Sunlord (55 page)

His discovery of the hollow had been accidental and
had saved his life. Soon after falling from the tree the pyrons had
converged and a wild 360 degree spray had kept them at bay for a
few seconds. Hope low in his heart, Shaun had backed away, the
water sloshing around his knees. Then his foot sunk suddenly as
footing gave way underwater, his boot buried in mud. Spinning, he
had seen the small shelter created at the base of a tree had roots
twisted down, forming a primitive wooden cage. It had been a tight
fit, and with only seconds to spare Shaun had squeezed through the
roots and into the mosquito ridden shelter.

Squatting the insects as they swarmed irritatingly
before his face Shaun allowed his guard to relax and the heaviness
settle in. It had been a long time since he had rested, and in this
position he could afford to snatch a just a few minutes.

The swamp was bathed in ghostly midnight shadows when
he started awake, suddenly aware he had slept longer than intended.
A coldness permeated his bones that even the torn helicasuit could
not ward away.

Rubbing his eyes and shaking his head he sat upright
as much was able, peering into the mists. A rustle of quick
movement caught his eye, and he knew the pyrons were still out
there and active, knowing their prey would have to emerge sooner or
later.

Shaun cursed the reptiles in a vocabulary only a
space marine could have learned. The nearest of the pyrons shuffled
forward like a crocodile and sunk into the water, but this was the
only reaction Shaun's shout drew.

Still muttering Shaun sunk his back between the
roots, resisting the impulse to scratch his face where a thousand
insect bites swelled. He simply lay there for a long time,
shivering and listening to the eerie sounds of the forest. Finally
his gaze wandered up, and through the gap in the roots and the
canopy of branches saw small pinpricks of the stars appear and
disappear as clouds passed overhead. From here they seemed so
distant and he knew he could very well die before the Federation
arrived.

In those cold moments shouted his companions' names
until he was hoarse, but his cried were not returned form the mists
and it was obvious his friends were far away.

It wasn't until late in the night that a sudden bass
rumble shook through the earth. Unexpected in its terrible
ferocity, sending the waiting pyrons bolting into the water and
racing for cover as a bright searchlight stabbed through the
branches. Suddenly, before he could comprehend was happening, the
beam settled across the hollow and the night blazed like the
sun.

* * *

The blinding light faded after a perfect white
climax.

Captain Ryson Lockhart was momentarily stunned as the
explosion of light faded into a rapidly diminishing sphere. Despite
the computer controlled reduction in brightness, the intensity upon
the holographic display was enough to stun those aboard the
Scoipre.

Loriena flashed a broad smile. "It's the
Federation!'

The display now showed a narrowing streak like a
comet flash past, its tail catching up to the head as it
slowed.

"Pull us in behind," barked Lockhart heartily. "Big
Brother is here at last!"

General McMillan stroked the edges of his stubbled
jawbone, the other hand behind his back as he strode over the
bridge of the Federation Deepspace Cruiser, the Berana. His
second-in-command stood to attention at the General's approach.
Stiff with military discipline McMillan ordered his officer to be
at ease.

"Sir," the young officer began, "do you think this
move is wise? Attacking the planet with only three battleships
seems suicidal."

The General shook his head. "The Admiral has ordered
it, and oor duty is tae obey."

The officer pulled McMillan aside and whispered
almost conspiringly, "But more than half our fleet remains in dock
at Krake! I can't see the sense in the Comitia's order to send us
here with such forces."

"Unless yiv an Admiral's insignia under that vest
ah'd advise ye back tae yir station," said McMillan levelly, his
New-Scot accent growing heavy. He knew that their role was that of
but a pawn in the battle with the Hartrias, yet he was prepared to
accept demands of council that directed all troop movements - the
Comitia. Although a General, he had no choice but to stifle qualms
and go into attack with only two accompanying battleships.

Screens on the main display showed the appearance of
a small craft broadcasting Federation identification as they
dropped from jumpspace. Man and machine worked in silent and
faultless precision as shields and armoury hummed into life. The
data received from the scout ship proved correct and already the
Berana was moving towards the planet.

