 
Dione's War Part 1: End of Order

Copyright 2016 by J.J. Mainor

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Legacy's Lament

Recriminations

Captain's Triumph

Author's Notes

Also By J.J. Mainor

Legacy's Lament

"Red alert! All hands to stations!"

Lieutenant Junior Grade Jack Corbitt dove from his bed, glancing to the chronometer on his nightstand as he slipped his legs through the flight suit and into his shoes waiting on the floor. Ten more minutes and he would have been up anyway. Emergencies never pay mind to the time or to duty shifts. Just like his shower and breakfast, Corbitt had to accept the loss of those ten precious minutes.

A red alert signaled only the most severe emergencies. Every second counted which was why he couldn't pause to finish dressing. He grabbed a meal bar between his teeth and raced out to the corridor, into a sea of half-dressed officers and crewmen. Each one threw their shirts on or set their belt buckles in a chaotic dance of preparedness.

As a flight officer, Corbitt only had his one-piece flight suit to navigate. His arms entered the sleeves, managing to avoid striking one woman just then darting from her cabin. Then in a smooth movement suggesting plenty of practice in speed dressing, he grasped the zipper and closed the suit.

Reaching the fireman's pole, he threw his hat onto his head while awaiting his turn. With almost five hundred men and women all rushing off to their duty stations, the lifts were impractical. Ladders at various points throughout the ship made for movement up the decks without waiting for a free car. For downward movement, the fireman's poles spaced throughout provided the fastest and most thrilling route.

Corbitt wrapped the pole in his elbow and placed it between his feet as he stepped off. It took a bit of skill to stop oneself at the desired deck, but since the flight deck was all the way to the bottom, his only concern was not hitting the floor in a pure free-fall.

The meal bar was consumed on route to the hangar bay, and spying the flight chief, Lieutenant Commander Park, Corbitt raced over with the other flight officers while he stowed the empty wrapper in one of the pockets.

"This is it boys and girls," Park boomed out to officers and support staff alike, "The Vandals left Mars and are on their way here. You have thirty minutes to get through your pre-flight checks. I want fighter pilots locked in and ready in forty-five. Troop transports, standing by for the Marines in sixty."

Corbitt and his fellow pilots dispersed to their craft. All five of the fleet's battle carriers carried twenty fighters, five troop transports, a cargo shuttle, the captain's personal shuttle, and trained pilots for each.

Like the other pilots, Corbitt had his own craft. In a pinch another pilot could take it, but for the most part, each fighter and shuttle had become molded to the specific pilot like a worn glove or a comfortable pair of pants. Officers who never flew never understood how or why, but a pilot could always tell if someone else had been sitting in their cockpit.

A heart split by a lightning bolt with the word "hopeless" identified Corbitt's fighter. His aide already had the clipboard, waiting to begin. As the pilot ran through the list of systems, buttons, and displays to check, the lowly Seaman quietly made note on the checklist.

The fighter itself was like a giant dart, long and sleek. The main fuselage was about twelve meters long and only a meter and a half wide. Wings adorned either side, swept back as close as possible to provide stabilization in an atmosphere. It was designed to present as small a face as possible to enemy cannons.

A pair of 50mm lasers adorned the nose, capable of firing short, alternating bursts of superheated light at a rate of two blasts per second each, or a long continuous beam to drill through a difficult target. Beneath each wing hung two high yield missiles. Only a meter long, each one had the punch to destroy a fighter or pierce the hull of the Vandal battleships. The whole package was a smaller, compact version of the carrier's armory.

Despite being a one-man craft, the fighters carried a second seat behind the pilot. Rarely used, but sometimes a second man would be required on a mission. And since the pilots would suit up into a modified pressure suit prior to launch, the canopy could be opened in space to recover another pilot who had to bail on his or her fighter.

The controls in the cockpit, like those on the bridge, were very tactile. The whole thing could have been a giant touch screen, but the fear of damage to the screen spooked designers into sticking with ancient buttons and levers. The displays though had to stay modern for the sake of practicality. Every read-out projected across the clear canopy so the pilot wouldn't have to take his eyes from the fight outside to read a warning or line up the sights.

With the pre-flight check finished and everything working perfectly, the Seaman ran off to present the report to his ranking officer, returning moments later with the Lieutenant's pressure suit.

"Think this is it, Sir?" his assistant asked, helping Corbitt into his suit. "Think the Vandals really mean to strike Earth?"

Corbitt knew the man only intended to break the tension between them, but the question was defeatist. No one could afford to think a chance of success stood for those barbarians.

"The Vandals are nothing but terrorists, Seaman. We knew it was only a matter of time before they came after Earth, but they haven't yet encountered the full force of the EDF."

* * *

Commander Sadiq raced onto the bridge fearing the wrath of the Captain. A stop in the armory delayed his coming, but it would not spare him from a dressing down over being the last to report.

In unison, the other officers turned anxiously in his direction, as if they had been trained to fear the sound of the door, but with a collective sigh of relief they returned to their stations. With the red alert, Sadiq would have expected his humiliation to last a mere second before work intruded.

The _Legacy_ , however, seemed to operate like no other ship he had served on before. Never in his years of service had the Commander ever dreaded being on the bridge. He had as much disdain for the Captain as the Captain had for his men. When he brought himself to look on the captain's chair and face the tongue lashing he expected, his eyes met with neither surprise nor relief – nor did they meet the Captain.

"Where is Captain Petron?"

A nervous silence hung in the air as each of the officers around him pretended to focus too much on their work to hear his request. In truth, there wasn't one man or woman on that bridge who wanted the responsibility for calling out their Captain's fault; and in truth, Sadiq didn't need anyone to answer him.

He reached across the armrest and punched a direct line to Petron's cabin on the intercom. "Captain Petron, you are needed on the bridge."

* * *

Captain Robin Petron stirred beneath his blanket, trying to ignore the call, but when his executive officer repeated the page, he rolled over to study the time. Then with a displeased sigh, he tapped the call button on the intercom beside the chronometer.

"Commander, what time is it?"

"Sir, we have a fleet-wide red alert."

Petron cut him off with his usual condescending drawl. "And I asked you what the time was."

"0525, Sir."

He heard the annoyed frustration in the Commander's voice but ignored it. Everyone under his command was annoyed with policy and procedure. If he entertained their frustrations even once, he knew performance would slip.

"And what time am I scheduled to be on duty?"

"0600."

"Then why are you bothering me now? You are the executive officer, not some seaman new to the fleet. I expect you to be fully competent to handle any problem you have up there. Now if you can't handle the bridge while I'm off duty, then maybe we should sit down with the Admiral about finding you a new posting."

He turned off the comm system before Sadiq could bother him further, then rolled over and shut his eyes to get those last minutes of sleep in before his alarm went off. His mind filled with the ineptitude of his executive officer, keeping a mental note to place him on report as soon as he reported to the bridge. However, he was so angry and so focused on that report, his thoughts would not calm him enough to enjoy the quiet.

The alarm awoke, and he sat casually upright in his bed. Taking a moment to stretch, he placed his feet on the floor and rose to begin his morning routine. After a quick shower and shave, he made a bowl of oatmeal while he made his bed and stowed his dirty clothes. When the chronometer read 0559, he took one last look around to make sure the cabin was squared away.

He took up a clipboard and stepped casually out into the corridor. With everyone already at their duty stations, there wasn't a single individual around. He knew though, in the rush a red alert tends to cause, there were those who slacked in the duties they felt were unimportant. His officers especially tended to cut corners in their haste.

Petron started with the officer's deck. Sure enough, the first door he opened met him with an unmade bed and dirty clothes left on the floor. As he crossed the room to find the intercom on the nightstand, he noticed empty wrappers on the floor. If they saved time on breakfast by eating a meal bar, he figured, the least they could have done was spend some of that time placing the wrapper in the trash disposal.

"Lieutenant Kwan, I need to see you in your quarters."

* * *

Lieutenant Kwan turned to the Commander with a mix of panic and frustration. Her job was to monitor the myriad of communications coming in from all over the fleet. With the flag officer issuing steady orders and the other ships returning regular updates, Sadiq counted on her to wade through the noise and pass along what was important.

It wasn't that Kwan feared her captain's reproach. She knew whatever his problem was this time, she would find herself on report. She expected she might even receive an Article 13. But with conflict drawing ever closer, leaving the bridge now, even at her captain's request, meant shirking her duty.

Sadiq knew the frustration all too well. He could call down to the Captain and remind him once more of their situation, but in the end, Petron would threaten him with an Article 13 for insubordination, and Kwan would have to report anyway.

"Sooner you get down there and get it out of the way, sooner you'll be back here at your station."

She rose from her chair, hanging her head the entire way off the bridge. Sadiq could do nothing but assign a junior officer to take her place while he waited for the next officer to leave him.

* * *

Captain Dahlia Min sat in her chair on the bridge of the Vandal battlecruiser _Fury_. Her elbow pressed into the armrest, supporting her chin as she waited for news. The view out the windows ahead was of the asteroid hiding their approach.

"They've taken the bait," one young man announced, spinning in his chair looking for approval from his captain. "The Earth Defense Forces are moving off toward our fleet."

"Excellent, Sergeant." She cast the youngster a rewarding smile, almost tired of the constant need for approval all around her. But then again, it was their need for that approval that brought these youth to the Vandal settlements.

For hundreds of years the elders on Earth sought to better their lives and situations with false wealth, promising better pay, better health, or better whatever each generation felt they lacked. But in those hundreds of years, the wealth required to back those promises could not be produced and society's leaders pushed the burden onto the children and grandchildren of the future.

Each generation pushed that burden to the next, then the next. Once it reached the point the accountants and bureaucrats no longer knew how much was owed from the future, the promises increased. Each generation of young bore an increased burden that could only be shaken once their turn came to rape the future.

Each new generation rose up with hopes and dreams of a brighter future. Each new generation tried to right the mistakes of their parents, spending those years of youth spinning their heels before their attitudes shifted toward practicality. But two generations ago, a handful of young men and women realized the system was too far gone for change. They realized early on that the resistance from the adults to pay for their own largess would block their own efforts at change. Those youngsters realized the only way change could be achieved was through forceful upheaval.

Space had long ago been conquered, but the worlds discovered and the resources abounding had been wasted on generations too comfortable to exploit them. For the rebellion to start, it had to be away from the status quo. Those worlds became places for the young to hide and make their plans and build their forces.

As others followed, Earth welcomed the departure, believing the loss of the troublemakers would protect their status quo. At first they heard nothing from the colonies but the calls of recruitment. Eventually, those camps needed more. If they were to truly rebel, they needed weapons and more powerful ships.

They called themselves the Vandals after the barbarians that brought down the ancient Roman Empire. Like the Vandals of ancient times, this modernized group desired more than anything to bring about a new order. They raided the handful of research stations for medicine and equipment. They pirated supply ships to boost their own fleets

Earth had created the Defense Force to combat the rising threat. Expecting the massive gunboats to instill fear in the Vandals, instead they became easy targets. Word of each capture spread through the news outlets intending to stir fear and hatred toward the wayward youth, instead providing those rebels with the strongest recruitment campaign they could have hoped for.

The decades passed as the Vandals stockpiled arms. They knew something was coming as it was only a matter of time before Earth would rise from their comfortable chairs and make an earnest effort to wipe out their scourge.

Captain Min considered the Sergeant at communications. This proactive strike against the decay of the ancestors would not have come about if their children had the approval they sought. Had they been valued, these young men and women would not have found that value in this rag-tag collection of colonies.

"Maintain position until they're fully engaged. We can't afford to let them learn of our presence until it's too late for them to stop us."

Min glanced around at all the young kids monitoring their stations. She herself was only a couple years older than they were, yet she felt so much older.

This wasn't a real military at her command as evidenced by the unkempt uniforms and confusing mess of ranks. In fact, the whole structure had been created by people with no knowledge of military matters. Though no one could tell by ranks or insignia who was in charge over whom, somehow the individuals themselves commanded the respect they were owed.

It was the system all of them felt should have existed on Earth. The true leaders rose to command through their own skill and efforts, and not through a system that rewarded seniority or elbow rubbing. Captain Min herself commanded some individuals ten to twenty years older, and she was by far the youngest captain on this campaign. It was a position earned through cleverness in smaller conflicts. Providing the suggestions that allowed a smaller gunboat to commandeer an EDF carrier three kilohours earlier earned her this commission.

To be fair, the _Fury_ was not a premier ship, and she would have earned more glory commanding a decoy with the rest of the fleet. However, she remained proud of this ship and its crew, and took on her role with the same level of enthusiasm. And though her role wasn't the most prestigious, it was the most important. Since the rest of their forces played decoy for the _Fury_ , Min figured she had to be certain her crew was ready for their roles when the time came.

"How long before they launch fighters?"

Her bright-eyed sergeant turned once again, proud to answer. "Based on past engagements, twenty minutes."

She shook her head still resting on her hands, then rose from her chair. On her way toward the rear hatch, she paused by her executive officer, Colonel Evermore. "I'm heading to the lab to make sure they're on track. You have the bridge."

Min glided through the corridors, greeting each and every crewman she passed. It was as tiresome as it was on the bridge, but the horse-and-pony show was important. She knew too well one of the things setting them apart from Earth was that feeling of importance and connectedness. No matter how low on the food chain someone was, it made them feel better about themselves and their work believing their captain cared about them personally. Without that, it was doubtful any of them would have gone along with this plan.

Inside the lab, she found a bunch of young scientists busy screwing warheads onto a handful of missiles. The Vandals hadn't attracted merely vagabonds and drifters; they appealed to all manner of youngsters. The men and women before her donning the white lab coats bore similar gripes to the underprivileged youth with no future plans in their old lives.

