Callisto Drift – ARTEMIS SECUNDA, 0342 Zulu

The alarm klaxons blared again. Captain Robert “Slingshot” James leaped out of his easy-chair in the ready-room. “Let’s go, people! They are back at it!”

Chaos erupted. Flight Lt. Carly Ames almost fell off her chair as Flight Lt. Victor Steiger bumped into it as he groggily jumped off the sofa. Flight Sergeant Rostock Rivas was dragged out of his easy-chair Into a stumble by an overexcited  Initiate Airman Daniela Cortez.

Fortunately, the Iron Fist, a battleship carrying a small complement of fighters and bombers, had been refitted to patrol and enforce Solar System Security, and was en route to its new assignment when the Calamity occurred.

This was the squadron’s eighth sortie since entering the sector. The enemy’s persistence nearly compensated for their significant lack of void combat expertise. Despite heavy enemy losses each engagement, the squadrons from the Fist suffered minimal damage, save for superficial hull breaches and one fortunate canopy hit, which had been rendered harmless due to the pilot wearing full environmental gear. Cap. James’s Rapiers were number two on the rotation and this was their third outing.

The squad raced toward the hangar, equipping flight gear mid-run. Within five minutes, they were strapped in, engines primed, environment-sealed, awaiting flight deck clearance.

The radio crackled and the order was given. Inside his Supernova-200M Heavy Void Superiority Fighter, Cap. James punched the throttle and rocketed from the battleship. The powerful ion engines pulled an immediate four Gs, drawing a brief grunt despite inertial dampeners. The fighter left the battleship like a bullet exiting the barrel of a railgun. The rest of the squad followed, each immediately taking its place in their customary ”Scythe Wing” formation, an inverted-V arrangement optimized for rapid engagement.

Ten hostile signals lit up James’s HUD. They were sleek, agile, almost alien.

“Hostile wave inbound. Scanner shows ten targets. Weapons hot, cleared to engage.” James activated the Hostile Capability Scanner (HCS), awaiting analysis on his helmet lenses. 

“Let’s see what we are up against. Pick your targets and engage on my mark.” He continued coolly.

”Newer builds,” James muttered tightly. “Where do they get these toys?”

“Expecting new hostiles, sir? Thought we’d seen everything by now,” Cortez asked anxiously.

“Never assume anything, Initiate. Paint your targets, prepare to engage.”

“Roger, sir!”

A few instants later James’s tactical map flickered with colored symbols over the hostile ship markers. The targets had been called out by the squad. As they moved into position to engage, he recalled the strange string of events that led to this circumstance. 

ARTEMIS SECUNDA — THREE DAYS EARLIER

The fleet jumped into Artemis Secunda after recovered star map fragments indicated possible Gas Giant Orbital Mining Stations and water-rich asteroid fields, resources critical to the fleet’s survival.

A few days in the system confirmed the data. James, Steiger and Ames were assigned to fly the military transport taking the first recon and recovery team into the newly discovered station. They were followed closely by the Science ship Kaleidoscope. The fleet lagging further behind, waiting for their report to move in as well.

“Hangar doors spotted, docking bay seems intact,” James reported, operating recon drones.

“Sir, blip on my scanner!” Steiger scrambled to verify.

“Glitch?” James asked, focused on opening the hangar remotely.

“Negative! Multiple contacts appeared! Active sensors detect unknown ships. Counting three large and medium vessels. They were silent-running behind one of the moons!”

“Kaleidoscope, confirm reading?” James halted the drones, floating toward Steiger’s station.

“Confirmed! The Fist has been alerted, fleet incoming!” Anxiety filled the science ship’s officer’s voice.

“Sir, five hostiles deploying—fast!” Steiger urgently checked weapons and systems.

“Shit!— Ames, get us out of here! Take us back to the fleet! —now” James activated comms.

“Kaleidoscope, retreat immediately, hostiles inbound!”

“Roger, reversing course!”

James looked at the tactical map and the truth was obvious, they would never be able to clear the incoming fighters in time. He raised the ship’s PA system “All personnel, suit up! Unknown fighters inbound!” In the cockpit they sealed their helmets and hooked their suit oxy supply to the emergency outlets at their posts.

“The Fist is intercepting!” Steiger shouted, monitoring the battleship’s aggressive combat burn and quickly breaking away from the fleet.

“They better do it fast! I read weapons hot on the birds! Strap in!” Ames enabled the emergency afterburner, the Gs kicking in immediately.

“Set course for the Fist, let’s drag them into firing range!” James entered new coordinates.

Ames silently corrected course At that speed, the string of maneuvers made the interior of the ship akin to a washing machine, everything not strapped or bolted in was tumbling hitting floor and ceiling alike.

The Fist understood the play and adjusted course to intercept closely, cutting off the attackers. James expected the enemy to back off, no small squad would challenge a Valleheim-Class Battleship with fighter support. A few seconds later, five fighter-shaped bullets were shot from the Fist and all bets were now off. The squadron deployed to a defensive formation, moving to protect the retreat of the Kaleidoscope and the military transport. 

