Voices In The Wilderness

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by William S. Signs

Aboard the Space Ship Gullwind

940 billion kilometers from Clarion, White Light System

09/11/75, 11:11:00 Galactic Standard Time


“..say again,“ Lydia Dawnstar says over comms, as the converted Pacific-class freighter's bridge shakes again,“this is the merchant escort carrier Gullwind, outbound from Gran Quivera, to any nearby craft. Our convoy is under attack from Federation warships, and we require immediate assistance.“


“Gratch,“ the voice of the Gull's Dral engineer, Magoug, says,“those voggers just took out number one engine; numbers two and three are badly damaged and starting to show signs of the abuse we're puttin' 'em through. We're not—“


Another explosion shakes the Gullwind from stem to stern, Gratchu Hakes, captain of this ship since Garlus' death three years ago, keeping his eyes on the holodisplays in front of him, the center one showing the cruiser-sized warship calling itself a destroyer effortlessly closing the range with his ship, the five Dawn-class starliners and the three East Indiamen packed cheek by jowl with those unlucky enough to have survived the devastation wrought by the Juggernaut Fleets on Morgaine's World and Gran Key.


Ackchu, Maylota, keep those voggers off of us!“ the master of the Gullwind barks out, eyes on the right-hand display, showing Streel—PGCStreel since two months ago—built Stinger starfighters and Maurader-class war cruisers—each the size of a corvette—volleying missiles and laser pulses into the Gull's rapidly-failing mag shielding.


“Trying to, gods damn it!“ Maylota Vale's voice replies from inside the port missile battery turret, as yet another explosion shakes the ship.


“Where in the Hells are our fighters!?“ Lydia asks.


“Flying escort for the starliners and East Indiamen,“ Gratchu reminds her,“and clearing those gods-damned mines from their path so they can re-enter the Void.“


A Yazirian male's voice—one known to Gratchu—booms over the speakers:


The morally inferior are not permitted to escape the judgement due them from the One True God and His Chosen Few! Surrender yourselves and those you have unwisely cast your lot with, and, perhaps, some of you may be found worthy of serving the New Frontier!“


“The alternative,“ the Yazirian adds,“is to be taken by force and subjected to the judgement of He is who is your true Lord and Master.“


“Gromaakyaziri!“ Gratchu snarls in reply, staring into the holoprojected face of the traitor who dared demand he submit to that foulness.


The gromaak—a Star Lawman once, like Gratchu had been—merely laughs in his face.


“You slaughtered your own clan, murdered your world, turned against the People,“ Gratchu, hearing his fevered blood roaring in his head, snaps out. “You betrayed your oath, murdered our comrades, helped our enemies destroy the Federation!“


“Sankri,“ he declares, “vara sankri! This, I swear!“


The filth merely chuckles in reply.

“Those alien and perverse ways are precisely why you, your People,“ the traitor tells him,“and all those who believe as you do remain slaves to the Dark Lady and your own innate depravity, why you need the superior beings amongst you to take you in hand and force you to come face to face with the true Light Et—“


The holo abruptly snaps off, the bridge momentarily going dark in a shower of sparks.


“Gratch—“ Magoug starts to say, Gratchu replying,“we've lost another engine, haven't we?“


“We've lost another engine,“ the Dral replies, in a grim a voice as a Dralasite's bellows of a larynx can manage.


That gods-damned traitor chuckles once more over Gratchu's chronocom.


“From the looks of things,“ he remarks,“you soon may not have a choice in the matter. “


“He's right,“ Lydia asks, “isn't he?“


Is he?“ the Gull's astrogator and first mate asks again, an uncharacteristic fear coloring her voice.


“He is wrong,“ Gratchu replies, firing the ship's working maneuver jets, turning its nose to bring the two forward laser cannon to bear on the approaching destroyer.


“Come, gromaak,“ he whispers, the fire in his blood replaced by ice-cool certainty.


“Come,“ he growls softly, left thumb on the firing button atop the joystick.


Aboard the United Planetary Federation Ship Perfect Hatred

940 billion kilometers from Clarion, White Light System

09/11/75, 11:15:26 GST

“Fool,“ whispers Space Commander Chek Groznal, as he watches the decrepitude of a so-called merchant escort carrier turn slowly and dare attack what is simply one of the most advanced warships ever designed.


Only fitting, as the Perfect Hatred is one of the many scourges given to the Chosen Few by the One True God to redeem the Wilderness and usher in the dawn of the New Frontier.


“Let him turn,“ he remarks,“let him try and attack us.“


“Pilot,“ he barks out to the Hatred's executive officer,“the instant the misguided idiot opens fire on us....retaliate.“


“With all the power at your command,“ the master of the Perfect Hatred and commander of Task Unit Leviathan Alfa Two adds.


“At once, Master!“ Commander Holt Newsome replies, Groznal steepling his fingers, relaxing in his command chair—at least as much as the restraints will allow—looking at the fools aboard that freighter, remembering a similar fool, a poor, deluded prok who thought it was more than what it was, same as all the rest.


It had been simpleminded enough to believe his pretense of friendship to be the genuine thing, when it knew full well that someone such as him could never lower himself to befriend any creature incapable of friendship or anything else other than perversity.


Groznal's memories take him back to that day, two months ago, when all their hard work had, at last, come to fruition, the Juggernaut Fleets they had built unleashing righteous judgement and final punishment against Star Law and the Old Frontier of sin and decadence they had so been so dilligent in protecting these past one hundred years.


Even then, that prok had insisted on denying it was a prok, insisted on denying the inevitable defeat of its unclean, unholy way of life and the equally inevitable dawn of the New Frontier, insisted on attacking him, on hurling its wreckage of a gunship against the Juggernaut Fleets based at Plague World Delta, on seizing the helm of that ancient excuse for a destroyer, hurling it headlong against judgement and final punishment for all its subnormal kind.


He chuckles again, the freighter almost completely turning its nose to face the 42,053-ton Exalted-class destroyer...certainly, it had hurt the New Frontier's efforts at redeemption that day, but, it could not stop them, any more than—


“Master!“ the Perfect Hatred's sensor tech shouts from behind Groznal. “Multiple unidentifed starships emerging from the Void, plus zero, one-eight-zero-zero Zulu, fifteen thousand and closing rapi—“


The remainder of his comment is drowned out by the staccato concussions tearing the Perfect Hatred apart, as Groznal howls in rage.


“...you gods-damned slaggin' traitor,“ Hannah screams, firing the Albratross' main beams into the Osprey II, sending atmosphere gushing forth into the night, as the monstrous warship filling up most of the holodisplay plows its way through much of what remains of 109 and Joint Reation Force 2.


“Captain,“ Lieutenant Star Law M'kx Vraxis reports,“radiation is increasing, mag shielding is destroyed, along with the massdrivers and the las batteries, Void engine's severely damaged, drivefield generator's destroyed; containment's failing, and we have neither an engineer nor a fully-functional engine computer to—“


Hannah ignores her second in command, tries not to think about all those dead on the bridge around the two of them, focusing her attention solelly on the massive warship lumbering its way to Void speed, a brace of warships of various unknown types flying close escort around it.


She transfers torpedo control from the charred remains of Gorop's station to hers, as she aims her mortally-wounded....


...Dirk towards Darkworld Station, trying desperately to draw the Malthar's thugs away from the Gull and the McCoy, the near-dead assault scout's one remaining nuclear engine firing fitfully in response to....