These were the people with ideas to change the world through science and medicine. Maxwell Hugo for example had finished his doctorate in chemistry. He wrote his dissertation on an idea for new type of fuel cell that would break the current reliance on Tysonium. While his older peers applauded the research, he found himself blacklisted by the manufacturers of the superheavy element. He could find jobs in his field, but no one would let him explore and develop his own work. Like the other scientists around him, he joined the Vandals because they promised him the kind of freedom in research he dreamed of.

The special warheads they attached to the missiles were the result of more than five kilohours of experimentation. His work now allowed them the means to end the Earth threat once and for all.

"Fifteen minutes before we make our move. Will you be ready in time?"

Hugo handed off a missile to a couple young men to cart away, then turned his attention to the Captain. "We're tightening the last of the warheads now. If there is a delay it won't be on my end, I promise you."

Min returned his news with a genuine smile. Maybe it was because they were the same age, but she genuinely enjoyed being around this man.

"Have you given any thought to your next project?"

He looked at her as if he hadn't considered it. This current project was everything to their cause. He feared if his chemical concoction failed to deliver as promise, he wouldn't live long enough to propose another. Still, their colonies had practical needs he hoped to supply.

"I was thinking farming. We've been too reliant on local vegetation because each planet has a different soil composition making it difficult to transplant crops from one world to another. I've been thinking of teaming with Doctor Vanjay and his genetics background to create some kind of formula that would allow our crops to adapt to those soils."

Min found it amusing when the Vandals promised excitement and purpose, their direction would shift towards the more mundane aspects of a society. Still, something about settling down into a calmer life almost appealed to her.

* * *

Corbitt held his eyes shut allowing the chatter on the radio to anchor him to the waking world. Once the cockpits were sealed, the waiting for orders became the worst moments for most pilots. The order to launch could come within seconds, or it might not come at all. Usually it was somewhere in between, leaving him to sit in that fighter while they waited for the Marines to show up and take their seats in the transports, and then wait some more while the carrier maneuvered into a position favorable for launch.

But with the order to suit up likely to come at any hour of the day, Corbitt, like his fellow pilots, learned to sleep lightly. It was advantageous during those waits in their fighters, especially when he longed to reclaim the ten minutes robbed from him because of this red alert. He had shut his eyes and drifted off to the sounds of Park and his crew coordinating the preparations, and the confirmations from the Marine lieutenants that their squads were properly secured.

He didn't bother tuning into the bridge chatter which the flight chief monitored. From his control room, Park had a channel opened allowing him to receive updates on the Vandal fleet, as well as updates on their own approach. Had Corbitt been tuned in, he would have heard their captain pull the officers from their duty stations, one-by-one down to their quarters to complain about clothing left on the floor, beds left unmade in the heat of the moment, or sinks not properly dried. Then again, he didn't need that man ruining his powernap any more than he needed to worry his mind with advance warning of the launch.

The fighters were split into four distinct wings, of which, Corbitt was assigned to the last. Park received the order to launch from the Commander, and he relayed it to the fighters, giving Alpha Team the go-ahead to take off.

It was enough warning for Corbitt to open his eyes and shake off the mild dream state he shared with the radio. While the five members of Alpha Team took their turns launching, he brought his systems to full power, firing the engines first before reactivating his sensors, targeting scanners, and every other piece of tech crammed into that tube.

With Alpha-5 away, Park ordered Bravo Team to launch. Corbitt opened multiple channels on the communications system. Each team had a separate channel assigned to them for communication between the team members. Each team leader had another channel open to coordinate their efforts with Park back in the hangar bay. And in addition, the pilots kept all those channels open as ears only; in one sense so they could prepare for changes in orders before the team leader passed them on, but in another sense they wanted to keep tabs on their friends to make sure they stayed safe.

Charlie Team was given the green light when Park himself squawked on Delta Team's channel.

"Delta-4, this is home base." Corbitt could hear in the commander's voice he wasn't going to like what would come next. "Corbitt, Captain Petron wants to see you in your quarters."

"We're about to launch into combat," Corbitt protested. "I'm two minutes away from takeoff!"

He knew it wouldn't do any good. The Captain was off in his own little world. Though the pilots had little interaction with the man, what little there had been taught Corbitt it made no difference arguing against his wishes. The man had a knack for dumping the serious work onto his executive and junior officers while he occupied his time with the most asinine and mundane things he could like these surprise inspections as his ship was on the cusp of battle.

Corbitt powered down his fighter and climbed out, watching his team leader launch out through the massive bay doors ahead of his diminished team while he crossed the flight deck in the opposite direction. It annoyed him to miss combat, and if he didn't blame Petron at that moment, he might have felt as if he were the one letting his buddies down. Still, when this exercise in futility was over and he was allowed to return to his fighter, he knew the other pilots would be recalled from battle to go through this same exercise.

Strolling back through the corridors and upward toward the officers cabins, he came to see this as his sacrifice. If he could keep Petron occupied long enough, the other fighters would lose the option of returning home once the Vandal fighters initiated target locks. Petron could fume and lob all the court-martial threats he wanted, but his requests would be physically impossible once the enemy had been engaged.

Corbitt found the door to his cabin opened. Petron stood in the center of the room with his back to it and his hands by his hips, shaking his head in disbelief at the state of disorder. He took up the clipboard and made a notation when he sensed the occupant behind him.

"You know, Lieutenant," he started in his calm yet disapproving drone, "I've talked with you before about maintaining military standards at all times."

"You do know we're in the middle of a red alert situation, Sir?" He was about to politely explain to the Captain the urgency of such a situation and how reporting to stations was far more crucial than making the bed when Petron cut him off.

"That's no excuse. We're due for an inspection any moment now. Do you want Rear Admiral Duffy walking onto my ship with your quarters looking like this?"

He strolled to the bed casually and picked up the army-green blanket as if presenting evidence in a trial.

"I just don't understand how you can leave your quarters in this state."

He dropped the blanket and took up the clipboard once again, studying it as if taking in figures from an official report. Corbitt knew as well as his Captain did that it was nothing more than a list of his day's whining.

"You currently have the worst inspection scores on this ship. Last time the Admiral inspected, we nearly failed because of this room."

"I know for a fact that's not true, sir." Normally it might have seemed dangerous challenging the commanding officer, but everyone knew the results of the last inspection. "Half your bridge staff scored worse than I did, and in fact, it was your own cabin that nearly cost you the inspection."

Corbitt took great joy rubbing that one in. Everyone serving beneath him had felt some sense of redemption when it was Petron's own living space which failed to pass muster after his obsession with the crew's habits.

What made that brief moment of victory so sweet was knowing the Captain had been sabotaged. Some industrious ensign or petty officer had broken in while Petron was off with the Admiral. Even better, the culprit was smart enough not to trash the room. Instead, he or she left enough traces to make it appear the Captain had been careless enough that Petron wasn't able to pin the blame away from himself, especially when he had been unsuccessful in finding the saboteur.

But Corbitt's dig rolled right over his back. "You were the worst on the entire ship," he repeated. His playbook came directly from the politicians of old: get caught in a lie and keep repeating it until either people believe it, or they get tired and give up calling him out on it. "The worst."

Petron studied his clipboard once more, continuing on while ignoring Corbitt's protests and challenges of truthiness.

"I don't want to have to talk to you again about the state of this cabin. If you can't clean up this mess, I will have to ground you."

Corbitt fought back the smirk. "If you do that, you might not have anyone to pilot your shuttle when the time comes."

For the first time, his digs gave the Captain pause as the suggestions of his cowardice were clear. Like everything else it was a game for Petron; to give the insult any rebuke would allow it to gain traction. It was better to let it slide than to let his subordinate think he had been rattled. He tucked his clipboard under his arm and brushed past the Lieutenant on his way out the door.

"Don't let me see this room like this again."

Corbitt waited for the man to disappear into another cabin before running off back to his fighter. On the way, he took note of the latest target and sure enough, Bravo-4 would be next to earn his reproach; but if he was right, those boys would be too busy with the Vandals to pay Petron's complaints any mind.

* * *

Sadiq ordered the gunners to open up with cover fire.

The armory lay one deck above the launch bay. A dozen manned laser turrets circled the ship: two forward, two aft and four spaced along each side. The gunner would take the seat in front of a 100mm laser cannon. Once sealed inside, the pod would extend outside the hull where the operator had full 180 degree movement along all three axis. If they faced a single, massive target, a single gunner could operate the cannons remotely from a station within the armory. But more often than not, the carriers faced waves of fighters requiring full attention to each weapon; too much for one man to coordinate.

The missile tubes rest beneath the placements. There were three per side, each situated one behind the other. Two worked each tube, loading missiles which were three times as long as those on the fighters, and nine times as powerful. The loaded tube would then extend outward through the hull for immediate firing.

The three teams worked in concert, so that there was always a missile firing, one ready to move into position, and a third being loaded. Safety precautions in the launch programs prevented a tube from leaving the armory if one was already outside.

One problem with the missiles was that they were a unidirectional weapon, meaning they could only launch forward. It was more a practical issue than a flaw. As the carriers had a similar profile to the fighters, the geniuses designing the ships didn't want to give the captains a reason to present the broadest face to the enemy. Since the forward face of these ships presented the smallest target, the engineers made sure the captains had to present that face to the enemy in order to fire those missiles.

There was always one captain though who relied on the laser cannons too much and steered the ship into battle accordingly. Thankfully for Sadiq, Captain Petron remained lost somewhere in the officers quarters. Though Kwan had yet to return, and two more of his senior officers had similarly vanished into the abyss of the Captain's misery, this situation meant he could carry out _Legacy's_ role in what he perceived to be a competent manner.

"Remind our gunners they are laying down cover fire only," he called down to the armory chief. "Last thing we want is to hit our own fighters."

The Commander looked to the battle map generated by the computer and presented to the screen on his armrest. Each ship was represented by a point of light on the black field, from the tiny fighters to the midsized battle cruisers and the massive carriers. The flag officers had assigned targets to each ship, and the _Legacy_ was responsible for a particular pair of Vandal cruisers.

The Earth Defense Forces were outnumbered, but the Vandals were outgunned. The EDF expected to win the day with their armaments coupled with their advanced training and tactics. _Legacy_ only had two smaller ships to take care of.

And those two ships split up.

"Keep your eye on that second ship," he warned his navigator. "They know by now we're their buddy so they're trying to flank us."

If he had his senior man at the controls he would not have had to issue the reminder. As much as he hated the Captain right now, Sadiq reminded himself this junior lieutenant needed the combat experience anyway.

He spied the movements of the dots on his screen, advising the navigator on his course corrections. The two Vandal cruisers tried to split up to outflank the _Legacy_ , so he ordered his navigator to swing their course outward and force the second ship back inside. If they wanted to continue, however, that second ship would have to swing farther out and farther away from its companion.

At the same time, Sadiq's maneuvers split him gradually away from the main fleet. If his two buddies took the bait, he would pull them away as well, so that in the unlikely event they knocked the _Legacy_ out of the fight, they would not be in such an advantageous position to shift their focus onto another EDF vessel.

Still, the ultimate confrontation between these ships was a ways off thanks to the distance that remained between them. In the meantime, the Vandals still had the waves of incoming fighters to contend with.

* * *

Corbitt raced to close the gap between him and that first Vandal cruiser. Like all Vandal ships, it had once belonged to his side, and was thus identical in design to those supporting the Earth fleet. About a third the size of the carriers, its armory was the dominant feature. Weapons platforms lined the top and bottom of the ship rather than the sides. Each of the decks supported two emplacements forward and two aft, with one on either side toward the middle.

Eight torpedo tubes rest at the bottom, four facing forward and four facing back. Unlike those of the carriers, these were situated side by side for simultaneous firing, but like the carriers, the tubes were fixed forcing the ship to face its target rather than expose the sides.

The hangar bay was far smaller, supporting a single wing of five fighters, one troop transport, and a cargo shuttle. Those of the EDF didn't support a Marine platoon, but they housed the transport anyway just in case. However, there was never any telling what the Vandals crammed in their hangar bays until everything was launched. As Corbitt's sensors began identifying the craft in the theater ahead, he found they threw nothing more than what was expected.

Teams Charlie and Delta had already engaged the Vandal wing from their assigned cruiser. Like everything else, those fighters were once EDF. Sometimes the Vandals seized their craft through piracy. Other times they salvaged damaged ships abandoned in the heat of battle. In some instances, they were known to sneak into the shipyards on Earth and make off with a prize before security realized the intrusion.

To distinguish between theirs and the Vandal fighters, the pilots had tiny transmitters embedded in the lining of their pressure suits. The frequency was reset ahead of every launch to prevent the Vandals from using an old frequency, though they had been known to discover the current frequency and clone it in the middle of conflict. At the very least, they could make a mental note of the Vandal fighters and try to maintain identity visually. But the biggest reason for placing the chips on the pilots and not the fighters themselves was to locate a pilot lucky enough to eject from his craft in case of damage.

"Nice of you to join us, Hopeless."

Corbitt smiled at his radio, glad to put his idiot Captain behind him and get to the work he signed up for.

"Looks like I got here just in time," he joked. "I don't see one kill on your belts."

"We're still softening 'em up for ya," another joked.

He spied a Vandal fighter zip by Delta-5. Both fired their lasers, but missed the other in the brief time they faced off. As Delta-5 veered back for another shot, the Vandal pilot spied Corbitt and pressed forward hoping to remove him from the fight before he could join it.

"Looks like I gotta clean up your mess again, Cloudracer." He adjusted course to bring the enemy square into his view. The targeting scanner identified the craft and flashed the advisories onto the canopy, indicating the course corrections needed to connect a shot.

"What do ya mean, 'again?' Usually I'm the one on your six cleaning up after you."

It would have been far easier opening up with his lasers and allowing the pulses of superheated light to fan out, blanketing the space ahead with the modern day version of flak, but the power cores supplying those guns had a limited shelf-life, requiring replacement after each mission. With normal use, a pilot could survive a battle without draining the cores, but if someone got a little too trigger-happy, he might find himself in a bind when he really needed those lasers.