Flanking either side of the Berana were two similar
sized battleships, the Ki and the Lanceman. All three Federation
ships were the largest class in the fleet equipped with eight sets
of plasma cannons, multiple smart missile launchers, swivel-mounted
laser beams and ports for disposing loads of planetary offensive
viral and chemical bombs. But no matter the armament and computer
systems ingrained into the ship, success rested upon human
shoulders - a single wrong decision could spell disaster for the
multi-million dollar hardware.

McMillan's eyes narrowed. "Launch squadrons one
through tae six - flank and lead oor vector. Ah want the Minnows
intercepting any enemy fighter resistance."

* * *

Grabbing his flight suit up in one hand combat pilot
Richael Lowry raced down the narrow corridors towards the flight
deck. The hall was empty as his heavy boots ran upon the metal
grating of the floor, shrugging into the jacket and sealing the
air-tight fasteners with one hand.

Pulling around a corner Richael came face to face
with the droid. Screeching to a halt Richael at last found time to
sling the helmet over his head, and, tilting his neck, began to
connect it to the metal rimmed collar of the flight suit.

"Authorisation required," spat the droid
tonelessly.

Richael flipped the inside of chest pocket,
displaying his code and holo-image. The droid scanned the bar
code.

"Access to this area is denied, Flightman Lowry."

Richael paused in his task of pulling on his gloves.
"What do you mean? I'm assigned to one of the Minnows in squadron
two...here, I've authorisation-"

"That is not required, Flightman," interrupted the
droid. "Squadron two has already left dock."

"You mean I missed them?" Richael pulled his helmet
off slowly.

"General McMillan ordered immediate deployment of all
Minnow squadrons. Your alert siren was activated but the fleet
could not wait upon your presence."

Richael scowled and beat a nearby locker with his
fist. Cursing and flexing a suddenly painful hand he spun
desperately about on the spot. "Is there another squadron due to
leave?"

The droid was silent for a moment as it processed.
"Affirmative. Squadron five is still pressurised and going through
pre-flight - "

But Richael was already gone. The young starpilot
raced back out the way he had come, his helmet in one hand and
flight suit bag in the other. The distance was not long and a
minute later he came to an open door, his heart beating but his
breathing steady.

Richael flipped his ID badge at the Flight Control
officer, waiting and hoping there was still a craft free. He had
travelled halfway across the universe and spent five years in
military training for this moment and he wasn't going to miss it
for the world.

The FC officer briefly inspected the badge and
consulted his handheld computerised notebook. "You're lucky, son.
There's a Minnow in dock five-kappa prepped. You shall be flying
with squadron five - you know the drill? Hurry up, they leave in
two minutes."

Hardly daring to believe his luck Richael nodded and
started off at a brisk walk, once again fitting the helmet over his
head. Then he walked out of the corridor, and caught his breath
with the sight of squadron five's dock.

The docking area was huge - the air space large
enough to hold a deep-space container. On the far side of the dock
were two sliding steel doors locked closed that was the exit into
space. Unlike Hartrias half-gravity docks, Federation ships had
docks in full gravity and used powerful machinery in lifting and
locking ships into their respective ports. Both side walls were
lined in what looked like from this distance to be a complex wasps
nest of steel girders and equipment. Here two hundred Minnow
fighters lay in dock where they were serviced by droids conducting
final pre-launch procedures.

Richael consulted the wall map hurriedly before
racing off in the direction of 5-k dock. He ran through a narrow
catwalk, dodging lithely aside to avoid vacuum-suited technicians.
His gloves were already on and his flight suit sealed by the time
Richael stumbled into the dock.

A thinly built young man looked up at Richael's
approach. Straightening, he ran a hand through his black hair and
offered his hand as greeting.

"Robinson. Andrew Robinson - navigator and
systems."

"Richael Lowry, Flightman. Is this Minnow ready to
go?"