Aboard the Free Alliance Ship Melinda McCoy

940 billion kilometers from Clarion, White Light System

09/11/75, 11:17:09 GST


...her command has all the McCoy's weapons blazing the instant the elderly Star Law destroyer—now Star Forces heavy cruiser—emerges from the Void fifteen thousand klicks from the enemy ship now slewing about on its maneuver jet to bring some of its weapons to bear on its smaller antagonist.


Just ahead, micromissiles from the ship's four missile batteries, massdriven depleted uranium slugs from her four heavy massdriver batteries, and beams from her pair of medium laser batteries vaporize both of the smaller enemy cruisers and the Stinger starfighters blasting away at Gar's ship.


Not Gar's ship anymore, Fleet Captain Hannah Creed has to remind herself, hasn't been in the three years since that miserable vogger died of cancer.


She's visited his grave on Clarion once, maybe twice in those three years, and, still, she doesn't know how to feel about her older half brother being gone, without even so much as an slagging apology for everything he'd done to her.


Nor is this the time to even start trying to sort her feelings out, not with that so-called New Frontier warship behind her now, its maneuver jet vectrals flaring all along its belly, as it makes another slow turn, its battery weapons duelling with the McCoy's batteries, as the range between the two ships opens rapidly.


“Void speed,“ the ship's astrogator, Ensign MacKenzie Parker, reports,“in three minutes, twenty seconds.“


The bridge lights dim, as some of the enemy ship's shots strike the after mag shielding squarely.


“Captain,“ the McCoy's sensor tech, Master Chief Star Law—Star Forces—B'ralken B'rk, reports,“am detecting a mixed group of eight civilian ships, three East Indiaman-class bulk freighters and five Dawn-class starliners, at plus two-seven, one-two-three-zero Zulu, eighty thousand from us and closing rapidly.“


The Vrusk male then adds:


“They're under attack by sixty Reaver bombers and thirty-seven Stinger starfighters, with only a half dozen War Pigs and...holy vog, Shadow Stars?!“


“Shadow Star Zs,“ the McCoy's pilot and executive officer, Lieutenant Star Forces M'kx Vraxis, replies,“to be precise.“


“Whatever they are, XO,“ her fellow Vrusk rejoins,“they should be in some vogging museum, not—“


“Fighter group commander,“ Hannah says over comms,“bridge, assist those civilian ships. Astrogator, plot a micro which will line us up for another solid shot at that warship. Guns, launch two of our multi-missile drones to assist those fighters.“


A chorus of “aye, Captain“s greets her orders, Hannah watching the tactical holodisplay, showing plasma jet-driven Shadow Star fighters dating from the slaggin' Pirate Wars rolling, ducking, and occasionally shooting down more modern and agile Stingers with their wing-mounted machine guns, while four War Pig fighter bombers stick close to the civilian starliners and freighters, sweeping space with their turreted light laser cannon, spearing a Stinger or a Reaver in their beams from time to time.


“I have to say,“ she remarks,“they are holding their own.“


...the soldiers burst into the classroom, snatching children out of their desks, dragging them into the hall screaming, crying, pleading for their teacher to help them.


Except Miss Dearden can't help them, not with all those men in armor on top of her, hitting her, pulling her back to them when she tries crawling away, tearing at her clothes, calling her a filthy prok.


A soldier calls Ali a filthy prok, as he jerks hard on the eleven year old girl's arm, pulling her around so he can slap her repeatedly across her face....


“...show it what all of you are about!“ one of the pirates screams, as the prok gladiator Ali is trying desperately not to fight slashes her good across her breasts with the whip in her hands.


“P-please,“ the sixteen-year old girl stammers, trying again to plead with her,“don't, you don't—“


She screams, as the shock collar brings her to her knees, one of the overseers standing at the edge of the pit hissing out,“it knows what it is, all it could ever be, you filthy little piece of vog! Now, you do the same, show it, show all of us, what you really are, the only gods-damned thing any of you could ever be.“


Fight me, filthy vog,“ Ali's fellow prok screams, as she lays into her with the whip.


Before she grabs and twists Ali's hair, holding her down on her knees, as the pirates' screaming reaches a fever pitch.


“Or submit....“


In the cockpit of a Free Alliance Boomerang

940 billion kilometers from Clarion, White Light System

09/11/75, 11:18:18 GST

“...gods damn it, Mid!“ Chief Petty Officer Evelyn Timmons screams in Midshipman Alissa Quinn's ears, as the dead, twisted remains of a ShadowStar tumble past her F-19J Boomerang starfighter, a Stinger pounding it with its electron cannon, as it bullets over her, the crosshairs in the windscreen changing to green and blinking, the sixteen year old Star Forces midshipman not hesitating to crush the red button on her joystick with her left thumb, the ten light laser cannon in the leading edges of her fighter's wings instantly incinerating the New Frontier fighter.


“You could've just as easily been the poor vogger in that ShadowStar!“ her team leader berates her, Ali swallowing the tears, choking down the memories those words bring up, as she charges towards the Reaver bombers which their CAG has ordered the three fighters of her team to shoot down.


Pay attention!“ Chief Timmons adds, Ali acquiring the bomber at the trailing edge of the formation, driving laser pulses from the light cannon and the laser pod on the Boomerang's centerline into the Reaver's mag shielding, the bomber returning her fire with fusillades from its three electron batteries, Ali hardly needing Chief Timmons' cursing or Midshipman Delia Cael's shouting “juke, gods damn it, juke for the love of the Light Eternal!“ to jink her Boomerang just barely out of the line of fire.


The tip of her left thumb flicks the switch at the top of her joystick, sending micromissiles flying from the hardpoints on both wings, two of them slipping through the bomber's rear shielding to spray its hot junk across the night.


The remaining two slamming into the rear shielding of the next bomber in line, hardly making a ripple in the field of coherent magnetic energy, Ali loosing six more missiles, tying up the bomber's electron batteries, the young pilot ignoring her team leader's patronizing,“good girl, you're using your bloody head for a change,“ as she looses a pulse from the laser pod.


The bluish-white hot beam slices the Reaver in two, the one in line ahead of it disappearing in a cloud of vaporized metal and hot gas.


Chief Timmons and Dee dispatch the next pair in formation, before a full squadron of Stingers charges towards them, guns blazing.


“Right, kiddos,“ Chief Timmons orders,“stay on my wing, and fire on my mark.“


A viff of maneuver jet thrust slides all three fighters into the path of the enemy fighter immediately to their left, Chief Timmons barking out “mark!“ and all three Boomerangs fire their light lasers, instantly dispatching their target.


“Quickly now, move!“ Chief Timmons snaps out, the three Free Alliance machines continuing their slide to the left, as they take out the remaining two fighters on that side.


“Fire micromissiles along your six,“ Chief Timmons orders, the tactical holodisplay in Ali's fighter showing her the other three New Frontier machines turning over, as they pass her team, firing their maneuver jets to line them up for a shot at the Boomerangs' tailpipes.


“Mark!“ Chief Timmons snaps, and micromissiles fly from all three Free Alliance fighters, hammering their adversaries into dust, as Ali and the others target the remaining four enemy bombers.