The lesser concern was that one of his own buddies might get caught in the net he created. Sure, the cold temperatures in the vacuum would kill the danger and turn that superheated blast into a harmless beam of light, but travelling at the speed of light, each shot carried danger anywhere from a million kilometers to as far away as a couple billion depending on whether or not there was a star nearby raising the background temperature.

The Vandal pilot weaved as he approached, making it difficult for the targeting scanners to find a lock. Even if he were to blanket the region ahead, that pilot stood a good chance of dodging whatever he threw at him.

Corbitt tried to figure out his pattern and match his own in order to guess. As they dropped from nine, to eight figures away from each other, he let off a couple of shots to rattle his opponent; but the enemy pilots were wild, crazy even.

All throughout the Vandal ranks, they found young men and women, still boys and girls in some cases. Despite seeing Earth as the enemy, the military life and open combat had a certain romanticism for them. Their forces had been so successful against the Earth Defense Force because their leaders organized their military without all the ho-hum, tedious, or asinine tasks that drove most of Earth's enlisted out of the service at the end of their first term. Whereas Corbitt's military life more resembled Captain Petron's ideas of kempt beds, swept floors, and freshly-painted, battle gray walls, the Vandal leaders ensured their rank and file lived this nonstop action hero existence he had flown into.

The boy or girl in the oncoming cockpit weaved and rolled the fighter as if this was all a video game, whereas Corbitt's maneuvers were carefully selected. Had that pilot more discipline, he might have better predicted Corbitt's moves and taken smarter shots with his lasers. Instead, Corbitt had to contend with his disciplined training and hope for a lucky shot.

His trigger saw increased action as the Vandal fighter closed to within ten thousand kilometers, then a thousand. And in an instant as quick as a single laser blast, they had overtaken each other without any scars to show for the exchange.

Corbitt immediately ordered a sharp turn. His joystick controller commanded a combination of maneuvering thrusters and directional flaps behind his primary thruster to begin a loop back.

Halfway through the maneuver, he noticed the Vandal pilot had rolled his craft while pulling it into an upward loop. While he tried to circle around, his opponent hoped to get the drop from above.

Corbitt pulled his stick back hoping to gain some elevation. All he managed to accomplish was to prevent his friend from finding a target. Instead of lining back up for another shot at each other, both craft were once again pointed away from each other.

The race for position was on!

The Vandal looped upward once more as Corbitt spiraled around, maintaining his upward momentum. He slowed his speed, hoping his inexperienced nemesis wouldn't notice until he was facing that tail; but when Corbitt levelled out in relation to the other fighter, that sneaky foe slammed on his breaks, as it were, forcing Corbitt ahead and into his line of sight.

The EDF pilot realized his mistake and immediately entered into another turn before the Vandal had his engines running again. Corbitt tried to loop around for another attempt, but the Vandal had the space to attempt his own turn to cut him off. His lasers fired wildly, forcing Corbitt into a hard push downward to avoid crossing the T.

The Vandal tried to follow, but it was too late to reconnect his shot.

Corbitt tapped mildly on the reverse thrusters hoping to slow his speed without the Vandal pilot realizing it this time. Fortunately, the child in that cockpit was too anxious to use his guns. All that pilot was focused on was trying to line up the next shot. With more subtlety, Corbitt learned he could better manipulate his speed and fool his foe.

The Vandal came close to lining up the shot again before realizing he moved too fast.

Corbitt only had to tap on his breaks this time so that he would have less speed to make up once the Vandal had passed. And as the craft pulled by him, just when he swore he could see the mistake on the pilot's face, he opened fire and held it, worrying about the aim afterwards.

That superheated beam closed in on the Vandal craft as Corbitt nudged his stick in the appropriate direction. He swore it singed the tip of the wing before the pilot had recognized the danger and pulled up and away.

A shriek rang out on one of the open lines as Alpha-4 scored a kill.

"That's why I'm an Alpha!"

"Eh, lucky shot." It sounded like Beta-2 was jealous. It didn't really matter to most of them. A kill was a kill, and it meant one less bad guy to worry about.

While his own bad guy attempted to regain his bearing after the near miss, and circle around, Corbitt pulled sharply upward. He gained altitude over the Vandal's plane before turning sharply down again into a dive. The young fool headed back and into his path. Clearly he had lost sight of his target, and Corbitt hoped he wouldn't find him until his lasers bore down on him.

Still, Corbitt had to time his fire perfectly. If he opened up early, the youngster would have the warning needed to veer away once more. Too late, and his shots would reach the Vandal's position after he had passed.

"Come on," he muttered. "Don't notice me."

The little targeting bullseye on the canopy started flashing, slowly at first, to indicate it was near time to pull the trigger. The faster it flashed, the tighter his finger wrapped around the firing button. Between the speed of that fighter, and the speed of the light he was about to send out, Corbitt had absolutely no room for error.

The bullseye on the canopy flashed angrily, and though he still had to crane his neck to spot the fighter, the time had come. Corbitt squeezed the trigger and sent out a fifteen thousand degree burst of light. The barrels of his cannons were lined with a material that could handle the heat, but it was difficult to produce and impractical to use in the hulls of their ships or the fuselages of their fighters.

Against the cruisers or the carriers, they would punch holes into the hull. Rooms would lose atmosphere to space and people would die, but the larger ships could survive the damage. The fighters however were so tiny, a strike from these lasers would prove fatal to the craft. It would only be through a miracle that the pilot could manage to eject safely.

But this time, luck was with the Vandal. He had decided to turn about for whatever reason, and the shot passed harmlessly by his starboard wing.

The dogfight would continue since he not only missed his target, but tipped the kid off to his whereabouts.

* * *

Sadiq studied his bridge. Another officer had been yanked from him while none had returned from Petron's preposterous whining. His staff had thinned to the point where noncommissioned officers were filling the roles of his department heads.

This wasn't the first time his Captain disappeared with the key staff in the heat of battle. Sadiq was never sure if he was truly that tone deaf to a situation, or (as he believed was more likely the case) Petron hid rather than display his command skills for the farce they were.

But Sadiq's complaints earned no consideration from the admiralty, nor did the Captain's pitifully low retention rates among the ranks. For some reason the top brass loved him. Their standard response each time was to point out his inspection scores. Despite the failure on the last visit, his scores overall were admittedly high, some of the highest in the entire fleet. But in these battle scenarios, personal cleanliness wasn't going to win the day.

His fighters did their jobs in keeping the Vandal fighters away from his ship, but those cruisers continued to gain ground.

"Adjust course thirty degrees starboard by twenty north."

Every time the first repositioned, determined to get around, Sadiq was only too happy to lure it further away from his own fleet. In doing so, he also forced the second cruiser inward from its intended arc.

The chief petty officer stuck monitoring the positions was frazzled. Her task belonged to a commissioned officer due to the training required to operate the console, and the expertise gained in multitasking among various targets.

"It's okay," Sadiq assured her. "Take them one at a time; check one, then the other."

But as she took a deep breath, newly encouraged to throw herself into her monitoring, the second ship decided to open fire hoping to goad the _Legacy_ back towards its position. She looked back to the Commander for further guidance.

"What do I do now?"

Sadiq rose from his chair, shouting orders across the bridge as he crossed to her station.

"All you have to do is your job. Tune out the laser fire. Tune out the chaos. It's my job to worry about that. All you have to do is tell me when those ships change position, or when they open fire. Got it?"

"I think so." Her voice wavered, but she seemed willing to give it a go.

So far, none of the shots connected with their hull. The Vandals generally didn't have the self-control to calculate the distant bombardment. The lasers cut through the expanse too quickly to avoid them, but if targeting was off by just half a degree, a shot would pass over _Legacy's_ hull instead of into it as they did at that point.

Sadiq's concern also turned to his fighters. As unlikely as it was for one of his shots to hit their own pieces, the EDF wouldn't take the risk no matter how small it was. The selective shooting continued, but the Commander burned for the opportunity to open up with everything he had.

"What I need you to do for me is find our fighters in that mass of signals and tell me if we have a clear shot toward that ship yet."

He could see the answer well enough over her shoulder, but he knew it would do more for her confidence if he didn't cut her from the process.

"Negative, Sir. Our fighters are still ahead of them."

Sadiq returned to his chair, barking more orders for the crew around him, and those within earshot of his communications.

"Flight deck, someone tell the wings to draw the fight away from those cruisers.

"Armory, tell your men they have permission to open up on the first cruiser, but maintain cover fire only on the second.

"Damage control teams into positions.

"Medical Bay prepare for casualties."

He sat back, listening to the chatter from across the Fleet. Though he had an officer assigned to filter out the noise from the important information, it always helped him having the voices in his ear. Multiple channels across multiple ships, communicated between their own fighters, between the flag ship, and between each other. Most of it was nothing but background noise in the sea of voices, but he had trained his mind to take notice of certain words that would tell him which channel carried excitement.

As he waited to get close enough for full combat, it was a communication from one of their cruisers that drew his attention. The _Vanguard_ pushed ahead of the carriers along with its sister ships, and it was the first to enter a full-on engagement.

Vandal fighters had shaken off their EDF intercepts and charged for the cruiser while the lone Vandal carrier let fly their missiles. The _Vanguard_ took minor damage to its hull as the fighters raced by. Its gunners toward the rear targeted the tiny ships, while those forward remained focused on the carrier.

One of the fighters circled back for a second pass. The two gunners topside crossed their fire hoping to confuse the pilot, but he merely dodged and weaved to keep them guessing while he opened up and strafed the top of the ship. The starboard gunner narrowly avoided a blast, but his buddy behind him wasn't so lucky. His canopy melted away instantly, and his body incinerated down to a handful of ash left drifting out into the vacuum.

Another carrier, the _Stony Atoll_ , found its window against one of the two Vandal cruisers moving in for engagement. While the gunners fired toward it hoping to distract and confuse the enemy, the missile crews loaded the tubes and began launching their ordinance.

They were still far enough apart where it took almost three minutes for the explosive packed metal tubes to reach their targets, but the laser distraction worked. The Vandals mistook the new readings in the theater as new fighters. They didn't bother to change course, and suffered the consequences.

The first missile tore open the forward compartments just below the bridge. The next missile followed into the damaged section and drove halfway through crew quarters while it detonated. Their commander tried to get out of the way, but three more missiles were able to unleash their payload throughout the ship.

Though they still had their uppermost laser emplacements, and sufficient navigational capabilities to remain in the fight, the surviving crew lost the stomach to fight. They turned tail and tried to run leaving their sister ship to continue without the backup.

The hatch opened behind him, bringing Sadiq back to the happenings on his own bridge. He spun around in the chair anxious to see which of his officers had been returned to him. Only it was Captain Petron finally making his appearance on his own bridge.

The Commander rose to relinquish the chair to its proper captain, but Petron pretended not to notice the invitation. Or the battle playing out around him. The faces of everyone anxious for his orders remained in their places with eyes wide and jaws dropped as the man merely shuffled along the side of the massive room to leave them once more for his office.

Petron closed the door behind him without muttering a word or even recognizing the crew fighting on his behalf. Sadiq swore he heard the lock engage. Had it not been the Captain's habit to lock himself away whenever a tough command presented itself, the XO might have been stunned.

Still, some of the faces had been so fresh, they let out a collective gasp. The whispering started, and Sadiq slammed his fist noisily onto the armrest to arrest it.

"How close are we to that first cruiser?"

"They just crossed the hundred thousand kilometer mark."

"Excellent! Calculate their expected position one minute from now and adjust our heading to face squarely on that spot. Alert the armory to fire missiles the moment we're in position. And keep the gunners focused on the second cruiser. I want it held off as long as we can."

* * *

Captain Min shifted in her chair to get a better look at the crew to her left. She spied the anxiousness in everyone, but didn't want them to notice her attention. They were anxious for battle, each of them. It burned these youngsters thinking of their friends enjoying the fun while they remained stuck behind that asteroid. If she made eye contact at this point, one of them would question the sense in holding the _Fury_ back

So she studied the reports from the main fleet, stealing looks only while waiting for the next report to load. If anyone looked to her for the word to move, they would see nothing but her attention on those little screens, not the irises straining their way.

They wouldn't have to wait much longer for that word. The battle seemed to go as well as their strategists anticipated. The fighters were busy swarming around each other, and the cruisers and carriers had closed in. Their lasers and missiles had been unleashed with all their fiery fury.

The Earth ships and the Vandal ships were about to circle each other and exchange positions. Her orders were to sit tight until their ships stood between the Earth and the EDF. Close wouldn't work.

Evermore moved about the stations trying to keep the crew focused. They were too prone to mistakes, and his job while Min commanded the bridge was to catch those mistakes before they proved deadly.

"You're burning the maneuvering thrusters too hot. That's why you're making constant adjustments. If you're not careful you'll expose us early, or worse slam us into that rock."

It wouldn't matter much longer. The dance at the front continued as the sides exchanged partners. Min didn't care how the battle progressed or who seemed to be winning. All that mattered was that those ships remained busy.

The readings on her screens pleased her. For the first time, excitement rose in her soul and she rose from the chair with it.

"Fire port thrusters! As soon as we're clear, engage main engines and find the course...to Earth!"

* * *

Corbitt and Delta-3, piloted by a talented young woman nicknamed Amber for the color of her hair, tag-teamed a single Vandal fighter. Amber lured the Vandal back around, hoping to trick him into Corbitt's line of fire. But the Vandal figured it out and banked away before Corbitt could take the shot.

"This one's a slimy bastard!" Amber called.

"I'd tell you who he reminds me of," Corbitt answered, "but I'd probably get an Article 13 for it."

He turned after the fighter while his partner circled around hoping to head the thing off. The Vandal pulled up sharply when it spied the second fighter, and Corbitt had to push downward or risk passing too close to his friend.