“That should do it!” James remarked. “They’d be pretty stupid to press this. I’d say it’s a damn good time to open comms! He laughed nervously, Steiger and Ames joined in. They were all very relieved for not dying that day.

Unexpectedly, the hostiles pressed forward. Cobra squadron chatter announced enemy missile locks. Missiles streaked toward them. 

Time slowed. This was humanity’s first encounter since discovering the Calamity. It was tragic their introduction was conflict and death.

Reports filtered in: Cobra squad neutralized missiles with ECM pulses, swiftly retaliating and shredding enemy fighters. Subsequent encounters became progressively predictable: enemy pilots relied heavily on missiles, countered effectively by ECM tactics.

After that battle, the fleet had been slowly gaining ground on the enemy, while facing a continuous stream of fighter sorties. By now the strategists at the Fist had figured out that the enemy was not good in dogfights and relied terribly on auto-lock missiles and guided weapons in general. The plan to counter their play was to deploy a ECM pulse to neutralize the enemy’s opening salvo and have the squadron pounce them close-quarters afterwards. As a response to this, the hostiles started increasing their numbers, at the cost of a noticeable decrease in flying prowess and increase in casualties.

Later analysis of combat footage and the enemy wreckage left behind as the fleet advanced revealed something unexpected: the pilots were human. The technology aboard their ships was strikingly similar to the fleet’s, only better, more advanced.

“What does it mean?” James wondered. The Calamity seemed to have rendered the universe lifeless during the fleet’s short Jump transit, and yet here they were, fighting human enemies piloting superior craft.

A sudden proximity alarm snapped him back to Callisto. Cortez shouted frantically through the comm, “They’re breaking formation!”

James refocused. No more time for memories. “Hold the line, Rapier—engage at will!” 

The enemy moved wrong. No formation. No sync. A swarm of solo acts. Cocky. Fast. Uncoordinated.

Rapier Squad held position.

James led at the point in his heavy fighter, shields charged forward, ECM array humming like a stormcloud. Rivas and Cortez flanked him in a wide V, ready to snap inward. Ames held the rear, tailgun hot. Above them all, Steiger drifted in overwatch, silent and waiting.

They came fast. Missiles launched in a wave, dozens of smart munitions screeching through the dark.

James fired his ECM burst. For a moment, his ship vanished from radar. Signals glitched. Missiles lost lock, spun out, detonated in chaos. But not all of them.

“Still got heat!” Ames called. Four missiles locked on her.

Cortez peeled off, rolled beneath, picked one off mid-chase. Rivas dumped flares and dove, but a near-miss rocked him.

His ship buckled under the pressure. Red lights flared. He felt the thrum of decompression before the cockpit sealed it.

“Hull breach,” —he gasped —“Sealed. Still flying.”

The enemy ships danced in closer. Too agile. They moved like they had better thrusters. Better power curves. One dodged three clean shots from Steiger just by sheer performance.

James’s shields took the brunt; until they didn’t. A plasma bolt shredded the nose of his fighter. He flew half-blind. Vents hissed, cooling systems screamed.

He gritted his teeth. “Don’t blink, Rapier. Stay in it.”

“My cannon’s out,” —Cortez called— “Switching to point-defense.”

Two bogeys locked her. She twisted hard, dove toward debris of a previous battle and used it for cover. One followed. Steiger dropped from above and turned it into wreckage.

He said nothing. Never did. Two kills already. A third ship tried to run. He matched its trajectory, flipped belly-up, and fired a single rail round. The cockpit vaporized.

“Two closing behind Cortez,” Ames warned. Her ship rattled as a blast clipped her port wing. She flipped her fighter in a full loop, pulled high, and opened fire,  a wild shot, but it landed.

The fight was brutal. Messy. Precise in its own way.

Rivas took another hit. His left engine flared and sputtered. Blood trickled down his temple. His HUD flickered like a failing candle. He stayed in it.

James lost stabilizers, drifted on manual thrust. No computer assist. Pure stick-and-throttle.

Cortez gunned down a fighter with her last working turret. Ames vented coolant. Steiger never slowed.

The last enemy tried to run. Steiger hunted it down. No words, just thrusters and timing. He crossed the enemy’s escape vector, fired a single railshot; one clean hole through the fuselage and into the reactor— the ship disintegrated.

In six minutes, it was over. Ten enemy ships destroyed. Five Rapiers still flying.

Barely.

Their fighters were faster. Sleeker. Stronger. But the Rapier pilots had each other.

“They had better ships,” Rivas said through static.

“Didn’t have better hands,” James replied.

“Or better bones,” Ames added.

“Or better asses in the seat,” Cortez laughed weakly.

A quiet pause lingered.

“Or better aim,” Steiger added coolly, breaking the silence.

They re-formed slowly, wounded fighters trailing vapor, sparks flickering across battered hulls. But they were together, in formation, alive.

Silently, proudly, they limped home toward the Iron Fist. Five hours later, the Rapiers would be going out again. And again, and again. Until either them or the mysterious attackers gave up or gave out.

END