“Gods damn it all, they're breaking formation!“ Dee snaps over comms, Chief Timmons replying,“I see that, Mid; means one of us has to target two of the voggers is all.“


As her team leader says this, a light laser battery on one of the East Indiamen opens up and tears through the mag shielding of the bomber closest to it to send it cartwheeling through space, a ShadowStar ripping into its remains with its machine guns, as Ali lines up one of the remaining three bombers in her sights and—


Holy vogging Hells!


A Dawn-class starliner's lenticular spaceframe flashes briefly, before it disappears in a roar of hot light, the bomber Ali was about to blast ramming the Dawn at full speed, an East Indiaman going up at the same time, Dee cursing the Reaver which rammed itself into the freighter.


“For vog's sake, kill that last Reaver!“ their team leader shouts, Dee chasing the remaining bomber with a flight of micromissiles, Ali firing the maneuver jet to bring her lasers to bear on its starboard side, tearing through the Reaver's shielding, as its electron batteries struggle to shoot down Dee's missiles, and Chief Timmons drives more laser pulses into the bomber's opposite flank.


The Reaver comes apart like an overripe bog melon, spilling vented atmo and bodies into space.


And, the radar alarm shrills in Ali's ears.


Creet!“ she curses, watching a trio of Stingers slip in behind her, lining her Boomerang up for the kill shot.


And, all she gets when she flips the switch to launch more micromissiles is an angry buzzing.


She's completely out.


Just voggin' great, she thinks to herself, observing that neither of her teammates is in any position to help her.


She starts to pull back on the stick, knowing she's just as dead turning over to bring her lasers to bear, as she would be if she does nothing.


She nods her head in resigned acceptance, taking a deep breath, as she prepares.


And, the tactical display lights up, a huge blip of energy obscuring the positions of the three Stingers.


Their former positions, rather, micromissiles from one of the elderly merchant carrier's batteries dispatching them as they'd been lining themselves up to take out Ali.


“Whoever you are,“ she whispers in relief,“thanks.“


No reply from the carrier, the tactical display showing it with its nose pointed dead at the New Frontier destroyer.


For the second or two it remains alive, both it and the destroyer firing their main beams, only the New Frontier warship surviving the exchange.


“Vog,“ Ali whispers.


Aboard the UPFS Perfect Hatred

940 billion kilometers from Clarion, White Light System

09/11/75, 11:20:00 GST


The screaming of the weak echoes through a bridge lit by fire and sparks, the deck underneath Groznal's hands and knees trembling, as his command tears itself apart.


“All systems offline, Master,“ the ship's chief engineer, Fleet Lieutenant Jon Callan reports over his chronocom's wireless earbud receiver,“Void engines one and three completely destroyed, containment failure in number two Void engine, ordinance bay hit, ordinance detonating; maintenace bots are clearing the hangar—“


“All surviving crew to the hangar bay, now!“ Groznal shouts, as he finally, painfully struggles to his feet.


“Master,“ Newsome speaks up,“given our current vector and the vector we would have to take to reach the proks aboard those ships, we will be unable to decelerate in time for a boarding attempt.“


“We're not going to board those ships, XO,“ Groznal, swallowing metallic blood, replies.


“Master?!“ comes the piteous, pathetic reply.


“I spoke perfect Pan-Galactic, and I did not stutter, Commander,“ Groznal barks. “Or, are you afraid?!“


“No, Master,“ Newsome replies, as Groznal holds on to the hatchway leading from the bridge towards the hangar bay on the after middeck.


“I know what awaits me in the life to come,“ the Hatred's pilot adds.


Only if you have the courage to give back the life He gave to you,“ Groznal remarks,“when He asks that of you.“


“Yes, Master,“ Newsome says, as Groznal steps through the hatchway, walks through the officer's wardroom, and enters the hatch at the opposite end of the ship which opens onto the dying Exalted-class destroyer's hangar bay.


Aboard the FAS Melinda McCoy

940 billion kilometers from Clarion, White Light System

09/11/75, 11:20:08 GST

“Creet!“ Hannah screams, as the Exalted-class destroyer vomits forth a swarm of fighters, bombers and dropships an instant before it dies.


“Guns,“ she barks out,“target all batteries on those ships and voggin burn them down! Defensive—“


“Twelve enemy ships emerging from the Void,“ B'ralken cries out,“at plus four-five, one-two-zero-niner Zulu, 45,500 from the civilian ships and closing rapidly!“


Hannah sees the new arrivals on the tactical holodisplay, the McCoy's master computer quick to ID them as two Marauder-class war cruisers, two Shadow-class escort carriers and eight Hatchet-class corvettes, the latter craft the size and mass of assault scouts.


Of course, Hannah observes grimly, we don't have any more assault scouts, not after the Juggernauts got through with us.


“Guns,“ she says out loud,“launch all multi-missile drones on an intercept vector for the destroyer's small craft! Bomber group, bridge, launch immediately on an intercept vector for the enemy 'vettes and cruisers! Astrogator, plot a micro which will put us in their midst, execute the instant we reach Void speed.“


Present velocity 2,994 kilometers per second and accelerating at eight gravities,“ Kenzie replies. “Void entry in one minute, fifteen.“


“Bridge,“ the holo of the McCoy's gunnery officer, Ensign Ginz Gamar, reports,“gunnery deck, multi-missile drones away, bombers away, all other weapons standing by.“


“Captain,“ B'ralken then tells her,“six Liberty-class gunsh—patrol cruisers, six Liberty-class patrol cruisers emerging from the Void at plus one-zero, one-six-zero-zero Zulu, 15,000 from the enemy task units and closing....“


“What, Master B'rk?“ Hannah asks, instantly picking up on the hesitation in his voice, as a sick feeling forms in the pit of her stomach.


Energy sensors,“ her chief sensor tech replies,“ detecting heat and radiation traces at plus two-seven, one-two-three-zero Zulu, eighty thou—“


Astrogator,“ Hannah shouts, cursing her own vogging stupidity,“ cancel previous vector, aim us right for those heat and rad traces; guns, redirect those vogging bombers and dr—“


“Holy creet,“ she hears M'kx whisper, as a pair of Exalted-class destroyers emerge from the Void in the midst of the surviving civilian ships, blasting three starliners and an East Indiaman in quick succession.


“What the vog are you all waiting for?!“ Hannah demands, just before her ship enters the Void. “Get us in there so we can kill the slags!“


Aboard the UPFS Leviathan

1 light year from the White Light System

09/11/75, 11:21:50 GST


Two shiploads of stinking, filthy prok remain.


Victory is at hand, and Fleet Admiral Jacob Maar, Chief of Military Operations for the New Frontier, former Chief of Naval Operations for the Truane's Star Democratic Navy, smiles as he stands on the bridge of his flagship, watching yet another in an endless string of triumphs for the Chosen of the One True God unfold on the fifty-seven million ton dreadnaught's tactical holodisplay.


It has taken almost five centuries, but it would come to pass, the final and inevitable punishment of the morally inferior and the redeemption of the worlds of His domain which the proks had resisted for so very long, the final victory which would've eluded them still had the Streels had been permitted to remain in charge of executing His Great Cause.


In capturing Samson, and causing the removal of the other three, Maar observes, the fools set the stage for Our Manifest Destiny to finally be realized...they may resist His will, but even they are puppets to be manipulated by their Progenitor and their Lord for His sake.