Amber pulled upward and around before Corbitt had a chance to recover himself. And now with the Vandal in control of their course, he took full advantaged and lured them further away from the larger ships.

Corbitt caught a glimpse of the main battle while his fighter arced around, and it pleased him to spy heavy smoke drifting out from the second Vandal cruiser.

"Looks like the Commander is doing better than we are," he told his partner.

"What makes you think Sadiq has the bridge?" They both chuckled knowing the answer.

Amber took a few shots when the Vandal entered her crosshairs, but it was gone again before the lasers could discharge. As she let up, Corbitt finally returned, managing to fall in on their target's tail.

The Vandal tried to shake him, but Corbitt thought he had the fool's pattern figured out. He weaved when that fighter weaved, dove when he dove, and turned when he turned. The only thing Corbitt couldn't do was keep his tail within the crosshairs on his canopy.

As he fine-tuned the pursuit, the Vandal was too focused on shaking him. The fighter hardly noticed Amber getting ahead to attempt an oncoming assault. Corbitt readied his finger on the trigger for that moment of realization. In that split second when the Vandal realized Amber's position, Corbitt expected to get a target lock just before he could react.

But as he readied the shot, Park squawked in his ear.

"All _Legacy_ fighters are ordered to return to base immediately and stand by for redeployment."

"Dammit!" Corbitt slammed his fists against the canopy as he heard one of the other pilots openly question the order.

"We're just about to clean up out here, Commander."

"Negative. This is a priority-one order. Return to base immediately."

Amber broke off to head back while Corbitt remained beating on his canopy.

"You win some, you lose some, Hopeless. And today we lost this one."

He took a few deep breaths before breaking off the pursuit. After the Captain caused him to be the last one to the battlefield, he certainly didn't want to be the last one back to the hangar bay.

* * *

Sadiq called to the captain's office with their updated status. He already knew the response he would receive, but had to cover his butt regardless. If this went south, he would have a dozen witnesses around him to overhear the conversation for when Petron would inevitably blame him for a poor performance in battle.

"Sir, we have new orders to intercept a lone Vandal ship on course for Earth. I thought you might like to come to the bridge."

The exasperated sigh was loud enough for all to hear. "Commander," he finally replied in that condescendingly calm drawl of his, "you know I have to approve next week's duty rosters and send them to Admiral Duffy by 1600 hours. Do you want to explain it to the Admiral when he calls at 1605 demanding to know why he doesn't have our duty rosters?"

Sadiq said nothing. His question was a trap. Petron came across as the biggest idiot on the ship, but his XO knew he was far more clever than anyone believed. A lesser officer might have told him "no." If they failed to stop that ship, Petron could lay the blame on him, claiming he was told the situation was handled and his presence on the bridge wasn't required.

Conversely, he might have said "yes," demanding the Captain take his place on the bridge where he belonged at that particular moment. Then, come 1605 when the Admiral called wanting to know why the duty rosters never arrived to his desk, Petron could blame his subordinate for his inability to handle the situation. Of course this Vandal invasion didn't excuse the lack of paperwork because a good captain would have anticipated unexpected problems and had those rosters in a day early.

Sadiq knew the only safe response to Petron's question was no response at all. The decision to take his place on the bridge or remain locked away in that private office had to be left to the Captain.

"You do what you feel you must," Sadiq told him. "Regulations require I inform you of the change in orders." And he silenced the comm line before Petron could get in another dig concerning his command abilities.

He turned his attention to that lone ship, once hidden behind a large asteroid through much of the conflict, waiting until the entire Defense Force had been occupied with combat. It was now free from its cover and heading toward that little blue planet. He anxiously awaited word their last fighter was secure before ordering his navigator to set the course to intercept.

At that point it was a race between the two ships. The Vandal ship, _Fury_ was far closer, but the _Legacy_ could afford to take the risk accompanying higher speeds in order to close the gap.

Whatever it had in mind, could not have been good. The Vandals never sent their entire fleet to cover for a simple raid, so this had to be dramatic. However, one cruiser was far too small and powerless to cause widespread damage before it could be intercepted. Its captain had to know that when he or she undertook the mission.

Sadiq had to assume it was after a specific target. He tried to imagine what one site on Earth could be so important to the Vandals to go to all this trouble for. No single city seemed unique over any others. Not even the leadership should require this strong an effort to assassinate.

Yet they couldn't afford to find out what the purpose was. Sadiq knew they were too far away to launch missiles. The ordinance would take too long to cross the distance and the Vandal ship would have enough time to avoid them a thousand times over. The lasers were the only option at this point, but they required a clear shot. Across a million or so kilometers, there couldn't be anything between them to stop the blast. And the calculations had to be perfect or they risked doing more damage to their home than the Vandals might.

"Do we have a clear shot?" he called out. It was only after he turned his attention to the man who should have answered that he realized an inexperienced warrant officer occupied the chair.

It took the man twice as long as it should to study sensors and pull up local charts. The calculations came off his fingers far too uncertain to trust. And when the answer came, it was more question than answer.

"No? The satellite network is out there. We have hundreds of satellites in the way."

Sadiq rubbed his chin considering what the satellites meant. Little tiny, metallic boxes floating in space. Their lasers might vaporize them and continue without notice, but some of them were as large as the fighters.

The bigger consideration was the network itself. Communications, weather manipulation, asteroid detection and deflection, and a hundred other crucial tasks relied on that network. The Commander realized he might do more damage than the Vandals could. Still, it was a decision he might live with if it were the only complication.

"What about Earth itself? How long before the trajectory enters the safety margin?"

The Warrant Officer struggled over the calculations. Worse, he had to query the computer just to learn what the safety margin was. He had no idea the EDF looked down on weapons fire within a thousand kilometers of the edge of the atmosphere. With the Vandal ship approaching nearly from the far side of the planet, the first round of calculations showed their shots would already cross inside that cushion.

"We're already in it, Sir?"

Sadiq marched over to study the math for himself. He ran the numbers again and came up with a trajectory just outside the safety margin, but it was close. Still, he considered that margin was only a guideline. Even if their lasers grazed the top of the atmosphere, there would be no adverse effects. It was all about safety around the home world, and Sadiq considered the Vandal threat was great enough to bend the safety rules.

He returned to the big chair and called to the armory. "I want careful targeting on that ship, but I want lasers firing immediately. All concerns but Earth are to be ignored."

His scanners confirmed when his orders were carried out. The first laser blast exploded from the turrets. At the speed of light, it would strike the target in a matter of seconds. It proved to be a near miss, but it was a hit regardless – one that would surely trigger some sort of evasive maneuver. The armory had only a few more shots before the calculations would prove too difficult.

"I want more power to the engines," he bellowed. "Push them beyond the safety limits if you have to, but we have to cut off that ship at all costs!"

The officer at the proper station was reluctant, but resigned to follow the orders. Still, he increased the speed only in slight increments, angering his impatient commander.

"We can't afford to be timid. Earth can't afford your timidity, Ensign. Give me speed!"

Sadiq studied the Vandal ship. As his speed increased, theirs matched. As the gunners fired, their course grew more erratic to evade.

Soon he found they had drifted into the orbital plane of the satellite network. External sensors indicated impacts on the hull, and all he could imagine was some businessman losing an important conference call, or the stock market falling into panic when the data streams fell silent.

The matters of those on Earth extended no further than the limits of their own lives. These matters high in orbit were of no concern to them so long as they kept their comforts. Even for those with business among the stars - those relative few hoping to mine a few asteroids or some far-flung moon for exotic elements, or the researchers hoping to write the paper of their career on some alien grass – the Vandals were of no concern so long as their shuttles were left in peace.

The Vandal raids were terrible. In years when casualties were high, public sentiment favored a passionate response; but in those years of silence while the Vandals pulled back and licked their own wounds, focusing more on their new prizes than in pushing their luck, their terror was largely forgotten. The people on Earth went back to their parties and their sports and their movies, and they wanted to hear nothing more of problems among the stars.

So long as the men and women of the EDF kept them safe, as long as Sadiq did his job against that ship, the worst those people would suffer was the loss of their communications signals or an entertainment broadcast.

Still, he corrected his ensign who raised the ship above the plane of the satellites. The maneuver cost him seconds; he would hope it hadn't cost him the chase.

* * *

Captain Min sat perched on the forward edge of her chair.

"Bring us about five degrees! Put that planet between us and them!"

Her crew was no more fired up than they were stuck behind the asteroid. They wanted combat and this was too much like running away from a fight. If it was up to some of these younger kids, the _Fury_ would adjust course to take the EDF ship head on before proceeding on their mission.

To Min, this was excitement. This was a race. First one to Earth won the grand prize. It was not a prize she could win by limping across the finish line. She needed the full capacity of her ship if she was to keep that other off her back long enough to deploy the missiles.

"I want this ship in that atmosphere!"

She sensed the faces around her twisting with desire. Some of them burned to know why they couldn't launch the missiles from where they were, but past punishments kept their mouths shut. Most of those that didn't already know the answer would never understand anyway.

It was like dropping an object into water. The greatest trauma occurs when the object strikes the surface. Their missiles were not designed for atmospheric entry. Like the object with water, contact with the edge of an atmosphere was the most jarring moment in such a launch. And Min couldn't risk losing the payloads too soon.

She had to bring _Fury_ into the atmosphere. Remove the surface tension and the missiles would do fine. They would descend as ordered until it was time to unleash the payload.

Until then, she still had an EDF ship to outrun.

Her own gunners held back their fire. She feared antagonizing her nemesis would trigger the kind of firefight they now unleashed. Min had gambled the other commander would hold his or her fire rather than risk an errant shot striking their home. Since that wasn't the case, she called and gave the order to return fire.

"Whatever you do," she ordered, "do not hit that planet!"

She knew the government and their citizens felt the EDF was sufficient protection. Sure the President and his Council were in some bunker monitoring the situation while the Senate huddled in its chamber praying to their various gods that the outcome favored their political parties to improve their reelection campaigns. The moment a Vandal laser struck some city, or a farm, or even landed harmlessly in the ocean, those politicians would scramble for their own shuttles and leave the planet before the _Fury_ was in position.

The incoming lasers passed too close for comfort, so she ordered a sharper course correction. It might put them off course and cost them a few seconds, but she had to have the protection of that planet.

The _Fury_ shook violently as a blast connected with her hull. Alarms flashed on Min's console, and she flipped through the readings in a panic. She didn't care much about the rest of the ship, so long as the missile tubes and their support crew survived.

"Roll the ship forty-five degrees starboard." It wouldn't be much, but with the two ships approaching at an angle, she hoped to minimize her armory as a target if she presented their topside.

That planet grew closer and closer, but so did the _Legacy_ with her laser cannons. The gunners finally had the excitement they signed up for, almost forgetting the prohibition against firing on Earth. Their section chief had to reprimand them several times for firing too close, reminding them there were others anxious to man those guns if they couldn't follow orders.

In the lowest section of the ship, the artillerymen waited with their fingers on the launch buttons. They too showed themselves to be overly impatient, and like the gunners above, if it were not for their level-headed commander, there would have been at least one premature launch.

And back on the bridge, Min was almost ready to celebrate when the Earth eclipsed the last bit of dark space from the windows ahead. As they had grown closer, their nemesis held their fire, afraid to strike the planet as much as she was. And now they were safely behind that beautiful blue world with atmospheric entry only moments away.

* * *

Sadiq paced the bridge with his hands clasped behind his back, cursing the Vandal's good fortune. "I want more speed!" he barked. "Slingshot us around that planet if you have to, but get that ship back in sight!"

The race to the world had become a race around the world. The power driving these ships and the speeds at their disposal could not have been imagined when Jules Verne wrote his 'round the world tale. A trip made in eighty days all those hundreds of years ago could now be made in eighty seconds if it weren't for an annoyingly low escape velocity.

There was no time for physics. The Commander ordered his inexperienced navigator to hold a sharp turn in toward the planet to compensate for gravity's weak hold. It was a dangerous risk considering this man might have oversteered and sent them crashing into the atmosphere.

* * *

Corbitt sat anxiously in the cockpit of his fighter. The pilots expected to deploy once more as soon they caught up to the new target, but the chatter on the open channels indicated they were already there. Normally he was grateful for these moments of inactivity. Their lives were so structured on these ships and the Captain's insanity a drain on their productivity, they gladly took advantage of these dead moments to catch up on sleep or chow.

When they were suited up and locked in their fighters, all they wanted was to launch. At least in those birds they were free from all the bullshit. There was no one touching their faces to make sure they had shaved before reporting to duty. They didn't have to undress to prove their underwear was regulation. They didn't have a Captain calling them for room inspections in the middle of a preflight check.

He listened to his channels chiming in his ears, waiting for the orders. They expected the _Legacy_ to chase the Vandal ship and they expected the orders to launch. So close to Earth, the precision of the fighters would better suit the task than the sledgehammers of the carrier. Yet that ship was around the planet, about to enter orbit while the fighters remained on deck.

"Hey Chief," one of the pilots called out, "why don't you let us out there? Let us take a whack at those terrorists."

"Keep complaining," Park warned him, "and you'll get a whack at an Article 13."

Corbitt might have thought it funny if Captain Petron didn't have a reputation for issuing the most Article 13 disciplinary actions in the fleet. It was thought he didn't believe in training his crew. Tell them once, then write them up for not picking it up. For all the room inspections he conducted and all the Article 13s he filed for failing, there wasn't a man or woman on the ship who remembered him demonstrating the standard.

The beds didn't matter. His stubble didn't matter. All Corbitt wanted was the dogfight. He felt most alive when he danced with the Vandals, and he couldn't wait for the second act.

The line from the bridge came to life and Corbitt sat upright expecting this to be his launch orders.

"That ship is in the atmosphere launching missiles. I want fighters in the air now. Don't wait for safety; destroy those missiles before we learn their targets!"

