Duty, 33: Burning Skies
04 Apr 2023Meowers
I've told them we should goddamn evacuate, and we should've done that much earlier. So now they finally figured that out. Brilliant. And, obviously, the best moment for doing so is yesterday. Friggin' classic. So... I've had only a few hours of sleep after punching some stray Cyclopes in the faces, when the alarm signal opened my eyes widely. And it was followed by a voice broadcast.
"Get everything that shoots airborne, we have half a hundred of them moving straight at us."
The whole situation was bad indeed. Although, I'm... already used to it, maybe. There's no way out except fighting, that's something you cannot argue with, and I was certain the big onslaught was coming, and I was... glad to see those preparations in action. There will be losses, no doubt, but each little correct movement might lower them. Might save someone's life. It looked like a chaos, but an architected one. Ground crews were preparing the ships, transporters were moving the ammo containers from the storages for quick rearming, medical and fire teams took their positions in the armoured bunkers near the landing pads, AA turrets powered up and fixed their deadly gaze upon the skies. Anyway, with so many people and machinery covering our sorry arses, the decisive role is ours. Everything here is running at full to make us bring the fight to them up there, into the skies, into space, to keep the town safe.
"We can't know what could happen next, though we may see that we're at our best," couldn't help but say this on the open comms after the takeoff, like a... comment.
Even if the aliens were spotted early, on the orbit already but not directly above our heads, we were tied to the settlement. Who knows what cards they have up their sleeves. We reached the upper atmosphere and slowed down there, building a battle formation. Matthew's wing on the left, my wing on the right, AXDF anti-Scout wing right between us and a bit behind, and the locals, four full wings and a pair of three-ship wings at the back, in two even groups, Mion's group under my command, Roberto's pilots with Matthew. Both local anti-Scout wings were also here, at the very rear: should the battle go in our favour, they're okay to join, otherwise they should get the hell out of here rather than adding up to a coffin count.
"Let's survive this", a private transmission from Mion.
"Agreed".
Then Matthew's voice. "Planetary Defence pilots, this one is for you. Don't let the chaos screw up your mind. Lock a target designated by your wing leader and do what you've been taught to do, evade when under fire and then re-engage. If you're hit badly or low on ammo or fuel, let us know. Survive as long as you can, keep them under pressure, deal the bulk of damage. No worries if you're still struggling with hearts, we can handle it."
So, the Thargoids appeared. I gave our formations a quick look to be sure nobody's... wavering. Or was it for myself, for my own certainty, that... I can rely on those pilots, they're here, they're one hundred per cent in, they want those bastards dead none less than I do?
Damn first line was full of damn Basilisks, none less than fifteen of them, they split up, one pack attacked us head on and the second attempted to go around and threaten the settlement. We were forced to regroup, Matthew had more fast ships in his wing and moved to intercept, while my group and a part of his forces faced the blunt side. Shit, that was horrible, they slipped past us, firing wildly, spinning, spitting out those goddamned creepy swarms, I can't imagine what exactly militia pilots felt at that moment. Anyway, hah, feelings aside, I've certainly seen some good hits made by them. Had to intervene, ordering my wings to get back into the formation, chasing wasn't the correct strategy, they cannot win with just the Basilisks, and we couldn't risk being attacked in the backs as more of them was yet to show up. Scored our first kills on their second run though, concentrating our fire: three Basilisks choked on dozens of Gauss rounds and exploded, spilling their green goo.
Hah, I really love seeing what focused fire from several ships can do to them. Regenerate that, arseholes.
"They wanted to create a mess, to send us running, and they failed. Some of them are dead already, thanks to all of you. Now, the cannon fodder is coming. Stick to the plan and we're going to be okay," I said to the pilots, seeing main Thargoid forces closing in. Goddamn wall of Cyclopes, thirty or so, four or five Medusas and several Scout packs. Nasty little buggers were rather a nuisance in smaller fights, but not that time. From what I saw earlier, local resistance pilots were good at keeping Cyclopes at bay, grinding their ranks, buying us time to deal with the larger beasts, but... There were too many Medusas for my wing alone, and Matthew was still dealing with the remaining Basilisks. They didn't stand a chance but took time. Goddamn.
"Bring it on, you shits."
I commanded my pilots to follow me and keep the rest of them off my back, and boosted towards the couple on the side. Hah, we even managed to smash a Cyclops, like, completely casually, tearing the sorry loser apart with focused fire as we made our way past it. Then, my folks spread out to attack the rest of the Medusas, and... I was all set to do my thing.
They may try to play whatever strategy, but when it comes down to a brutal, face-to-face combat, they're still mindless beasts who will attack you relentlessly if not... ordered, or told, or whatever communication they're using, to do something else. And, essentially, finding a right pattern will much likely turn a fight with two Medusas into a fight with one, but big and angry, same as with their other types: they both will follow you, if not attacked by anyone else, and if your thermal signature is low enough, they both will miss their shots. Half the room for mistakes, double the ammo usage. So, ammo was a concern.
Recording that now, I'm even... surprised a little. Back then, in the Pleiades, who'd have thought that one day I'll go from covering training targets with hundreds of badly placed shots to attacking two Medusas at once like it's something common and done daily. Nevertheless... If they bleed, I can kill them. And I will. Oh, hell I will.
You can't really memorise each your move while being so full of adrenaline, but I guess my onboard camera now certainly have some enthralling moments in its files. I've done what I'm supposed to do, and I bet I've done it well. Thundering roar of my Gauss cannons blended with their angered and pained shrieks, heavy recoil shaked my entire body again and again, and... Damn I love that feeling. I felt myself one with Marshmallow, with every manoeuver, every move being so natural, so instinctive, like... the ship listened to me, responded precisely to my every thought. And, with each move, with each shot... I felt like they saw it too. They knew it too. And they were afraid. They were my prey. And their feeble attempts to resist were making me... Amused. Every time I saw another limb shattering, turning into a cloud of acid and debris, I smiled. Every time I saw one of them disengaging to retreat or reload, I boosted forward to land a deadly barrage of shots. Every time I saw them attacking, I evaded and returned fire, being glad to know those shots were aimed at me, not at someone else who can't fly like I do. Like... I knew that there was no other option rather than to give my best. That's why I'm here, and I'm still alive for so long. That's why all those people need me here.
I let out some mildly violent swearing, tactically muting my comms before doing so, when the first one cracked, hah. And then requested a status report. My pilots were doing okay, though they sounded quite nervous, no surprise; my local militia group exchanged one ship for four Cyclopes, and Matthew's wing evaporated all their Basilisks in the lower atmosphere. They were on the way up after quick rearming and patching up, and... We needed them. Remaining Basilisks harassed our pilots, asking for a good punishment, and I really would've been grateful for some support. We were still badly outnumbered, unable to do any tricky moves other than going defensive and biting them when it's possible.
Pumping my Gauss rounds into a second Medusa, watching Matthew's wing rejoining the fight and immediately turning a Basilisk inside out, I thought, like... This stuff was going too smoothly.
And where was the friggin' Hydra?
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Matthew Morgan