The archaic relics of another, more sinful time close with the pair of Exalted-class destroyers visiting violent judgement on those who dared think they could escape His righteous wrath for the sin of having been born filthy, howling creatures of the Wilderness and its Dark Mistress.


“And, the Chosen Few,“ he says softly, the seventh verse of the twenty-third chapter of the Tome of the Sovereigns coming to mind,“entered forcibly into the houses of the procreators, where the harlots wove tapestries for the wood.“


“And,“ Maar hears the Leviathan's pilot, Fleet Lieutenant Braeden Cotter, say,“They did wreak the terrible vengance of the True God upon the harlots and the procreators, doing violence and things unto them which would be unseemly to do unto those who were Chosen.“


“But,“ Maar concludes,“the slave only understands discipline and bondage, the brute only brutality, and the morally inferior are both slaves and brutes, requiring constant correction from the rods and the staves of their ordained Lords and anointed Masters, lest they be permitted to seduce the Chosen Few away from Their Progenitor and Their Lord and turn Them into willing slaves of willing slaves.“


A fire blazes hotly in the tactical holodisplay.


Only one of His destroyers comes through that fire unharmed, the McCoy-class warship streaking past it, driving pulses from its main lasers into its flanks, the smaller Liberty-class cruisers pelting it with massdriven shells and more pulses as they pass on the other side of it, bombers and multi-missile drones converging on it along its starboard bow, unleashing a fusillade of torpedos against which the destroyer struggles to defend itself.


“There are still the mines, Master,“ Maar's chief of staff, Rear Admiral Orozai Jonz, growls softly from behind him. “They've been unable to clear a path through them, and there are none aboard those ships who know a way through them.“


“The Free Alliance ships do know, and they will be able to upload that data to the astrocomputers of the surviving transports,“ Maar reminds him, watching the destroyer launch its fighters, bombers and dropships, more fighters, bombers, and dropships from Groznal's former ship streaking towards the East Indiaman and the starliner.


“I honestly did not think Groznal capable, Master,“ Jonz remarks.


“How clinging to alien and perverse ways affects your judgement, Admiral,“ Maar reminds his subordinate.“First, you doubted an Amona clansman could even contemplate what the morally inferior consider treason, then you doubt his commitment to our Great Cause, simply because he was an Amona clansman. Was his willingness to commit what they consider mass murder against his homeworld insufficent proof of his transcending the alienness which has kept him, and all of us, trapped for so long?“


“Or,“ he asks,“is it something else, a jealousy for your place at my side that you fear he might someday hold, perhaps? Is that what drives you to sow division amongst our ranks like only one of them would even dare contemplate?!“


It may have been, Master,“ the black-furred Yazirian replies,“but no longer. The True God has shown me the light.“


“As He has done for Groznal,“ he adds.


“As will He do for all of them, Admiral,“ Maar replies.


“As He will do,“ he adds,“through us.“


Aboard the FAS Melinda McCoy

940 billion kilometers from Clarion, White Light System

09/11/75, 11:27:21 GST


Her bridge shakes again, the lights and holodisplays dimming to sparks and darkness.


“Return fire!“ Hannah screams, as the McCoy lets fly with the whole of her arsenal, the ship's chief engineer, Ensign Tulopa, wheezing and whistling over comms,“we've repaired the breach in the after middeck, but we've taken some damage to the energy sensors and the electronic countermeasure systems, and, we've got a second breach on the gunnery deck that the damage control bots are working on.“


“Casaulties?“ Hannah asks, afraid to, not wanting to think about all those she's already gotten killed over the years.


“Four dead, “ the ship's chief medical officer, Lieutenant Kenneth Atwater, reports over comms,“nineteen wounded.“


Out of a crew of 114, Hannah thinks, and that's not counting the number of fighter pilots and bomber crews who aren't going to make it back.


“Slag,“ she remarks, watching her ship tear her way through twelve enemy 'vettes, escort carriers and war cruisers, Stinger starfighters slashing across the former Star Law destroyer's bow to be shot down by the ship's interceptor launchers and battery weapons, as multi-missile drones salvo waves of seeker missiles towards her, and the McCoy's anti-beam missile launchers struggle to counter volley upon volley of electron bolts fired by the ships she leaves in her wake.


“Subspace radar,“ B'ralken reports,“getting a solid return at plus zero, one-five-zero-one Zulu, distance, 0.9 light years.“


“Lots of 'em, Captain,“ he adds,“including four that are voggin' huge.“


“The Leviathans,“ Hannah says to herself....


...the bridge explodes and falls down around them, as the mortally-wounded Albratross emerges screaming from the Void, only a section of the Juggernaut's port side filling the entire holodisplay between her and M'kx, Hannah flipping the switch which sends all four of the gunship's torps flying, Hannah twisting the stick to try and maneuver the ship clear, when the bridge explodes one last time, ripping Hannah and her chair loose of the deck, sending her crashing into the ceiling.


She hears the explosive bolts detaching the Albatross' bridge from the rest of the ship, the bridge section's plasma jets propelling it somewhere, as Hannah's world spins slowly down into darkness....


“...Void speed in five minutes,“ Kenzie reports, as the Melinda McCoy flies through a Shadow-class escort carrier's exploded corpse.


Hannah instantly considers and rejects trying to take out one of the Leviathans as payback for what happened two months ago...that would only get her ship blasted to Hells and gone by every one of those other vogging ships in the process, and it wouldn't do those two surviving ships full of refugees any good.


Not an option.


Not as long as she wears this uniform.


“Plot a vector back towards those transports,“ she decides. “Comms, query the starliner and the East Indiaman, see how long they have 'til they can hit Void speed.“


“Seekers inbound, Captain,“ B'ralken reports, as the bridge lights dim again. “Plus zero-two, one-six-three-five Zulu, closing fast at thirty thousand.“


“Energy sensors completely repaired,“ Tulopa reports,“Electronic countermeasures will be back on line in one minute thirty, all hull breaches mended.“


“Captain,“ the McCoy's comm tech, Chief Petty Officer Mennaz Sherakee, reports,“the captains of the starliner and freighter both report they will reach Void speed in eight minutes, but, with the mines still in place ahead of them—“


“Tell them to let us worry about the mines,“ Hannah replies.


“There is one other concern, Captain,“ her Yazirian female comm tech adds. “There are several hundred lifeboats, escape pods and survival bubbles floating through space from the ships which were destroyed; they don't want to leave them behind, but—“


“They can't make it into the Void on their own,“ Hannah finishes.


“Affirmative, Captain,“ Mennaz says, with mounting frustration in her voice.


“Gods damn it,“ Hannah interjects, as the McCoy's main lasers burn down a pair of corvettes.


In the cockpit of a Free Alliance Boomerang

940 billion kilometers from Clarion, White Light System

09/11/75, 11:29:44 GST


Ali would scream right now if she thought it'd do any vogging good.


Her Boomerang's tail is towards the retreating transports, as it continues moving away from the approaching swarm of Stingers, Reavers, dropships, shuttlecraft and launches, another swarm of enemy small craft coming at her from her port wing, the young Star Forces fighter pilot barely noticing the pain in her left thumb and forefinger, as they keep crushing firing triggers to send laser pulses towards the ones directly ahead of her, before firing the maneuver jet to point her ship at the ones coming to starboard, fire off a shot at them, and turn back around to face the first enemy group.