He didn't wait for the Lieutenant Commander to pass along the orders. Corbitt powered up his fighter, so he could lift off the moment he got the word.

The four wings scrambled from the launch bay in a dance of controlled chaos, fanning out and dropping into Earth's atmosphere the moment they were free from the _Legacy_.

Corbitt's first sight through his canopy was of the _Fury_. Once one of their cruisers, it now belonged to the Vandals. They had modified it, adding additional compartments and decks as if it were a mass of lockable toy blocks. He couldn't imagine it being safe, but it had crossed the outermost edge of the atmosphere without problem.

And it launched another missile. That three meter cylinder flew out from the ship and drifted downward toward the surface as the friction, even at these heights, slowed its advancement.

The fighters ahead had already descended below it, divvying up the first targets among them. Those behind hadn't yet cleared the launch bay, so Corbitt figured this one belonged to him.

He dropped his fighter into the atmosphere, struggling against the escaping hydrogen and nitrogen fighting to keep him out. He knew this wasn't going to be as easy as finding the target and firing. A downward shot risked missing and hitting the surface. The only way to save lives was to match the elevation of that missile and fire across the sky.

The deeper he dropped, the stronger the drag against his hull. His nose glowed red as the friction warmed the fuselage. The targeting scanners had trouble finding a target through the blowback. Even the radio signals broke up. All he had to go on was the brief glimpse through the glowing gas until the atmosphere thickened enough to cool him down.

The signals returned to his ears along with some confusion from his fellow pilots.

"The warhead just burst open!"

"It released something into the air!"

Corbitt's eyes raced to find his missile, locating it just in time to catch the warhead split open. The metal pieces dropped back, nearly striking his canopy. Just behind those pieces of debris, came the payload. A grayish-yellow powder was blown backward and scattered through the air. Particles too small to see once the powder had dispersed, they would surely drop toward the surface as they spread throughout the atmosphere. There was no stopping this weapon after it was released.

"They're poisoning the atmosphere!"

The comm lines exploded with activity as word of the Vandal plan passed up the chain of command. It was too late and the flag officers knew it. They sent word to Earth for an evacuation while the fighters were ordered back to the ship.

The mission took a morbid turn as they were then ordered to hold off the Vandals and protect the escaping civilians.

* * *

Sadiq ordered his navigator to approach the Vandal ship, but having expended its ordinance, it retreated.

"Do you want me to pursue?"

The Commander didn't give a second to consider his answer. "Negative. Our orders are to cover the evacuation.

* * *

Panic broke in the streets before the evacuation order went wide. The toxin tinted the atmosphere with a haze. It started high up above the clouds, but from the ground people could see it drop their way.

Space worthy craft were about as rare as luxury yachts. Some of the super-rich had their own private shuttles for pleasure trips to Mars and back. Others in the blue collar sector either had their own cargo transports for private mining, or they worked for mining companies with small fleets. Cruise ships sat on launch pads waiting for passengers, while factories sat on the most recent ships to come off the assembly line just waiting for delivery.

Christian and Honoria Pafford were two such individuals who had saved up for their own ship. Taking delivery only a day sooner, it sat loaded and ready to launch before word of the Vandal attack forced them idle.

Like most people, they didn't believe the reports sent out over the airwaves until they stepped outside and spied the danger themselves. They looked up to the sky as the haze dropped below the cloud layer. Already, they felt their skin begin to burn before the dust was even on them. Whatever the toxin was, it reacted with the oxygen to give the entire atmosphere an acidic quality. The couple understood when the dissipation was total, there would be no survival.

Honoria didn't even bother trying to retrieve family pictures from the house. The couple raced into their transport, and not a moment too soon. There was barely enough time to lock the hatch before the grayish-yellow haze encompassed everything around them.

The pair climbed to the forward compartment to watch the cloud settle through the forward windows. The bushes and trees outside all withered on contact. The grass charred black.

Across the street, their neighbors raced to get inside, hoping to escape the effects of the toxin. Their skin bubbled and liquefied. As they fell against the door, someone already inside fell against the window. Though protected from direct contact, the toxin seeped through vents and opened windows, entering the house and killing from the inside.

All around the world, anyone who couldn't get into an airtight craft ahead of the rain was killed as well as every plant and animal. There was no time for an organized evacuation. Only those lucky enough to be near a ship as the Paffords were could escape death.

Christian powered up the ship and lifted off while his young wife screamed in terror. They had saved and sacrificed throughout their twenties, holding off on having children so they could acquire this ship. It was supposed to be their ticket to self-reliance – a dream to shed the constrictions of a boss and spend the rest of their lives working for themselves. Instead, it became their lifeboat.

Hundreds of small ships like theirs all over the world raced from the surface. The few survivors who managed to get inside feared the toxin might get through the airtight seals and burn them.

Even off the surface, there was no telling how it might hurt them later. It might stick to the ship across the vacuum of space, stirring to life in a new atmosphere to kill them when they stepped out. On the other hand, the radiation outside Earth's magnetic field might render it harmless. Or the wind might scour it from their hull on the way up. Yet none of that hung in the minds of the survivors. The only concern in those last moments was getting off the dying planet.

Recriminations

Petron stepped from his office into the sorrow on the bridge. So few had made it off Earth before the Vandal poison reached the surface, it was far more likely each soldier and officer knew someone in the Vandal camp than one of the refugees. Spouses were gone. Children were lost. Parents, siblings, forgotten friends – everyone these men and women had ever known outside the military was dead.

The Captain couldn't understand why every eyeball on his bridge turned his way with angry intent. It wasn't his toxin, nor was he heading the operation to stop that ship. If they wanted to be angry at anyone, they should have started with themselves. Slow reaction times throughout these ranks led to the delays in their pursuit. Pilots that obviously weren't prepared to launch had failed to reach those missiles before they unleashed their payloads. An executive officer that obviously couldn't handle the burden of command had botched the entire intercept mission. There was more than enough blame to go around his ship several times, and none of it could be expected to land on his desk.

But thinking on his second, Petron wondered why it was Lieutenant Commander Martinez rising from his chair to surrender the watch. "Where's Commander Sadiq?"

Every eyeball returned to the station ahead of them intending to deliver a silent slight to the calm, yet derisive tone of their captain. Even Martinez tried to avert his eyes and race back to his former station, but Petron had captured those eyes and wouldn't let them go. As the ranking officer, he might have expected he could not deflect the question anyway.

"Commander Sadiq is in his quarters taking statements."

And suddenly, all the blood drained from Petron's otherwise cool appearance. "Taking statements" was one of the codes indicating an investigation. The admiralty barely had a new base of operations established and they already sought blame for Earth's fall. As the ship tasked with stopping that death ship, _Legacy_ naturally was the first target for their inquiries. Petron was certain he had done nothing wrong in carrying out his duties, but the admirals might hold him responsible nonetheless.

Interfering with the testimony Sadiq collected would bring a charge far worse than any he might face. Failure of command was bad enough, but lying and pressuring the supposed witnesses was viewed as treason.

If he spoke with his officers before they visited the Commander, he might "remind" them to tell the "truth." It wouldn't be the first time he pointed out the danger to careers if accusations were made that couldn't be supported. The key though was speaking with his officers one-on-one. They might "misunderstand" his advice. If there were witnesses, they might be inclined to spin it to their advantage; but alone, these disloyal officers would have no one to back up any story they might wish to "invent" against him.

But the whole thing was too much trouble. With the testimony already underway, his time was better spent preparing his own and making sure his side of events was straight in his head so he didn't stammer when the questions flew. Still, it would have been nice to know what was being said in the XO's quarters so he could prepare against the lies his crew no doubt spun against him.

* * *

Commander Sadiq, with his feet resting shoulder width apart and his hands clasped behind his back, stared out his window at the new world _Legacy_ orbited. It was a rocky world, larger than Earth, but covered with a thick methane atmosphere. The surface temperature was far too hot for work, even with their strongest environmental suits. Like the rest of the system, there was nothing terribly special about this world.

The star had never been named, still holding its ancient alphanumeric designation. The four planets in orbit contained nothing of value that couldn't be found throughout more convenient star systems. It was chosen as the EDF's base of operations because there was no reason for the Vandals to take interest in the system.

After those monsters released their poison, they lost interest in the Earth fleet altogether. The death ship seemed too valuable in their eyes to risk in further conflict, so the bulk of their forces shifted focus to covering its retreat.

And the EDF was too happy to oblige. The magnitude of the situation hadn't yet fallen on the rank and file, so the desire for unbridled revenge hadn't yet clouded their operations. The bigger priority had been on protecting the ships climbing from the surface. Their main concern was protecting the survivors and ensuring the righteous half of humanity carried on.

Their ships now were tasked with escorting the tiny civilian craft to new homes on viable planets believed to be out of the Vandals' operational range.

Meanwhile, the admiralty was anxious to get to the bottom of what happened during the battle. They desired to report the failure to the civilians as soon as possible. There was far too much emotion going around for a smooth investigation, but the sooner they uncovered the mistakes, the sooner they could assign the proper blame.

The _Legacy_ sat out escort duty so that its senior staff might be interviewed. They didn't yet have times for their interviews, but Sadiq knew they were coming. He also knew the junior officers and enlisted wouldn't receive the opportunity to speak out, so he wanted to give them the chance before his meeting.

One-by-one, they showed up to his cabin. The Commander had a camera rolling so there was no doubt their statements were on record. Nor could anyone claim the statements were forced or fed to their mouths.

"Come in and take a seat." He turned from the window to greet the newest arrival.

The cabin was much like the captain's suite. A formal office greeted the entrants - a public space that could be used to conduct business or entertain. The private living space lay beyond the second door.

The office itself was large, with a desk and a separate meeting table, both of which folded flat into the floor. This particular task utilized the table. Sadiq felt, being a little less formal, it might put the men and women at some sort of ease. Unfortunately, he had more tears come through his door than there were drops of methane raining down onto the world outside.

The officer at the table was virtually indistinguishable from the rest. Each one of these survivors shared the same story with little variation for the camera.

"I was strapped in the second transport."

"I sat in my fighter."

"I was on the way to the armory."

Each one had their assignment and wanted nothing more than to do their duty.

"Captain Petron called me right from the flight deck."

"He wanted to see me in my quarters."

"I asked him to confirm. After all, we were under a red alert. We were about to head into battle."

"My CO..."

"My unit leader..."

"Ensign Munroe shrugged and told me to go."

"Right away he started whining about my bed."

"...dirty underwear on the floor."

"...breakfast I didn't have time to finish. The alert sounded while I was getting ready for my shift."

"What was I supposed to do? Tell the Vandals to hold off the attack until my room was clean?"

"Isn't the Captain supposed to be on the bridge during a red alert?"

"I know the standards, but it's not like the Admiral's gonna conduct an inspection in the heat of battle."

Commander Sadiq called down the line, interviewing everyone from the bridge crew to the medical staff to the cooks. There wasn't a single department unaffected by Petron's inspections and insistences. Every leader throughout the ship reported their departments were handicapped. Even waste reclamation ground to a halt because staff disappeared.

* * *

Corbitt remained numb in the seat of his fighter, believing the complaints of his fellow pilots. Had he launched with them instead of disappearing to his cabin, they would have had a stronger hand against the Vandals. They would have taken out the enemy fighters without the frustration and anger toward the Captain hanging over their heads. If they could have done their job, the fighters would have returned home sooner. _Legacy_ would have reached Earth and they would have redeployed in time to blast those missiles to dust before they released their payload into the atmosphere. It would have been funny how his attitude toward the situation with Petron turned after the fact, had the consequences not been so dire.

"It's not your fault." Amber hung over the open canopy trying to lift his spirits. Her own were so far down in the darkness, she wasn't very convincing. "Petron has no business commanding any ship, let alone a full carrier. How that horse's ass got his commission in the first place is a mystery no one's been able to solve."

Corbitt couldn't pull his eyes from the instruments directly ahead of him. No matter what Amber or the rest of the pilots told him, it was his fault. He should have pretended he had already launched. He should have ignored Petron altogether. He should have told the Captain off; everyone under his command wanted to at some point. No matter how many kills he racked up or how valiantly they might have saved the planet, Corbitt knew he would still receive an Article 13 for insubordination. Hell, Petron might have referred him to a full court-martial even if he had single-handedly saved the world.

At least Earth would have been safe.

"Who did you lose?" He had to get the subject away from himself. He knew it was selfish stewing on his own guilt when there was enough pain to fill the squad bay an infinite number of times. How Amber managed to hold it together as well as she seemed was something he desperately needed to learn.

"Honestly, no one," she admitted. "My parents were killed when I was fourteen. My sister and I were split up and placed in separate foster homes and I hadn't seen her since."

"What about the foster parents? They weren't anybody you missed?"

She thought about it for a moment, probably for the first time since she had been placed in the home. The experience wasn't bad enough to form her opinion, nor was it so great as to create an emotional attachment.

"They weren't bad people, but I think they cared more about helping kids than they cared about the kids themselves. I think though if they took my sister in with me, I might feel worse about their deaths."

"They wanted to help kids, but they wouldn't take in your sister?" Corbitt pulled his gaze from his instruments for the first time.

"It wasn't like that. The state split us up and didn't tell them. Me, being a moody teen and bitter over losing my parents, never said anything about it. Honestly, they never knew."

"Now they never will."

"And I'll never get to see my sister again to find out what she made of her life. What about you? Who did you leave behind?"

Corbitt's gaze returned to his instruments. Like his friends, he should have been thinking about the two older sisters, his parents, or his grandmother. Instead, it was those damned instruments reminding him of his damned Captain. No matter what they talked about or who Amber tried to focus his sorrow on, the only thought occupying his head was the regret over following that man.

And yet, no matter how much anyone tried to put the bureaucratic bullshit of their superiors out of their minds, there was always the jarring reminder of their presence over their careers. A message played throughout the bay announcing the arrival of a shuttle. Corbitt and Amber awaited for the follow-up message to vacate the area, but it never came.