The navigator stood back and cast a glance at the
Minnow behind. She was a study little ship, her hull a little
blunted and dulled but still holding the sleek lines that gave the
Minnow the reputation of the fasted fighter craft in the galaxy.
Stepping forward the navigator activated the droid controls that
opened the cockpit.

"She's ready, sir. I didn't think anyone was going to
make it here before the Squadron Commander ordered deployment."

"Well, I'm here," said Richael, proffering a gloved
hand and shook with his new copilot, a sly grin across his face.
"And without any time to waste, let's get into it."

Both men seated themselves in the two-seater craft.
Robinson settled into the navigator's seat behind the pilot's and
began flicking switches into readiness. His console faced towards
the rear of the craft; a massive bank that controlled engine and
laser power, navigational equipment, computer control and
communications. The controls confronting Richael were considerably
simpler but still daunting to the untrained eye. A joystick lay
next to his right hand, small enough to operate with precision with
only a couple of fingers. Before him lay the targeting displays and
power status bars upon a heads up display that was triggered into
contrast when the computer detected his eyes focusing on it.
Lastly, he pulled the locking pin away from the base of his seat,
freeing its motion. The seat was now free to move in any direction
- able to pivot the strapped pilot in a full two-dimensional motion
for space combat. Moving quickly, Richael pressed activate buttons
and pressed the intercom switch to his ear.

"Receiving?" he asked over the growing roar of the
heating engines.

"Affirmative," came Robinson's voice over the speaker
in Richael's ear. "A few more seconds and we'll have all systems
online."

"Have we been ordered to detach yet?"

"Negative..." Robinson paused for a moment, listening
to another broadcast. Finally his voice came back on the intercom.
"Orders just come through; release and hold level position. Deploy
in eight seconds - mark."

Richael suppressed a rising grin. Even though he knew
he was about to risk his life he couldn't help but feel a tingle of
excitement as the airlock doors hissed over his head and
locked.

"We're away," he muttered.

With a clank the metal jaw retracted and the Minnow
bobbed, gravity pulling down before Richael deftly applied
stabilising power. The craft hung suspended in air, drifting
outwards from the wall sightly as retro thrusters burnt. A new
voice came over the intercom.

"This is Flight Leader Schiever. There is no time for
briefing, but in summary we are to clear the path for the Berana.
Expect heavy enemy fighter conflict. Okay...report in."

The stern voice snapped out with a click. In the next
few seconds twelve pilots acknowledged themselves when it finally
came to Richael's turn. He pressed the transmit button.

"Minnow five-kappa, operational."

There was a brief silence of static. Richael was the
last in the order, for the more experience a pilot had the closer
he was to the Flight Leader. Thus five-alpha and beta were used in
critical strikes against difficult targets.

Unperturbed by his lower rank, Richael Lowry was
determined to prove himself upon the battlefield this day.

General McMillan watched the deployment of the
fighters from the vantage of the control room. The stern-faced
New-Scot paused for a moment as three-quarters of the ship's
squadrons dispersed into the depthlessness of space, spreading from
the open hanger doors like grains of sugar cast upon a black
cloth.

"Order two an' six tae circle heading 124 and engage
the Sova-1's," said McMillan. The command was relayed and the blue
dots upon the radar display moving accordingly. McMillan's brows
furrowed as a mass of Hartrias fighters slewed around, seeing this
approach and accelerating towards it. It was an expensive
manoeuvre, he knew, for his Minnow's were heavily outnumbered, but
he needed a diversion to slip a couple of squadrons through the
Hartrias' defences.

"Deck cannon...fire ah burst intae the nearest of the
Sova-1's."

Information surged through circuitry and seconds
later the foremost of the deck cannons pivoted and armed. Energy
levels charged, drawing from the massive power banks deep in the
ship, and a moment later a wide and almost invisible beam shot
silently across the stars like a powerful flashlight.

The Sova-1's reacted as McMillan had expected;
pulling away from the path of the laser before it could inflict any
considerable damage. But his ploy had the desired effect for as the
battle joined between the opposing fighter squadrons the enemy
fighter craft were already disorganised.