Humans had become important to her as well. Uttering a phrase that was both a vow and a prayer, she launched herself toward the enemy vessel.

#

“Captain,” Hawkes reported. “Port side aft torpedoes launchers are back online. All forward beam emitters have been restored.”

Well, that’s something, Devereux considered sourly.

There weapons had proven to be little more than a distraction to the pair of the massive battleships that now blockaded them.

A distraction is all we’re supposed to provide, she reminded herself. And at least we can try to defend ourselves.

She wondered, outgunning them as they did, why the enemy destroyers had yet finished the job they had started. By all rights, she, her ship and her crew should all now be a drifting cloud of debris and atomic particles.

Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

Ilisee stopped before the hatch. It appeared to be barely adequate for its task, and she wondered why these Security Human built so poorly for space. She would have no trouble getting beyond it. As she reaching for the obvious grip, a voice stopped her.

“Stop!” it said in an irritating high-pitched tone. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Ilisee turned her head to peer at the Security Human standing behind her. It had drawn its weapon, but had not yet pointed it directly at her.

“I can help,” she said, repeating what she had told the Captain before.

Perhaps this one was not informed.

The Security Human stared at her.

“There’s nothing but vacuum on the other side of that door.”

Ilisee’s head turned back to examine the hatch, wondering if she had missed something important. Seeing that she had not, she turned her head back to face the Security Human.

“Yes.”

The Security Human’s eyes made strange movements. “Are you trying to get us both sucked into space?”

Ilisee studied the Security Human. She was reminded once how fragile and ill-equipped they were designed for space travel.

“No.”

The Security Human lowered its weapon slightly. “I’ll need to contact the bridge.”

“Do so.”

The Security Human’s eyelids moved rapidly for a moment and then it moved toward one of the bulkhead. Its gaze never strayed from Ilisee, except for the brief moment it needed to locate the intercom control.

“Bridge,” the Security Human said. “This is Ensign Carroll.”

“This is the bridge,” sounded a voice that Ilisee recognized as the Tactical Officer.

“I need an override on Deck Four Aft, emergency bulkhead . . . Sixteen Beta.”

“Stand by.”

There was a long pause before the Tactical Officer’s voice returned.

“Ensign,” it said. “We will override all controls from here. Return to section Seventeen Beta. Signal when you have reached that location.”

“Seventeen Beta,” the Security Human repeated. “Acknowledged.”

The Security Human tapped the intercom and stepped away from the bulkhead. “Let’s go.”

“No,” Ilisee replied.

The Security Human stared at her with surprise. “Why not?”

“I will remain here.” The Security Human opened its mouth, but Ilisee continued before it could make any further foolish requests. “I cannot open this door from elsewhere.”

Understanding appeared to come to the Security Human. At least, that was how Ilisee interpreted its alien expression. Still keeping its eyes fixed on her, the Security Human took several strides backward. It located another intercom station and activated it.

“Bridge,” it said. “This is Ensign Carroll. I’m in position at section Seventeen Beta.”

“Stand by, Ensign,” the voice replied. A moment later, it returned. “Activating secondary bulkhead Seventeen Beta.”

The Security Human stumbled backward as the bulkhead began to descend. That was the last that Ilisee saw of it as the emergency bulkhead dropped fully into place.

“Stand by,” the voice of the Tactical Officer said. “Overriding secondary bulkhead Sixteen Beta.”

The bulkhead raised the height of a wingtip and then stopped. Ilisee curled her claws into the deck material as the air within the small compartment emptied into space.

It happened quickly. Ilisee felt a strange sensation, one akin to being free once more. Only the metal walls around her, and the slight tug of gravity, spoiled the illusion for her.

“Pressure equalization confirmed,” the voice of the Tactical Officer reported.

The bulkhead began to rise again. Ilisee waited, watching as open space became visible through the torn hull beyond. Even before the bulkhead stopped its ascent, Ilisee moved forward.