Electron bolts and micromissiles fly from all the armed enemy small craft, blasting more ragged holes in their ranks...twenty Boomerangs and six Star Hawk-T bombers remaining, none of the escort carrier's War Pigs or ShadowStars left, and the patrol cruisers are sticking close to the freighter and starliner.


Between the thin line of Star Forces small craft and the mass of New Frontier machines are hundreds of lifeboats, creet buckets, and duckies, like the one she has on her equipment belt, all of them either drifting through space or thrusting towards the larger starships with their plasma jets, some of the lifeboats stopping long enough to recover survival bubbles, setting themselves up as perfect targets for the enemy's guns.


They don't have one chance in Hells of making it out of here, she thinks to herself for only the millionth vogging time in the past few minutes, not without Void engines, and it'll take hours to get jump tugs and escorts out here to round them all up.


Which we don't have, she adds, firing into a group of Stingers directly ahead of her, removing their threat to the lifeboats fishing duckies out of the dark, before she has to jink to avoid incoming micromissiles hard to port.


She shakes them, but another five Boomerangs aren't as lucky, electron bolts zipping past her to collapse the mag shielding on another one of the McCoy's Star Hawks, before they vaporize the bomber between them, retaliatory fire from the surviving four Star Hawks' light laser batteries annhilating more enemy craft along her port side.


“All right, kids,“ Timmons' voice says again,“on my mark, turn to p—“


And her team leader's voice disappears in a blast of static Ali's come to associate with being blown out of the sky in mid-transmission, Ali whipping her Boomerrang's nose around, firing blindly into the enemy formation.


Staying in one place just a nanosecond too long.


That nanosecond is long enough for a gunner on one of the approaching dropships to get a clear shot with his chin-mounted electron battery, the resulting white-hot bolt of lightning blasting her ship apart, Dee screaming “Lissa![she hates being called Lissa]“ in her ears, as the explosive bolts blast her seat clear of the destroyed Boomerang, the duckie on her belt inflating instantly, encapsulating her in polymer and life-support gel which chokes her as it goes down her throat to fill her lungs and place her in a state of metabolic stasis which would keep her alive for as long as it took for her to be recovered.


Which looks like about another five or six seconds, the dropship which shot her down lowering its forward cargo ramp, as it moves to engulf her.


She shudders at the memories the proposition of recapture bring up, her hands instantly going to the butt of her M-29 heavy laser pistol and the handle of her starfire blade.


Not vogging going back there.


Ever.


Aboard the UPFS Armageddon Airlines

940 billion kilometers from Clarion, White Light System

09/11/75, 11:32:11 GST


Groznal smiles, as he watches the survival bubble slowly enter the dropship's troop bay.


The young prok inside it, with its eyes closed, its long, wavy dark hair in a fan around its smallish head, almost causes him to weaken and forget the duty he owed to the law, the justice and the New Frontier which had been the only means of ever securing these things for all the Frontier's citizens.


“Shock sticks and electrowhips only,“ he orders the Landfleet troops and Spacefleet crew gathered round him, Groznal activating his own electrowhip, hearing the crackle of energy coursing through the flexible steel cable once the forward cargo ramp closes and the troop bay repressurizes.


“Deflate—“ he manages to say to the Vrusk technician standing next to him, before the interior of the bubble blazes as blindingly bright as the heart of the sun, causing the Yazirian male to double over in pain, as even his sungoggles are inadequate against the searing white-hot roar.


Groznal hears lesser beings scream their weakness before their Progenitor and their Lord, before they are delivered to judgement in the life to come, the former Star Lawman lashing out blindly with his electrowhip, howling, as the animal rage takes him, howling even louder, as the whip burns his hand, through the gauntlet of his shipsuit, its diamond-fiber skeinweave and shock-abosrbent gel melting and vaporizing, the stench assaulting his nose even through the filters of the suit's inflatable clear polymer/skeinweave hood.


The soldier of the New Frontier staggers back, enough of his vision returning for him to realize the slagged stump of electrowhip is useless to him now, Groznal instead reaching for his sonic sword, the blade activating with a scream of rage mirroring his scream of rage, as he draws it to parry the shaft of white light.


The burning brightness shimmers like a bell ringing, as his blade passes through the pure plasma of the starfire blade, the prok slashing across his chest with a wild animal howling matching the ferocity of the fire erupting in Groznal's chest and burning his lungs to ash.


Ice all too soon dissipates fire, Groznal's entire body gripped by the enervating cold, as he sags to the deck of the troopship, the Yazirian male looking up, meeting the cold, blue eyes of his erstwhile killer.


Hannah, he thinks, before he surrenders himself to judgement in the life to come, has eyes like that.


Aboard the UPFS Leviathan

1.0 light year from the White Light System

09/11/75, 11:33:59 GST


Maar watches dispassionately, as the McCoy-class warship emerges from the Void in front of the transport and starliner presuming they had the right to take those proks from their True Lord and the punishment He had ordained for them.


“According to the chief astrogator's latest calculations,“ Jonz remarks,“they have another five minutes before they reach Void speed.“


Maar clenches both fists tightly, as they hang by his sides.


“Look at all those craft, Admiral,“ he says.


“Tell me,“ he asks,“what are their chances of surviving those five minutes?“


“None,“ his chief of staff remarks.


“The One is good to His Chosen Few,“ he adds.


“And for those He has cast out—“ Maar starts to say, exultation building in his voice.


“Just, Master,“ Jonz replies. “He is just.“


Correct, Admiral,“ Maar concludes, the urge to laugh out loud almost too much for him to control.


But he does.


He is one the Chosen Few after all.


As he continues watching, one of the dropships from the Perfect Hatred opens fire on a group of Stingers and Reavers which have slipped past the rapidly dwindling number of enemy small craft, its electron and micromissile batteries instantly annhilating that one group, the rogue dropship orienting itself to face another to its starboard, the vessel continuing to move forward, towards a cluster of survival bubbles drifting by themselves a few kilometers further ahead.


“Master!“ Jonz almost shrieks in his ear.


“What of it, Jonz?“ Maar asks, still fighting the urge to laugh out loud.


“It is one ship,“ he reminds him. “We are many. Is Legion not one of the many names of the True God, Admiral.“


“You are correct, Master,“ a suitably chastened Jonz replies, as the rogue dropship continues spinning and moving towards the survival bubbles, its weapons shooting down more of the New Frontier's small craft.


But not enough.


It would never be enough.


Legion was also one of the many names of His Chosen Few.


Aboard the FAS Melinda McCoy

940 billion kilometers from Clarion, White Light System

09/11/75, 11:37:45 GST


“Vog,“ M'kx curses, as the bridge lights dim again, the McCoy's battery gunners continuing to duel with the enemy small craft which get past the veteran former Star Law ship's rapidly-dwindling air group.


There's no time to recover them...in another ten seconds, the McCoy will enter the Void, her astrocomp linked with those on the starliner and freighter to lead them through the mines the New Frontier have sown in an attempt to deny access to the system, and her twelve surviving Boomerangs and single remaining Star Hawk-T(plus whoever's flying that captured New Frontier dropship) will be left to fend for themselves for gods only know how long.


That vacs shaft.


More so, as there isn't a gods-damned thing Hannah can do for them now, except pray.


She stopped believing in that long time ago.


Kenzie counts down the seconds to Void entry, space and time twisting and stretching like salt-water taffy, as the ship's twin Void field generators engage with a cacaphonous, howling thrum, and the three vessels briefly travel at 350 times the speed of light, re-emerging in normal space—


Vog!