A massive inner door divided the hangar bay. During normal operations, the outer bay would act like a giant airlock to minimize the space they needed to pressurize or depressurize when launching a single ship. Only when they planned to launch all the fighters was the entire area depressurized for rapid deployment. In such an instance, warnings were issued and time given for the evacuation of anyone not properly suited for the change of environment.

Since no warning was issued, the pair remained waiting silently for arrival procedures to run their course so they might see who stepped off the shuttle. Whoever it was must have been important. The shuttle touched down dead center on the flight deck rather than in one of the available berths. Had it been a typical flight officer at the helm, it would have been a sign of contempt for procedure; but knowing the high-ranking personnel in orbit with them, it was far more likely the landing was a message that no one would be permitted to leave while these guests were aboard.

Another message overhead announced the Captain on deck. Corbitt turned slightly to watch Petron rushing to greet the shuttle, still adjusting his dress uniform and straightening his ribbons. They noticed the man sweating profusely from their distance. However many layers he wore, they weren't enough to hide his discomfort. Sweat stains embarrassed his appearance.

"You'd think he just found out his hooker has VD," Corbitt sneered.

"And he's figuring how to tell his wife," Amber added with her own disdain.

Petron finished fussing with his uniform long enough to take in the crowd around him – lack of a crowd was more accurate. He noticed the pair hovering over Corbitt's fighter and regarded them with disdain before turning toward the control center overlooking the entire bay.

"Do we not call formation when admiralty arrives?" he called up. He knew the crew couldn't hear them in that sealed room, but he expected the protocol nonetheless.

Corbitt rolled his eyes to his partner. "Is it too late to pretend I was killed in battle?"

"You can always try. If it works, let me know."

Finally the order came over the speakers driving the pair from the fighter and into formation behind their captain with the other pilots and members of the flight crew spilling out from their hiding spots for this asinine show of respect.

There were no more countries, no more planet, no more leaders to fight for. Amidst the sorrow building behind Petron's back was a feeling that all this formality was useless for their survival. Maybe it was the lack of a mourning period that kept morale low, but with the Vandals stronger than ever, the few survivors didn't have the luxury of fleet-wide sorrow to sit through before their new homes were found and their settlements protected. Still, the rank-and-file would rather have stayed busy with relevant work than to continue stroking the egos of some admiral who kept distant from the fight while now looking for scapegoats to blame.

The rear hatch opened and a young ensign, dressed for ceremony stepped out. "I present Vice Admiral Singh and Rear Admiral Duffy."

With a glowering look, Petron brought his crew to attention. The admirals and their entourages proceed off the shuttle and approached the Captain.

"Request permission to come aboard," Singh greeted.

"Permission granted." Petron's hand shook, and those directly behind him, noticed his attempt at subtlety when he wiped his palm on his pant leg before offering it to his superiors. No doubt both admirals already knew of his apprehension. They might have even relished it as a reminder of the power their ranks carried.

"As you know, I'm here to interview you and your executive officer," Singh began. "Admiral Duffy will be conducting an inspection."

At that news, the crew heard their captain's heart freeze in his chest. These inspections seemed to be all the man lived for; yet for the fact his crew didn't share his exuberance, they worried him far more than the Vandals did. As he followed the admirals out, he muttered a subtle threat to the men and women he was about to leave behind.

"I hope your quarters look better than they did yesterday."

The hatch closed behind the departing brass, and with no one left to call for dismissal, the _Legacy's_ greeting party broke up and vanished rather organically.

Corbitt leaned in for one last private word with Amber. "Think there's time to sneak into his quarters and sabotage his inspection?"

"I doubt it," Amber returned. "Maybe he'll fail on his own.

* * *

Singh led the Captain into his office and took over the desk. Sadiq followed in shortly, greeting the Admiral with attention and a salute.

"At ease, Commander."

With his hands hidden behind his back, Petron nervously picked at his fingernails and cuticles. Normally when Duffy inspected the ship, he followed with a clipboard taking notes of his own and deciphering the unfolding outcome of the event. No one could ever discern if the Rear Admiral wanted the attention or not. He always seemed annoyed that these captains hovered throughout the process, but if they left the man alone to work uninterrupted, he would accuse them of not caring about their ship and their standards. Printed regulations were no help, so most of the captains like Petron erred on the side of selfishness and chose to follow.

Singh's investigation running concurrent with the inspections complicated the process and frustrated Petron who felt like the inspection had slipped from his control. But what could he do? Singh outranked Duffy; she expected the Captain's attention even if it weren't demanded, and Duffy would understand.

Yet while Petron panicked over all the possible disciplinary outcomes from this visit, Sadiq could think of nothing but the disk in his pocket with the recordings from every officer aboard _Legacy_.

This wouldn't be the first time the man's incompetence was brought to their attention. Petron's first few months of command saw the resignation of his first executive officer, demotion of his second as well as three of his department heads, and requests for transfer from about seventy percent of his officer pool. Complaints had been filed on a daily basis, and Sadiq himself once requested a meeting with Singh; but all the concerns and complaints were summarily dismissed. He had been told Petron had the highest inspection scores in the Fleet so it was assumed the Captain did something right. The findings from the Admiral always suggested the complaints stemmed from inferior officers who couldn't handle the rigor of the service.

When it was suggested Sadiq learn to deal with Petron's command style or resign his commission, he quietly returned to his position like a good soldier. Like the men and women under him, he tried to remember why he served in the first place. It was easier ignoring the Captain's quirks if he simply ignored the man, imagining the people of Earth were the true captain.

With those people now few in numbers, he knew that motivation would be difficult to grasp going forward. Though it was doubtful the admiralty could afford to lose a ship's captain, he was sure they would agree with him now, if they saw the man had lost the confidence of everyone under his command.

Sadiq would be the first to make his case, sitting across from Singh while Petron was driven from the room to chew his fingernails nervously, wishing he could hear through the soundproof door. If the door were constructed of less firm matter, he might hear his XO relate his refusal to report to the bridge after red alert was called and again when they were reassigned to protect Earth. He might hear stories of key officers down in their quarters making beds and cleaning their rooms like grade-school children.

If he could see inside, Petron might notice the Admiral stroking her chin and nodding her head as Sadiq laid out his failures throughout the mission. He would have caught the look of satisfaction across the XO's face as he poured out all his frustrations.

At the end of it all, Petron would have seen the Admiral toss the disk into the trash without viewing one segment of testimony. He would have heard the admonishments leveled at Sadiq.

"Everyone under your command should be capable of doing their jobs. You can't expect to have all your best people at your disposal in a crisis, Commander. What if your Chief Navigator was injured? What if your Chief Engineer died in battle? As the executive officer of this ship, it is your job to make sure the department heads are training their staff"

The Admiral droned onward, but the moment it sounded as if Sadiq was to blame for everything that went wrong, the Commander tuned the rest of the speech out. Once it was over and the Commander dismissed, his defeated look and slumped posture should have been a hint to the Captain about to take his turn in the hot seat.

Petron could not divine the direction of his own meeting from that look however. The end of Earth meant enough blame to spread to everyone, or he might get lucky and his XO took it all. He did not look forward to his turn with the Admiral.

* * *

By the time Singh, Duffy, and their staff boarded their shuttle, word was already around the ship concerning the results of their visit. Commander Sadiq met briefly with the department heads and section chiefs to brief them on immediate changes ordered by the admirals. Then each man and woman returned to their teams to brief their people.

Corbitt assembled with his fellow pilots and the rest of the flight crew as Lieutenant Commander Park returned. Overall, the news he had for his team was good for the Captain, not so much for anyone else.

"As you've heard," Park began, " _Legacy_ passed inspection." The hangar bay filled with the sounds of disappointment as everyone knew what that meant. "Admiral Singh took it as confirmation of the Captain's command ability. Sadiq wouldn't come out and say it, but the Captain blamed his entire crew for the failure back at Earth and the Admiral agreed. If you can believe it, Petron earned a commendation for passing inspection while everyone else gets an Article 13 for failing to perform duties."

The disappointment turned to outrage. Corbitt couldn't be certain, but it sounded like their screams and moans had been joined with those from throughout the ship. Then again, the anger and frustration went beyond the usual bullshit of Petron taking credit for their work while blaming them for his failure. There was anger over billions of people losing their lives. There was collective outrage over the misplaced priorities of the admirals. These crews had to work through their own grief and agony quickly, while Admiral Singh worried about reassigning blame to save her career from leaders who no longer existed.

"There is good news for a few of us," Park continued. "The cruiser _Futura_ failed her inspection this morning. Their captain was immediately demoted. After blaming Sadiq for the failure of the _Legacy_ , they decided to promote him and give him the command."

Had there not been so much anger, the flight deck would have echoed with their collective laughter over the irony. The _Futura_ earned respect among flight crews throughout the Fleet for having one of the highest kill ratios during combat. Their captain had the most success toward her targets, and yet it was her inspection scores unravelling her career. Word of her demotion would surely ricochet with a shocked gasp knowing swept floors and painted bulkheads were more important than battlefield victories.

But those victories came with a price. The _Futura_ lost too many people to do without, including two of their fighter pilots. When Sadiq departed for his new commission, he took a handful of Petron's crew with him, including Amber.

After Park's meeting broke up, and Amber returned from her quarters with her things, Corbitt greeted her with a friendly, farewell hug.

"You're lucky," he told her. "You get to escape our idiot captain."

"Depends on how you look at it," she said. "You get to leave in the morning on escort duty, and I get to stay in orbit preparing for reinspection. I tell you it's not fair when I just prepared for inspection over here."

"If you don't want to go," Corbitt joked, "we can trade places."

She chuckled. It was a meek chuckle, but it was the first bit of humor anyone found since putting the Solar system behind them. They both knew orders were orders. Especially without replacements for lost crewmen anymore, there would be no more questioning of assignments. They had to go where they were told, and if they had to serve under a poor captain there would be rare opportunities for transfers.

Amber boarded the shuttle with the now Captain Sadiq and the rest of his scalps. He watched it lift off and float across the flight deck, waiting while the inner door closed between them. It was a funny feeling, but somehow Corbitt suspected this might be the last time he ever saw his friend and comrade.

Captain's Triumph

Without Sadiq, the _Legacy_ was a ship without a rudder. Lieutenant Commander Hoskins from supply was promoted to commander and placed as the XO, but his former job didn't make him the most ideal person for the role. He had proven himself at managing ship's inventory expertly and making sure supplies and equipment went where needed as needed. Managing people was a different experience altogether.

His former crew all held jobs familiar to him. Hoskins could be hands-on when needed, helping his people and guiding them through tasks they were so far unfamiliar with. On the bridge, he had no previous experience operating any of the stations around him. He couldn't help the navigator with calculations. He couldn't advise his armorer if one of the missile tubes jammed.

As the executive officer, those around him should have counted on him for guidance. They expected to lean on him when their own knowledge reached its limits, and they expected him to have their backs when they knew orders were wrong. Instead, the senior officers now relied on each other when their expertise overlapped. They made up the rest when they hit the wall. To them, Hoskins was more dangerous than an ensign with the ship's compass.

Coming from supply hurt him further with the men. While he earned respect in his former job when it came to general ship-wide supply issues, he had a reputation as an asshole among the enlisted when it came to personal supplies. Not a single uniform requisition didn't result in a complaint to command. No one could get a bar of soap without a four day process of paperwork.

In all fairness, the supply chief was personally responsible for every item that went through his hands. If command discovered a form with a single box that wasn't checked, they didn't go to the individual who submitted the form. It was far too easy for someone to claim they didn't submit it in the first place, and there had been incidents where supply chiefs submitted forged paperwork to hide shortfalls within their inventories. Instead it was the supply chief charged for the item. After all, it was his or her job to make sure that paperwork was properly filled out before releasing supplies and materials.

But those outside of Supply didn't understand the pressures of those within. They only understood the hoops and hassles dumped upon them to obtain the simplest of items. Hoskins might earn their respect as the XO, but he had a long way to earn it after their experiences with him in supply.

Captain Petron was no help. Just like with Sadiq, he disappeared from the bridge whenever he could. Most of the time he hid in his office, granting his usual dismissive attitude to anyone wishing to bother him. Other times, he made his familiar rounds of crew quarters, inspecting his ship ahead of the next visit from Admiral Duffy.

Formal inspections were conducted once a quarter. After one such inspection, a captain would normally count down the days he was safe before the next quarter began. On most ships, standards relaxed until the day before the new quarter when the captain would again worry his senior staff, fearing the Admiral would show up on the first day.

Petron, however, never let up on his crew. Though it never actually happened, and everyone knew he bullshitted them, he often claimed the timetable was nothing more than a guide. He would lie to his senior staff that Duffy might start the inspection cycle at the end of the previous cycle to get a head start, especially if he expected to take extended leave.

In reality his fears were two-fold. Loosening standards, even for a week set a bad precedent in a service that required attention to detail in everything these men and women did at all times. One line they were fed way back in boot camp questioned their pride in service if they couldn't take pride in their own living spaces.

More selfishly for Petron, he feared the crew would rely too heavily on him for their jobs if he didn't keep busy with his own; especially his new XO who tried to grab his ear whenever they passed.

They finished their first escort mission. A handful of mining and scientific vessels had been led to a small, cold world. It wasn't a pleasant place by any means, but it had a breathable atmosphere. The planet itself was geologically stable, and it was described in the scientific database as snow-free near the equator two-thirds of its year (if the scientific database could be trusted). The new colonists would grumble, but they could survive.

As they prepared to depart for home, maintenance discovered a problem in _Legacy's_ environmental systems. It wasn't immediate, but it would become a crisis if they waited to correct it.

Petron, as usual wouldn't advise Hoskins while the bridge was under his control. The officers around him were a little more forthcoming with suggestions, even if they held a hint of disdain in their words.

