Capital C
23 Mar 2018Namita Pear
In my restlessness I've visited Lave, Tau Ceti, Epsilon Eridani; tourism in the same vein as my first time spent in Sol. Now, I stare down at a flurry of laserfire against a Willapa gas giant. Wade is calmly reviewing data about what would be my first 'fair fight'. We're in the mood to get in the Federation's pants, for our own reasons, and right now their navy was busy battling the local pirate rabble. A good chance to learn some actual combative skills, with clear allies and enemies, and possibility of rescue if we did get blown up."Can you tell who's who?"
"Not yet," he replied, "but I'm close. Furballs are –"
Verity interrupted him, surely as the COVAS of all participants tried to get their attention, too, in the maelstrom. The dataline on our Cobra's targeting computer confirmed her. As Novices, we were silent.
Across the status display read, ! CAPITAL CLASS DROP PATTERN BE AWARE !
I leant all about my seat to try and look out the port windows, but the Cobra's tight viewport disappointed me for the umpteenth time. Verity calmly spoke yet again: Warning, Capital-class ship detected. But I couldn't see it. I only knew stories of them slowly unsheathing from their drop-point, and my immediate worry was just getting in its way. I wondered what falling through the hole it tore open would be like.
"Oh, shit," said Wade in a half-whisper. As one hand roused me the other was off the console, pointing dead ahead. Far ahead of us, the pilots of each respective side had not ceased their fighting, and were still locked in turning jousts. I did not see it, at first, especially with all the combat, but faintly I realized what was happening.
The familiar shakes and sounds of a frame-shift jump overtake the Cobra yet we remain still. Then, a large, invisible knife stabs through a portion of space in front of us, and pulled. Slowly, the wound gapes, and out vomits witchspace that mixed in with the inky darkness of the background such that I barely could discern the torrent. From the breach I saw poking the dull head of a Farragut-class, exactly like the ones I had seen anchored over Africa and Olympus Mons, the only two I had seen in my entire life up until this point.
Her lights turn on in flickers, and I'm not sure if she is just recovering or coming back into reality, piece by piece. We stare in awe, silent except for the turbulence and deafening, ghostlike siren from the aftershock. Dim blue engine lights finally burst through the thick cloud of witchmatter and the cut begins to heal, closing, its blood dispersing into the ocean and scaring the sharks.
All at once her broadsides fire, as fast as they could be brought online, I am sure. They converge on a single point, and Wade's face buries in the tactical map as I just watch. "God," he says with a smile on his face, "those aren't meant to fire at Eagles."
A bright blue, dragging flash as the fighter's shields die, and immediately the craft spirals in individual chunks of flaming metal. We must have been ten kilometres away, but I still could see it vividly. My hand leaves the stick to work the systems panel on my right, left already manipulating the throttle quadrant. In seconds, we fly at boost speed and our friend-or-foe identifier is set up, catching Wade off guard.
"That was fast," he snarked, coldness coming back. "You sure we're on that thing's side??"
"I got a scan on that Eagle, rest in piece. I chose the side it isn't on. Manage the countermeasures and keep an eye on the contacts, please!"
We flew down upon a Vulture that was being harassed already by a wing, her shields too strong for them. Burst lasers connect between us and our first railgun volley smashes into her shields, the abuse too much for them. Before they even flicker away fully, a great deal of white sparks fly up from her engines as the second volley slams into the ship. Then, the broadsides align onto her, and chaos follows.
Around me fly a hundred ships of all shapes and sizes. Lasers fire and the distinct, streaming tracers of multi-cannons fly on impact course with their targets. Dull purple and red boosters of missiles and rockets stream out from their launch tubes. It is impossible, at a glance, to determine which ones are for me. "Chaff, chaff," comes from my right as Wade ignores the view, looking about the panels surrounding him and reacting to the data.
I feel pretty alive.
"Our shields are limping but holding. I had to drain a cell bank back there to keep us up. They still suck, you know." Wade has not looked up once during this entire fight, and even with the scanner clear of enemies he informs me that he is diverting power to systems for what it's worth. "They'll probably – god, yeah, warp-in right on top of us!"
Red triangles cloud the tactical map and my shield display goes crazy. We are caught far from the cloud of Federal pilots. "Full power to systems and the rest to engines, dropping the cell, boost when able." Wade continues to work with a calm that suits him to an unacceptable degree, and I follow his instructions. As our shield breaks, I dive down towards the Farragut and make a break to get under her belly.
I make the mistake of crossing her port side, and as it targets the enemy wing pursuing me one of her broadside beams rakes against the front of our naked ship.
The sound is unbearable, like bones breaking on loop. I see the front of the Cobra twist and melt. I'm afraid we will split in half, Wade and I in entirely separate portions of our wreckage, but even as the front viewport bends sickeningly inward we still fly under the Farragut, taking refuge in the small fighter nook at her stern as we wait for our shields to revive.
I left that battle fighting just enough to clear the remaining enemy vessels, our D'acheron literally a quarter of what it was upon entering. Internals were melted and hung out of the hull, and all across our front slope there was a terrifying gash left by the broadsides of the capital ship. Hydrogen fuel and atmosphere vented when I settled on the station pad, and rescue tools were needed to even exit the cockpit.