The misjump's put them several hundred kilometers from White Light itself, the red-orange dwarf star filling the whole of the tactical holodisplay, shooting fire into the night, as McCoy's pilot and astrogator guide the three interlinked ships into an orbit which will allow the star's gravity to slingshot them into a vector for Clarion.


But, even as they turn over and start their deceleration burn, Hannah knows the freighter and starliner are travelling too fast, and the distance to Clarion is fifty million klicks too short for them to make planetfall.


“Comms,“ she snaps,“advise Clarion Spacedock we are going to need a pair of jump tugs thrusting towards us now, if the civilian ships are to have any hope of slowing down enough to make orbit round Clarion.“


“Spacedock Operations,“ Mennaz reports,“says three jump tugs should already be outbound on an intercept vector.“


“We won't need three,“ Hannah replies.


“Of course not, Captain,“ Mennaz says calmly.


“Initiating turnover,“ M'kx reports. “Main beams, ready, aye.“


The McCoy turns back over, her nose pointing towards Clarion, as she picks up speed.


“Astrogation standing by, Captain,“ Kenzie says quietly.


“Engineering standing by,“ Tulopa's equally quiet voice says.


Hannah swallows once...the next order she's about to give has a 95% chance of being the last wrong decision she will make.


But, there's no alternative.


“Engineering, astrogation,“ she barks out, before she can lose her nerve,“initiate emergency crash jump.“


Alarms by the dozen howl in response to that, Tulopa calmly reporting,“Void engine safeties overriden, engine computer answering astrocomp commands and directing overload power to Void field generators—“


“—engine computer now directing masses of matter and antimatter necessary for emergency crash jump. Jump course plotted and ready for execution,“ Kenzie says at the same time, as the engine computers cry out warning of imminent containment failure and impending violent destruction.


“Void field generators coming on line,“ astrogator and engineer say together, Void entry in five, four, three, two, one—“


“Eternal Light, guide our path,“ the master of the Melinda McCoy finds herself whispering, as the Void field generators make a hellish thrumming sound which rattles her teeth.


Aboard the UPFS Armageddon Airlines

940 billion kilometers from Clarion, White Light System

09/11/75, 11:40:00 GST


“Good,“ Ali says to Dee, as her duckie deflates back into its pouch on her shipsuit's belt,“you can help fish them out of space, and I can take the wheel.


She turns on her heel, climbing the ladder leading back up to the dropship's bridge, not giving Dee a chance to even tell her “hi.“


Way she wants it...Dee's a good kid, but she hasn't been through near as much as Ali has, and she knows only too well all that creet's only going to jump out and bite Dee, at the worst possible time.


Better she never gets too close, she concludes, again, in spite of herself, as she sits back down at the pilot's station, overriding the master computer's automatic control of all systems, spinning the dropship at the same time it moves forward, sweeping space clear of New Frontier small craft.


More of the bastards coming towards her and the lifeboat she's trying to line up for a docking attempt.


She glances at the holodisplays, trying to see how many of their ships are left...the McCoy's gone, along with the two surviving civilian starships, all three having probably jumped for the Planarion Belt or Luminere for deceleration and orbital approach to Gollywog.


Eleven Boomerangs and a single Star Hawk are still alive, still trying to stop the flood with mops and buckets, even knowing they stood a good chance of becoming as dead as the rest of their crewmates.


Ali directs the chin-mounted electron battery against a group of Stingers converging on the Star Hawk, firing the two waist-mounted electron batteries at a pair of Reavers trying to crash into the lifeboat she's closing with, the missile battery unleashing a brace of micromissiles which clear space around a group of escape pods.


She soon hears the soft clank! which indicates that the dropship's forward airlock has mated with the rear airlock hatch of the target lifeboat.


Ali shouts to Dee over her chrono,“get them the Hells out of there, quick as you can!“ at the same time she scans space all round her, vectoring electron bolts from the port and starboard batteries at incoming enemy machines, strumming the fingers of her free hand on the console, wishing Dee would hurry up and get those people on board.


She glances at a holodisplay indicating life-support status...a dropship can hold a company of troops—one hundred and twenty beings—plus its own six-person crew.


The number of people on board exceeds that number by at least a hundred warm bodies, not counting the ones Dee's bringing off that lifeboat, and the system's already flashing warnings in bold red letters.


“You might want to cut in the backups, Lissa,“ Dee's voice says over the chrono's wireless earpiece,“otherwise, the air in here's going to get real stale in a hurry.“


“Backups?“ Ali asks, as a half-dozen New Frontier fighters converge on the dropship.


“For the life-support, luv,“ Dee replies, her Molinian accent drawling in Ali's ears and grating on her nerves.“Backup systems s'posed to cut in automatically when the ship exceeds the system's rated capacity.“


At the same time she jinks and returns the inbound fighters' fire, Ali calls up menus and schematics on the dropship's mastercomp—the vogging thing's still trying to fight her, even after she's bypassed its security protocols—trying to find the backup life-support system controls and commands somewhere in the ship's intranet.


“Just vogging great!“ Dee's voice says from directly behind her. “Worthless Streel piece of creet!“


“There are no backups for the bloody life-support system,“ she rants,“so, we'll all have to suffocate, for the sake of saving a few vogging creds!“


Ali's too busy keeping everyone alive to pay attention to Dee's ranting, a Reaver briefly lining the dropship in its sights and letting go with a fusillade of electron bolts against the forward mag shielding, Ali blasting it with all three electron batteries in reply, as she maneuvers towards an escape pod floating powerless in space.


“You're not thinking of picking up any more, are you?!“ is Dee's predictable reply.


“Yes,“ Ali replies, as she links locks with the creet bucket. “Get down there and get whoever's on board out.“


...he slaps her hard across her face again, screaming at her to stop her gods-damned crying and howling, telling her he knows she likes making him....


Aboard the FAS Nightengale

940 billion kilometers from Clarion, White Light System

09/11/75, 11:47:01 GST


...Captain Rhanda Klast sighs explosively, pushing that memory back, as she jinks and lines the 605-ton Liberty-class patrol cruiser up for another shot at the enemy small craft buzzing all round them like plagues of locusts from the ancient tales, the Nightengale's two medium laser batteries and pair of heavy massdriver batteries swatting them by the score, only for scores more to swoop in and take their place.


Rhanda fires the eight heavy laser cannon, occasionally loosing a torpedo into the midst of the enemy mass to vaporize a sizeable, but brief, hole in their ranks, the lights on the bridge dimming, as electron bolts strike the mag shielding from all directions.


The quartet of heavy massdriver cannon in the ship's nose join in, Master Petty Officer Star Forces C'ak T'kla clicking happily away in Vrusk, as she hammers ship after enemy ship into dust with a stream of 12.7-millimeter depleted-uranium projectiles.


“We're almost on top of 'em, Captain,“ Rhanda's astrogator and executive officer, Lieutenant Magdalen Cross, reports, the spherical holodisplay between the piloting and astrogation stations now showing a lifeboat drifting dark and dead in space, a dropship closing rapidly on it, four Stingers forming a V in front of it.


“Gunners,“ C'ak shouts out, as she rips another burst from the cannon into space,“look alive!“


“Opening cargo bay doors,“ the Nightengale's engineer, Ensign Meliza Navaleem, reports, as Rhanda nudges the stick slightly forward to lower the ship over the lifeboat while continuing to travel at near-Void speed.


