All Along the Watchtower…
15 Jan 2023Astraeius
Oh, you do have to beware. For the enemy cares not for towers or walls, though it is quite adept at tearing them down. Nor does it care about fronts, no matter how proud we might be of holding them. And even less does it bother with the concept of a battlefield, well versed as it is in inflicting upon us the worse horrors of total war. It seeks out our fighting fleets, true, but it does so with the same interest that it affords to our convoys – be they carrying soldiers and cannons, or doctors and refugees. If it possesses any knowledge about rules of engagement, thus must be even more skilfully hidden than its sense of mercy.Admittedly, in my case, the hyperdiction was not unwarranted – headed as I was to do battle with them. It was not the first, it will not be the last, and it came as little of a surprise. I know by now which weapons the enemy has at its disposal. The last few weeks I’ve spent flying support, weakening the Interceptors and tearing through their shields, so that others – more skilled than I – could deliver the coup-de-grace. A less glamorous duty, perhaps, but a useful one nonetheless. And certainly a remunerative one, in both credits and knowledge.
It was armed with such knowledge – and a new set of hybridised weaponry – that I met the Interceptor who sought to keep me from the battlefield. I had previously preferred to flee such encounters, if for no other reason that I seem to have the bad luck of always attracting groups of hyperdictors – be they scouts or a pair of interceptors. My enemy, this time, sought me out on his own. I will admit, with no shame, that my first act was to place it behind me and speed off. Even its swarm could do little to catch me. A fact which gave me some confidence as to my chances against the beast itself. My frame-shift drive was already half charged when I decided to turn and fight, just in time for the swarm not to fall out of sensor range.
Destroying that little army of Thargons was not as simple a work as I thought it would be. But then again, I had the range, and was shooting in the proverbial barrel. It took more shots than I am proud of, but the flak cannon eventually did its job. When there were but two of the bugs left – and I later paid for the mistake of leaving them – I boosted my engines to kill the backwards momentum, and sped towards the Interceptor. Followed closely by the few remaining Thargons, but I was too foolish to think they would provide any trouble. Instead, I placed my full attention on the larger beast, fast approaching as we headed for collision.
I was confident, but I won't deny that the snarl of the creature still got a shiver out of me. To those who have had the luck to never meet a Thargoid interceptor, I ask to imagine an eerie mix of creaking wood and ghastly moaning, accompanied by the clicking noise of a large bug's mandibles. If it sounds as if though I am describing a sound out of a horror film... good, because that is precisely where the Interceptors belong.
Still, it is not only in the world of fairy tales that monsters die and young men triumph. Knowledge and wealth I acquired, true, but more than that I acquired skills as a pilot that I never dreamt of having. To those that claim the Mamba an unwieldy beast... I am forced to concede. The Evenstar has a mind of her own, and maintaining an orbit is as difficult as holding onto a crazed horse. But still I managed, and my shields absorbed what little fire the Interceptor could aim at me – a crutch some more experienced pilots will condemn, I know, but it kept me both calm and safe.
Relatively, at least, because when the reinvigorated swarm began to rain down on me like so many suicidal meteors, I felt neither safe nor calm. Still, I kept my cool long enough, and was rewarded with the sight of a bright glow emanating from one of the murderous flower's petals. I cursed my luck, took the swarm's hits, and crushed the creature's heart before speeding away. Shieldless, but still unscathed.
What followed, I can scantly describe as a battle. I've heard other pilots describe their fights with the Thargoids as dances, and I do not disagree. A dance like those of old: slow, hopefully elegant, each step calculated and precise. The Interceptor would send its fighters to test out my defences, I would wither them down until there were none – conciously avoiding the mistake that had risked to take me out of the fight – and then we would walz, trading blows, until its reddish glow alerted me to the fact that I should step away. And then the dance would begin anew.
Perhaps I romanticise it too much. This was, after all, a fight to the death – and I doubt that the enemy would afford my performance any romance. But there is something awe inspiring about the aliens. I bear them no love, and am bewildered by those that do. Still, I would be lying if I denied my fascination with them. Oh, I do not believe those that claim the Thargoids superior to us in every aspect. But they are immesurably different. And that, I believe, is worth the interest.
I digress. But the truth is that there is little to add. One of us enjoyed the dance. The other is now a cloud of green refuse, somewhere at the borders between inhabited systems. We still have to beware, along humanity's watchtowers. But so should the enemy.