"If the Vandals venture this far from their territory, they might spot our ship on sensors," one officer advised him. "If they do, we risk exposing the colony. It's a miniscule risk, Sir, but we can't afford any chances at this point."

"There is a system six light years from here," another noted. "Database notes a moon around one of the planets with an oxygen-rich atmosphere. Once maintenance makes their repairs, we can replenish our own supplies from there."

"If it's habitable," Martinez interrupted, "don't we risk exposing a possible colony site?"

"Negative. Surveys couldn't find liquid water. Squeezing it from the atmosphere is too much work when we have access to worlds with water already on the surface."

It sounded good to the Commander, and he didn't have many options anyway. The course was set and the ship redirected. Petron was notified, though he acted as indifferent as he did to any decision he didn't want responsibility over.

It took the better part of the day to reach the moon. The space between the stars was easy enough to cross. Their engines, powered by the decay of the artificial Tysonium atoms, created an intense gravity field, warping space around them. By targeting that field, they could pull the desired destination closer. When the two points neared, a singularity of sorts formed to bridge the remaining gap, much like a wormhole. At least that's how it was explained in boot camp.

Light years could be crossed in minutes, but they had to be careful when activating their gravity fields. Small objects like asteroids could be pulled into the singularity with them, becoming dangerous projectiles when they exited at the destination. It was a quirk that allowed them to tow smaller craft with nothing but sublight engines at their disposal, but it was not desired when the Trojan lacked human control upon entering normal space.

The problems of the drive were worse when larger planets and small moons came into play. Too large to follow ships through the singularity, instead, the warped space and heightened gravity would tug such objects out of their normal orbits.

Any star system worth visiting was a system worth protecting. They couldn't risk upsetting the natural course of any planet that might someday prove valuable, so there were standing orders not to enter or exit a star system with the gravity engines. Unless there was an emergency warranting the risk, standard practice was to arrive at the edge of the known planetary system and use their sublight engines to complete the journey.

Still, the journey to the desired moon would have been made in half the time with a more experienced commander in the chair. It was the price of the nonexistent morale and the lack of respect for the commanding officers. The officers hesitated at their stations. They were distracted. Their grief and anger only grew worse in the silence permeating the bridge. Mistakes were made with increasing frequency, doubling the normal travel time.

By the time _Legacy_ entered orbit, the environmental systems failed completely. The maintenance crew suggested an orbit well within the atmosphere so that they might open the outer vents and recycle the internal air with what they could grab from the moon.

They made it sound so easy, Hoskins didn't question the suggestion. Since the more experienced beneath him didn't care if he failed in his command, no one voiced the dangers in the intended orbit. They merely offered the standard "yes, Sir," to the order and followed the vague instructions.

Then again, none of the bridge officers had been forthcoming with procedures upon entering the system. They should have followed the same process used when relocating the settlers, but Hoskins was nervous to the point of panic. No one suggested running sensor sweeps, and it wasn't until Park called up from the flight deck to ask if he wanted fighters deployed around the moon that it even crossed his mind there could be Vandals nearby.

* * *

"Teams Charlie and Delta, report to your fighters for deployment."

Park's voice across the squad bay triggered a flurry of activity as Corbitt and his fellow pilots scrambled into their suits. The flight crews joined them on the deck to hurry the preflight checks along. With Amber and one of Charlie's pilots gone, both teams were down a member, but no one expected a fight.

This would be a routine operation. In an unsecured star system, a team or two of fighters were normally scrambled for lookout. Though unlikely, there was always the possibility of debris hidden on the opposite side of the moon in an orbit retrograde to that of the _Legacy_. Far more unlikely, but far more frightening was the prospect of a Vandal ship back there.

_Legacy's_ sensors couldn't reach every nook of the star system, so the fighters were deployed to cover the gaps. Corbitt didn't mind though. Any excuse to get out in his fighter was worth it. As far as he was concerned it was another opportunity to keep his flight skills sharp.

Once the flight deck cleared out and the doors opened, Corbitt lifted off and sped from _Legacy_ in turn. Charlie Team was already off around the moon ahead of the ship, so he and his wing raced off behind. It suited him just fine as Delta Team would be the ones to fly between the moon and its parent.

Initially, he rolled the fighter so the gas giant appeared in his canopy above him. In many ways, it resembled Jupiter: a brownish world with thin bands of clouds circling the world in parallel with the equator. Unlike Jupiter, the bands were broken with far more stormy features, none of them red. Instead, circles and ovals of dark browns and blacks forced the neighboring bands of gas to arc around them.

Corbitt didn't have a lot of time to reminisce as they reached the far side of the moon and their fellow fighters within minutes.

"This is Charlie-1, if you don't mind, we'll take the planet."

"This is Delta-1. The planet is all yours. We'll stick with the moon."

In a way, Corbitt was disappointed watching the other team veer off for an orbit around the massive ball of gas, but he couldn't always get the assignments he wanted. Instead, he and his team had the boring task of matching their orbital speed with that of the _Legacy_ and holding position on the far side of the moon.

He rolled his fighter once more to put the moon overhead. It wasn't as fascinating as the planet, but it was less tedious than empty space. The atmosphere was a hazy grayish color, absorbing some of the pale brownness of the surface. Mountain chains circled the small world north to south. A few impact sites marked the landscape, but for the most part, it appeared this rock was spared from most of the debris its parent must have attracted.

Still, with no sign of rivers or lakes, and nothing but the trace cloud in that sky, Corbitt found it less appealing as a home as than white and gray ice ball they left a day before. Yet, this was what it meant to be a fighter pilot. It wasn't about the dogfights; it was about the chance to see the galaxy they explored. Eighty, maybe ninety percent of the crews aboard these ships never left those metal walls to see the worlds they orbited or the stars they visited. Maybe half the crew was lucky to get a glimpse through the windows and port holes while the other half hardly noticed the views outside the ship.

Even the command staff rarely took the prerogative of leaving the ship when opportunities arose. People like Petron and Sadiq were so worried with their commands that they took these varied worlds for granted. To them, it was assumed these opportunities would come again so they didn't have to see a moon such as this one.

To Corbitt, this was what he signed up for. This moon wasn't much to look at, but it was beautiful in its own way. Had events been different, he might have enjoyed this flight. Instead, it served to calm his anger over Earth. It helped him forget the idiocy of his captain. For a moment, this was a reminder of how insignificant Earth and its loss was to the vast plan unfolding throughout the rest of the universe. He even wished he might stay here forever and forget the bullshit back on _Legacy_.

Then the radio came to life in his ear.

"Anyone see Charlie Team out there?"

He glanced to his chronometer and noticed an hour had passed during his daydreams. It was outside procedure to go that long without checking in. Though it happened that communication could be hindered by the radiation given off by one of these giant balls of gas, Delta Team's leader feared something worse.

The new Delta-4 (formerly Delta-5) left to report back to _Legacy_ while Corbitt rolled his fighter for another glimpse at the planet. As usual, radiation messed with the fighter's readings. He was ordered toward the world for a closer look when the radio squawked once more.

"I see them."

Corbitt squinted trying to sharpen his view. He spied five points of light crossing into the primary star's light.

"Charlie Team, this is Delta-1. Please respond."

"This is Delta-2. Anyone else counting five of them?"

"Affirmative."

"Don't panic just yet," the team leader warned. "It might just be a reflection. This is Delta-1 to Charlie Team. Can any of you hear me?"

But the fighters grew into focus showing this was no illusion. The realization that this was not their other team swept through the flight.

"Delta-4, this is Delta-1 can you still read me?"

"Delta-4 is already across the horizon."

"Then this will be a surprise for those back home. As of now, I am authorizing engagement. Let's make these bastards pay for what they did."

Corbitt and his friends hit their accelerators, anxious for a fight. They opened fire indiscriminately, with no regard to their power levels. There was so much fury between those three ships, they only wished the enemy could take the full suffering their lasers had to offer.

When the oncoming fighters realized they had been made, they too accelerated and shifted to an erratic course. Their fire was held back until the opposing ships were closer and less likely to evade their shots. The Vandals didn't have the raw emotion to blast from their guns. There were no comrades or countrymen to avenge. They hardly had a set of ideals or principles backing their laserlight. The EDF always considered them as nothing more than angry kids when in actuality the youngest was probably no younger than Corbitt and the two pilots on either side of his wings.

The two partners glided by each other without so much as a single strike. Delta Team's fire let up as they circled back. With the dogfight placing the three fighters all over the field, they had to rely on the accuracy of their transmitters to avoid an accidental strike on each other. It wasn't as if any of them cared for their own lives any more. Corbitt would gladly accept his end so long as those terrorists paid for their actions.

As the two sides continued their unending dance, a new blip appeared on the canopy. For a moment, Corbitt thought it was the _Legacy_ broaching the horizon on the moon until he realized the signal came from the parent planet. He took a shot at the fighter he tailed before it veered off and broke his pursuit. Instead of following it, Corbitt circled around so he might get a visual on whatever triggered the blip.

"Uh, guys, this is Delta-4...I mean 3," he stuttered, momentarily forgetting his promotion in the rotation while spying the faint outline of a Vandal cruiser breaking away from the gas ball toward their position. "Is anyone else seeing this?"

"I'm a little busy, Hopeless. What is it?

"I can see their home base."

"You had to figure it was out here somewhere."

"Yeah, but it's headed our way. If we can't warn _Legacy_ , they'll be ambushed as soon as they orbit around."

"Petron's a big boy," the leader shifted into a derisive sneer. "I'm sure he can take care of himself."

It wasn't the Captain drawing worry, but their friends back on the ship. Still, there wasn't much Corbitt could do about it. Even if he wanted to flee the battlefield, a pair of Vandal fighters found his tail. His immediate concern was shaking their fire and turning the tables.

* * *

Min paced about the bridge of the _Fury_ , shouting at her crew. The window ahead glowed with the light of the dogfight.

"How did they find us?"

She shouldn't have expected any of these young faces to provide an answer, yet she expected one nonetheless as if one of them had some magical insight into the EDF's maneuvers.

After fleeing the destruction wrought upon the Earth, the Vandal ruling council expected retaliation. Though they were ready to defend and prepared for the resulting casualties, they were not willing to lose Dr. Hugo and that excitingly effective weapon of his.

_Fury_ was ordered into hiding until they could discern the blowback and ensure its safety. Just as _Legacy_ chose this uninteresting system for its lack of value, so too did Min choose it to set about on repairs and maintenance. The first wing of enemy fighters warned her to danger, and the second wing now facing her own suggested a force larger than her single ship; either a fleet, or (as she discovered when it broke the horizon of the large moon) a full carrier.

Though it outnumbered her in terms of fighters, and carried larger armaments, she much preferred to face a carrier over a pair of smaller cruisers. The carrier was a larger target and it was slower to maneuver in a dogfight. She let her own fighters deal with the odds among the smaller craft while she pushed on and through the dogfight toward that EDF prize.

Her second-in-command noticed the fury these fighters came at them with. The first wing had been caught off guard and was easy to pick off while they stumbled to comprehend the danger they had flown into. But these had too much warning. These pilots were out for blood and Evermore feared they might get it.

"In my opinion," he advised, "we won't take that ship without heavy casualties and great cost to ourselves. In light of the 'cargo' we must protect, I would advise elimination over capture."

Min turned angrily to him, forgetting for a moment the advisor she was about to snap at. Her demeanor turned ahead of her words, knowing he wasn't trying to challenge her command, rather he wished to offer his trusted advice. Evermore was right and she knew it. No matter how much her people could use another battle carrier in their fleet, or the spare parts it might provide, _Fury's_ safety was far more important.

"You are right, Colonel. Order our gunners to open fire immediately. Blast that thing into dust!"

* * *

"The Vandal ship opened fire," the lieutenant watching their sensors called out. "Thirty seconds to impact.

Though the laser weapons approached their targets at the speed of light, there remained a delay across the vast distance. The _Fury_ remained far enough from the moon to give Hoskins time to evade the incoming fire, but he and his crew had to act efficiently.

"Evasive maneuvers!" he called out uncertain if that was even a proper order.

His navigator turned with a derisive glance in his eyes. "Where should I go?"

"I don't know," the Commander stammered as if he never considered the tiny detail was on his shoulders. "Just get us out of the way!"

But the ship shuddered and reports of damage called out before the navigator could return to his controls. Another shudder unsettled the staff around, then another. The blasts came in quickly, endangering section after section before _Legacy_ could be shifted out of _Fury's_ wrath.

* * *

Captain Petron shook off the ship's pain. In the control room overlooking the squad bay, his concern was on the list from Admiral Duffy concerning the inspection items he lost points on. He had covered the items with his staff, but with the down time resulting from the broken environmental systems, he inspected the deficient departments accepting no excuses for the continued deficiencies.

Park was a little more concerned with the action outside the ship, but when he tried to turn to one of his technicians for a report, the Captain looked to him with disbelief.

"I don't think you understand how serious these issues are," he told the exasperated Lieutenant Commander.

"But sir, Charlie Team is missing..."

"And I intend to see them all in my office when they get back," Petron interrupted. "Those flyboys of yours have got to learn to follow procedure when they leave this ship."

"And what if that was an attack?"

Petron rolled his eyes as if he had been asked about sports scores. "If it is, Commander Hoskins can handle it. What I am concerned about is the condition of your flight deck. I warned you last week it needed a fresh coat of paint. Now I'm looking at Admiral Duffy's inspection and we almost failed because it is worn down to bare metal around the fighter bays."

Park was so dumbfounded at the misplaced priorities all he could do was stare slack-jawed at the Captain. Petron reiterated his point about nearly failing the inspection. In truth, the inspection wasn't close to failure, but Petron was never one to let an inconvenience like facts or honesty get in the way of discipline. Nor was he one to argue with when his lies were transparent. Calling him out only earned a stronger reiteration of the lie, and it grew stronger and stronger until the exasperated officer gave up.