“Got one!“ exults one of the medium las battery gunners, Petty Officer Kagran, as the Mhneme female fries one of the four Stingers.


C'ak replies,“great, want a medal for that?“ as the three other enemy fighters break formation and come at the Nightengale from three separate vectors.


“Almost there,“ Magda says, as the other medium laser battery gunner, Midshipman Bartoul, vaporizes a second Stinger, the Dral quipping,“do you like your buzzard cooked well or medium?“


“How about keeping us from being cooked at all, Mid,“ the Vrusk chief gunnery officer snaps in un-Vrusk like exasperation, as the two remaining Stingers and the dropship all open fire on the Nightengale, the patrol cruiser's defensive computer salvoing interceptors and anti-beam ordinance in response, as Chief Petty Officer Alic Kraal rips a third Stinger apart with her remotely-controlled heavy massdriver battery, and Petty Officer Monica Welles clips the other one with her four 7.62 millimeter massdriver cannon, sending it cartwheeling through the dark.


“Mag shielding's holding,“ Meliza says, as Nightengale is instants away from passing over the lifeboat,“deploying cargo arm...now!“


“Snagged it!“ she exults, as the dropship stops its deceleration burn, turns over and charges underneath Rhanda's ship, all guns blazing.


“Hurry up and get the bloody thing inside!“ Rhanda screams, all four battery gunners cursing the vogging dropship as it easily jinks out of the way of all the beams and shells being thrown its way.


“Closing cargo bay doors,“ the Yaz female says,“lifeboat is aboard, the Doc and the marines are getting the people aboard it out now.“


Die, you vogger!“ the Mhneme screams, her medium laser battery splitting the dropship down the middle, as it passes underneath and directly astern of the Nightengale


“Grand,“ Rhanda remarks, as she pilots her ship into another cloud of enemy small craft.


Aboard the UPFS Armageddon Airlines

940 billion kilometers from Clarion, White Light System

09/11/75, 11:53:12 GST


“Vogging insane,“ Dee remarks, as she helps a young Human girl—her dolly clasped tight against her dirty, tattered dress—off an escape pod onto the increasingly impoverished atmosphere inside the dropship's troop bay.


“You're absolutely vogging insane, Lissa,“ she repeats to herself, as the lights in the troop bay dim, and the ship undocks from the creet can, jerking madly underneath the sixteen year old Star Forces midshipman's feet, as Lissa directs thrust from the maneuver jet through the vectrals along the belly of this machine.


Dee feels the force of gravity from the acceleration, as the Void engines throttles back up to max burn—the dropship having no a-grav of its own—the lights dimming again, as enemy fire strikes the mag shielding, and the ship returns fire with its own electron and micromissile batteries.


Not even any staydose in the ship's medkit to keep these people under long enough for the air to last, Dee thinks, slowly making her way towards the aft end of the ship, and only four vogging air tanks for the spacesuits in the equipment locker, enough to last these people maybe thirty minutes.


Assuming each of them takes very small breaths, she adds grimly, as she steps cautiously through the mass of beings jammed into every cubic meter of troop bay, a sudden lurch sending her tumbling down the rear cargo ramp—directly underneath the dropship's Void engine—Dee landing on her knees next to the equipment locker, grunting and cursing, as she fights seven gravities' worth of acceleration and the mass of each oxygen tank to wrest all four of them out of the locker and drag them over to the access panel for the life-support system, praying to the Light Eternal that the Streelies at least included an input for external oxygen sources.


The Light apparently decides to shine on Dee this day, the young woman wrenching open the access panel to find five places where she can hook the tanks up to, Dee expending more sweat and cursing to shift the bloody tanks into position and attach them to four of the receptacles, her efforts awarded with four hisses when she turns the spigots on the tanks.


She nods her head, before disconnecting and removing the small tank of ultracompressed air from the back of her shipsuit and attaches it to the last open air inlet...enough for ten hours' worth of air, if she ever had to seal up, another ten minutes, give or take for these people.


“Every little bit,“ she comments to herself, as she tightens the connections.


An instant before the ceiling falls down on her head in a roar of light.


Aboard the FAS Nightengale

940 billion kilometers from Clarion, White Light System

09/11/75, 12:00:00 GST


“Oh, holy vog,“ Magda whispers, Rhanda watching, with a sinking feeling in her stomach, the captured dropship taking several direct hits to its Void engine from a cloud of fighters surrounding it, another dropship moving in for the kill.


No, Rhanda's frantic mind thinks, as she turns Nightengale around, not the kill.


They should, she remarks, memories of two months ago flooding her mind, only be so vogging lucky....


...she desperately pulls at the chain securing her by the neck to the bare floor of the cabin, as he enters.


And activates the collar round her neck, making her scream, twitch, bleed, vish and creet all over herself.

“Disgusting,” he tells her, watching her with narrowing eyes the entire time,”all of your subhuman kind are truly disgusting, and all the lies you tell yourselves and us through the media you control, and the so-called educators you’ve either suborned or infiltrated into our schools does not change that one iota!”

“You,” he hisses,” can pretend all you want you’re not a carnal, subhuman creature controlled by its depravities and perversities, but you cannot, can never fool the One True God and those He Above has chosen to rule in dominion over the worlds of His Creation!”

“You,” he adds, spitting on her,”will not be able to fool Me, for I am the Progenitor and Redeemer of His Chosen Few, I died, broken on the Wheel two thousand years ago, after the humiliations and degradations your obscenity of a race inflicted upon Me , and I came back stronger than I ever was!”

He then whispers:

“You are nothing but vog, and vog is all you will ever be treated as...all even you want to be treated as, even by others of your kind...in time, this truth—your true nakedness—will be all you will be left with, for I will strip....“


...Rhanda screams incoherently, her ship continuing to move away from the New Frontier machines surrounding the crippled dropship, her main beams and batteries banging away at them, trying to stop that other dropship from—


“Oh merciful gods, no,“ she whispers in horror, as the grapples she didn't expect such a small ship to have snare the crippled dropship, the electrical surge travelling through its cabling shorting out the other vessel's electrics.


Aboard the UPFS Leviathan

1.0 light year from the White Light System

09/11/75, 12:03:19 GST


“Do you still have your doubts, Admiral?“ Maar asks, chuckling, as the renegade dropship and the proks on board it are being reeled in towards their judgement and final punishment.


“No, Master,“ Jonz replies quietly, the New Frontier's Chief of Military Operations watching, as several Liberty-class vessels bring their weapons to bear, even as they rapidly move away from their intended targets, the fools still trying to stop the inevitable triumph of the One True God over the harlots and their Wilderness, even knowing it was like trying to stop the Great Flood with mops and buckets.


We will win, Maar thinks, eyes on the tactical holodisplay, and we will not look back on those taken by the Flood, we will not even acknowledge they ever existed once the dawn of the New Frontier shines its light to redeem all His worlds, not just these few we've confined to by the proks, but every single one of them, all the way to Terra itself, where we shall gather as a mighty host to stomp the She who exiled Us face down into subjugation under our proud boots.


A few more Stingers wink out from around the grappled dropship, as the pathetic handful of enemy fighters turn their guns to do what little they can to try and halt the inexorable force of His Perfect Will.


...a yellow sun suddenly turns red, shrinking rapidly, before it blossoms white and hot to incinerate every single Star Forces ship emerging from the Void inside its system.


A rectangular grey slab of a ship, patched and scarred from millenia of battle damage, turns slowly away from the destroyed star system, its four Void engines propelling it towards Void speed at max burn, letters in scarred and flaking white paint spelling out “AWANDCRK“ visible along the forward dorsal section.


Two words are spraypainted in black letters across the flanks of the slab-like ship.


Necropolis Major....


Aboard the FAS Melinda McCoy

940 billion kilometers from Clarion, White Light System

09/11/75, 12:05:30 GST


...she has no time to wonder what the vog that was about, her bridge exploding and raining sparks and broken wiring on her head, Tulopa shrieking,“severe damage to both Void engines, number two Void field generator completely burned out, containment destablilizing, engine housings breached and bleeding antimatter and coolant, no better than four gravities possible until repaired! All decks opened to space, damage control bots attempting to seal them!“


“Bridge, medical!“ Kenneth shouts out. “We've sustained casaulities, one dead, six wounded!“


“Torpedos away!“ Master Petty Officer Ang Trelane's shouts over Hannah's chronocom. “All batteries have acquired targets and are engaging!“


“We lost Ginz, Captain,“ her chief medical officer then adds.


“Vog,“ Hannah swears.


“Firing main beams,“ M'kx reports, a dropship reeling in another dropship disappearing in the tactical display, leaving the grappled dropship to tumble gently in the darkness.


“Marines to the dropship,“ Hannah snaps over comms. “Marines to the dropship.“


“This is probably moot, Astrogator,“ she asks, “but, are we where we're supposed to be?“


“Affirmative, Captain,“ Kenzie replies, as the damaged McCoy blasts her way through New Frontier small craft.


Hannah nods her head.


“Engineering,“ she says,“effect what repairs you can. Marines, dock with that dropship floating dead in space.“


“Everyone else,“ she adds,“let's mop up and get to work.“


“...I-i'm s-sorry,“ Mechel blubbers, as she's forced to kneel on the stage in front of the other proks, an overseer standing behind her, prepared to activate the implant in her head at the slightest provocation.


“I-i am,“ Mechel says,“a d-dirty pr-procreator, carnal, perverse and depraved, who makes others impregnate me, so that I m-may trap them into becoming as filthy as I am.“


“No,“ Ali says, as she's forced to kneel and watch this,“no, you're n—“


White fire explodes in her brain, and the fifteen-year old girl hears someone using her voice to scream, as she struggles to crawl blindly along the littered, broken street which had once been the main highway to Buckerton's spaceport.


She hears voices echoing, some of them surprised as she is to see her fighting the implant, others insisting it wasn't possible, it is a prok, a stinking, filthy piece of vog, for True God's sake, there's no possible way it could fight something He above had created for its subjugation.


“...I beg the forgiveness of my Masters, my Mistresses,“ Mechel continues sobbing,“and of my Progenitor and Lord, for profaning His Creation by conceiving and bearing the ab-b-b....“


Aboard the UPFS Armageddon Airlines

940 billion kilometers from Clarion, White Light System

09/11/75, 12:17:01 GST


...and, now she's gotten Dee into that exact, same vogging hell.


“Answer me, gods damn you!“ Ali screams into her chrono, stumbling out of the dropship's pitch-dark bridge and down the ladder leading into the troop bay.


“C'mon, Dee, please,“ she pleads with her, just another plea amongst hundreds from more people she's led to the same vogging gods-damned place she led Mechel not so very long ago, simply by giving a damn.


She should know better by now all that does is to make other people suffer a long time, before they had to beg gods, bastards and bitches for a slow, sick, vogging death.


If they were lucky....


“...Mechel, please,“ Ali sobs and begs, the other girl twisting her hair even more tightly in her left hand, her right hand touching her breasts with the tip of her buzzing electrowhip,“please, this isn't you, I know this, you—“


Mechel spits on her.


“We are proks,“ she hisses at her, the pirates and the overseers cheering her on,“filthy pieces of vog. This is how we all are, no matter what we pretend to be.“


Vog,“ she then says, jerking her head back so she has no choice but to look into her beautiful dark eyes ,“is all I ever thought of you as, a stinking, filthy piece of vog, not even good enough to be vog.“


Ali closes her eyes, crying, even as Mechel mocks her tears.


Ali doesn't give a good gods-damn if Mechel whips her, until she's stone slaggin' dead.


She's....


...already killed the last little piece of Alissa Quin which had stupidly insisted on living.


She hears the clank! of airlocks mating, the sixteen-year old Star Forces fighter pilot standing in front of the forward airlock, laser pistol drawn, starfire blade ignited, in the midst of burnt, blasted corpses continuing to weep powdery blood into the dimly-lit gloom.


She's dead already.


She won't let Dee or any of the others end up the same way.


Aboard the UPFS Armageddon Airlines

940 billion kilometers from Clarion, White Light System

09/11/75, 12:18:25 GST


“Hey, hey, friendly fire! Friendly fire!“ Ensign Bron Bluz shouts, ducking down as the crazy Human girl opens fire with the M-29 in her left hand, the starfire blade a whirling column of white fire in her right, her blue eyes alight with the madness of someone deep in the sankvay that the People are unfortunately known for to the exclusion of all else.


Bron dials his M-150 laser rifle all the way down to taser, firing a low-powered las pulse carrying electrical current with enough jolt to knock her unconscious.


Of course, it doesn't, it just makes her more angry, the girl swinging her starfire blade in an arc guranteed to take off the Navaleem clansman's head had he not chosen that moment to duck.


“Combine your fire, hodas!“ he barks out over the powered skeinsuit's comms. “Stunning force, fire!“


Six arcs of electricity accomplish what one couldn't, Bron shouting out,“Corpsmen, at the double!“ as the commander of the Melinda McCoy's twenty-seven Marines kneels down next to the unconscious girl, checking for a pulse, just to make sure they didn't use too much force to stop her.


Her eyes are moving rapidly behind closed eyelids, and her pulse is strong, Bron nodding his head, as he orders his four squads of Marines and two of his three corpsmen to “start getting the others aboard the dropship.“


“Bron,“ Chief Petty Officer Star Forces H'ekn Tulk says, the veteran Marine aware of the whirring of a medscanner,“there's a implant of some sort in her head.“


“The anti-shock implant half the vogging Frontier has, probably,“ Bron remarks.


“No,“ H'ekn says, his voice visibly strained.


The Vrusk who's been Bron's friend through thirty years of service needs only say one word for him to understand:


“Krataar.“


“Creet,“ Bron swears.


“The same?“ he asks.


“Similar,“ H'ekn replies,“not the same, thank gods; otherwise, her head would already have exploded.“


“But,“ Bron's chief corpsman adds,“entirely too similar.“


“Merciful gods,“ Bron whispers...such implants had been at the bottom of LaGrange's plan to exterminate all Vrusk from the whole of Krataar seven years ago.


Special Branch—Star Law Special Branch—had determined those implants to have been built by the grunagromaak.


Even though the Great Enemy had not otherwise shown themselves since their final defeat at Laco nearly 380 years ago.


“Las martas,“ he whispers in Yazirian, afraid to speak the name aloud in Pan-Galactic, for fear of waking the dead.