It proved more futile at times like this when he came off a successful inspection. Never was he held in higher esteem with the admiralty than after a passing score. Any complaints filed against him after that were met with more indifference than Petron had given them. All the documented evidence in the known universe never equaled the weight those arbitrary scores held.

It was only when the technician interrupted that Park was saved from Petron's babblings.

"Sir, bridge reports a Vandal cruiser approaching fast."

"Scramble the remaining fighters," he ordered before Petron stopped him.

"Did Commander Hoskins order the fighters?"

"No sir," the technician stuttered, fearing he would receive the Captain's wrath.

"Captain," Park interrupted to take the flak off his poor lackey, "we have a chance to strike back and get some revenge against those bastards. The men have been clamoring for this and I know my pilots are more than willing to go out there and face them."

"And what happens when your pilots get themselves killed? Did you stop to think how you can replace them? You already lost two to the _Futura_ , and you're telling me you lost four more. What happens when we face a Vandal carrier with a full complement of manned fighters and you only have a single wing to throw at them?"

He only flustered Park further as the argument made no sense anywhere but within Petron's own head. With all the fighters in the theater, they would present too many targets for the five Vandals to concentrate on. It would be far too easy to confuse them and overwhelm their already inferior fighting skills. And with a fourteen to five advantage (or sixteen if he listened to his shuttle and transport pilots and reassigned two of them to the unmanned birds) a few of those boys and girls would be free to annoy the _Fury_.

"What I'm dying to know," Petron said, insisting on keeping the conversation about his Flight Chief and his failure to paint the flight deck as ordered, "is how you had a week to get it done and that deck remains worn."

Park stuttered for an answer as his mind wouldn't allow him to forget about the fighters alone outside the ship.

"I...I put in the request to maintenance, but they haven't got around to it."

"I've told you before not to wait on maintenance. All you have to do is requisition the paint from the Quartermaster and do it yourself."

"But we have our own responsibilities..."

"...One of which is to make sure your flight deck is properly painted and marked according to standards. I don't want the excuses, Lieutenant."

His choice not to use Park's full title or give him the courtesy of referring to him as Commander was no mistake, nor was the slight lost on Park (or any of the other officers when he had done it in the past). The disrespect was meant as a reminder of how low his department head ranked beneath him. Petron always had to remind his leaders that his orders were not suggestions. Their petty little worlds and perceived priorities were insignificant compared to the larger picture, and he sure as hell was not going to end up like the former captain of the _Futura_ because his senior staff felt his priorities were not theirs.

* * *

The _Fury_ split the fighters to either side as it barged through their little skirmish. Delta-4, having rejoined the team, took advantage of the chaos the larger ship created and found a fix on one of the Vandal fighters.

"Die, you fucking bastard!" She squeezed the trigger almost hard enough to break it, but the shot let out regardless, striking the target sure and true. The cowardly fighter broke into a thousand pieces, giving the _Legacy_ pilot a challenging roadblock to dodge and allowing only the most harmless of the debris to strike her own ship.

She let out a scream of victory prematurely. Revealed when the _Fury_ moved past, two of their fighters had boxed in Delta-1. The team leader was an expert at evasion, but the opponents had been lucky. Their shots properly anticipated his movement and the laser met the cockpit when he meant to veer away from the line of fire.

"Delta-1's been hit!"

"Keep your head, Nightstalker. You're team leader now."

Delta-2 fought against the growing anger trying to explode from every corner of his body. One more death wasn't so inconsequential after losing everyone back home since it was the death of a friend and close colleague. But mourning time had to wait for later. All his emotion had to bury itself for the sake of the last four Vandal fighters.

Corbitt swooped back to locate a target, bringing the two behemoths into his canopy's view. The _Fury_ fired its cannons as if living up to its name, while the _Legacy_ remained dark.

"Why aren't they fighting back?"

"Who do you mean, Hopeless?"

" _Legacy_. Her cannons are cold. She's just limping about like she's lost in the woods."

The Vandal crossed briefly into his sights, not long enough for his lasers to make a new friend. It remained a fight just to keep that wily craft ahead of him.

"Petron must be on the bridge."

"Watch your mouth on this channel," Delta-2 warned. "You know the bridge listens in."

"I don't give a fuck," Delta-4 snapped. "He can come out here and hand me that Article 13 in person if that coward has a problem. Captain, can you hear me? How about showing a little backbone and fire back at these motherfuckers!"

"Or better yet," Corbitt interrupted hoping to keep the focus on their true enemies, "how about telling us where our backup is."

"Flight command, this is Delta-2. Can you read us?"

"Affirmative." No one could place the voice. Truth be told, there were about three men who worked the tower that sounded alike over the radios. Without a handle, no one was certain who spoke when the voice crackled in their ears. "Captain Petron ordered the fighters grounded. You're on your own out there. Sorry."

"Sorry? I should go back there and drag his ass out here. Let him fight these guys by himself."

"Stow the anger, Delta-4. Remember who the enemy is." Delta-2 found his target and made contact. "I promise you if we make it back alive, I'll knock his lights out myself."

But like the previous kill, the victory over this one too was short-lived. Another Vandal fighter came at him from his starboard side and opened fire the moment his fighter was in the line of fire. Nightstalker would not make good on his promise.

"Shit! Shit!" Corbitt's anger over another loss caused him to miss the target he had been lining up.

"Keep your wits. For what it's worth, you're flight leader now." The responsibility was easy enough, but with only one fighter left under his sudden command, it hardly seemed necessary.

With renewed fire in his belly, resembling the nuclear furnace of a star rather than that powering _Legacy's_ sublight engines, he turned his fighter hard, opening fire before he had the target in his sights. He maintained the assault so as not to give any room for evasion. Quickly, the Vandal grew frustrated and nervous. The fighter signaled increasing mistakes, and soon it ventured into the path of one of the oncoming laser blasts.

"At least we're even now," his partner offered to keep his spirits up.

But Corbitt misunderstood the comment. "We're not even close to even," he spat through his clenched teeth.

He identified the fighter he thought responsible for taking out Delta-2 and pursued it with the same unabridged rage he showed against the first target. To those kids, this was one big game. Corbitt and his fellow pilots were all soulless dots in their canopy screens. Each of his friends killed by their hands was nothing more than a hundred points in their video game war.

He doubted they even saw value in the lives they snuffed out on Earth. No doubt they had parents back there as Corbitt did. Many of them had siblings as Corbitt did. How dark their souls must be, he thought, to bring death upon that family without the slightest consideration. Just as those lives held no value to the pilot ahead of him, this kid meant even less to Corbitt. He opened fire to let him join the dust of his two friends.

Still they were not even. As far as he was concerned, they wouldn't be even if he could strangle every last Vandal into the grave personally.

Suddenly, he noticed one less transponder transmitting on his canopy.

"Delta-4, what's your status?"

His calls would go unanswered. The remaining two fighters silenced her voice during his blinding rage. He was alone.

* * *

Hoskins remained in a state of unresponsive panic. All around him, officers called for orders.

"Armory demands orders to engage."

"Flight wants permission to launch more fighters."

"Damage control teams need to know what your priorities are."

It was all too much. As a quartermaster and the supply chief, he didn't have all these voices to answer. He might have a line of men shouting and cursing him out, but he had the luxury of ignoring everyone until their voices grew hoarse and they left him alone.

"Why did they have to promote me?" he asked himself.

Each strike to the ship sent him further and further into his shell. Each damage report caused him to tune out more and more of the noise.

Lieutenant Commander Martinez, lurking about the bridge and monitoring the men and their progress struggled with the decision to bail out the unfortunate Commander. By all rights the promotion should have been his. He was the one on this ship with the most command experience outside Petron and Sadiq. But the Admiralty held a dim view over his career.

Martinez wasn't afraid to question orders when necessary. If he spied a more efficient or a safer travel route when sent on a mission, he would defy orders when the bridge was his and take it. If the admiralty expected them to transfer more of their supplies than they could survive with, he wasn't afraid to hold back what they needed.

They promoted Hoskins over him because the man was a yes-man. The man never once took a chance in his career, skating through his duties and doing the bare minimum required to avoid trouble. While command officers should have been judged on the overall outcome of their collective missions, supply clerks should have been judged on the accuracy of their inventories and the efficiency in their supply usage. But Martinez knew Hoskins never once tried to reduce _Legacy's_ supply orders. Any attempt to improve efficiency on one's own volition was a risk that might backfire, and he wouldn't take the chance. As long as he filled a seat and kept out of trouble, the admiralty loved him more than the third-in-command with a verified record of reducing fuel usage and decreasing the waste in the kitchen. It was Hoskins, and not Martinez, who was their superstar.

Watching this superstar fail on his first turn in the big chair was all the vindication he needed. He didn't want to see the _Legacy_ lost over a personal slight. Yet he knew if he jumped in and rescued the new Commander, all credit for the battle would go to Hoskins instead. The man had to fail spectacularly if he was to be exposed. His compromise was to continue around the bridge, whispering in everyone's ears to keep up the pressure until the Commander either stepped up or stepped out.

* * *

Several decks below, just outside crew quarters in the kitchen behind the mess hall, the cooks remained as busy as everyone else. In times of crisis they expected to serve, not a mess hall full of hungry troops, but the men and women holding down their stations all throughout _Legacy_. Sometimes they had to make due with a meal already half-cooked. Other times they received enough notice to alter the menu before setting the pots to the flame.

Turkey and ham sandwiches replaced the usual warm fare, a simple meal which could maintain quality in the time it took the stewards and servers to deliver throughout the ship.

"Thanks, mate," the lowly seamen usually received for their troubles followed by some joke they heard a thousand times before and would surely hear several more times before the shift was finished.

"Next time, think you could deliver me a pizza?"

"Could you fetch my slippers while you're at it?"

And other such unoriginal jokes flowed with the food. The mess staff was so low on the proverbial food chain, they had no choice but to pretend the reply was witty and humorous each time they heard it.

When in use, the mess hall provided the troops a view of the space outside. Sometimes when in orbit around a planet, if the Captain didn't give orders to the contrary, the Commander would order the ship positioned so as to present the planet to that side of the ship. If the Commander had other things on his mind, the navigator might take it upon him or herself to create the scenery for the hungry troops.

One Seaman pushed through the door into the kitchen, glancing toward those windows over his shoulder before the door shut again killing his view. In the Commander's miserable attempts to evade the Vorman shot, the moon had vanished from sight and it was the enemy cruiser looming too large in the distance for comfort.

A blast from their guns disappeared over the top of the glass and the ensuing rumble told the kitchen staff it had missed them by less than two decks.

"How can you work with that outside?" he asked the nearest cook.

"I don't think about it. I have a job to do and I trust everyone else on this boat is doing theirs."

The confidence in the kitchen didn't ease his concerns, but he didn't want to be the one sinking the fight. No matter how low his job was, delivering the food was just as crucial to efficient operations as the man pulling the trigger or keeping the air flowing.

He slung a full pouch of water across his shoulder and took up a fresh tray of sandwiches. As his hand made for the door, he thought how glad he was that at least he didn't have to spend too much time with that reminder of danger shocking his senses.

But when the door gave way, that danger gave his senses the ultimate shock. A Vandal laser sliced across the vacuum straight for him. It struck the wide windows before his mind could accept it. The sturdy glass vanished in the intense heat of the light. Moving inward in the tiniest fraction of a second, everything in its path melted down and incinerated into nothingness. The chairs, the tables, the serving counters, and even the Seaman and the kitchen behind him surrendered to that nearly white-hot blast before all the obstacles within the mess drained that energy.

Bulkheads in the surrounding corridors sealed automatically to restrict the pressure and atmospheric losses, but it was too late for lunch service.

The maintenance crew received the reports of the strike along with those for other strikes across the ship. In times of crisis such as this one, they donned environmental suits and separated into prearranged teams for their role in damage control. Though sometimes the crew chief would dispatch a team on his own, most of the teams were held back, awaiting orders from the bridge.

From her perch, the Lieutenant Commander overseeing these teams would rightfully see a fire in engineering or a severed power conduit in a battle-damaged section as a top priority. However for those on the bridge, and the commanding officer wrenching victory from the crisis, something as simple as a nonresponsive station might have been more important for the overall survival of the ship. They couldn't afford to dispatch damage control teams to far flung corners of the ship only to have to redeploy them afterwards, wasting precious travel time in the process.

For all the shaking going on and all the damage reports coming to her terminal, the only thing she didn't receive were orders.

A couple teams had been dispatched to take care of fires in affected sections. Within the atmosphere of the moon, it wasn't total vacuum rushing in through broken hull. There was just enough hydrogen sneaking in to keep the fires burning.

Yet most of her people sat idle while all she received from the bridge was uncertainty and indecision. Another report indicated a gun turret had been blasted away. A few meters behind and it might have threatened one of the larger armory stations. Fifty meters back still, and the torpedo tubes would have been threatened. If the artillery went up, it would have taken out as much as five percent of the ship.

For his part, the armorer had given up on the bridge, ordering his teams to man the guns and return fire. "Petron can court-martial me," he was heard shouting more than once as gunners sealed themselves into the surviving pods and identified their target.

While the bridge didn't seem to make much of an effort to get out of the way, at least it kept the Vandal cruiser in a somewhat stabile position relative to their own, making it easier to reciprocate the damage.

* * *

Corbitt felt a bit of relief when he spied _Legacy's_ cannons finally returning fire, but he still had two hostiles dogging him and no hope of reinforcements. One of the fighters maneuvered behind him, forcing him to throw all his energy into evading their target lock.

He pulled up sharply with the Vandal anticipating the maneuver. Then he veered sharply to port, before shifting to starboard hoping to confuse his shadow. It worked only briefly before the ship circled abruptly around to find him once more.

Corbitt barely had time to get a bearing on the second ship to make sure it wasn't using his distraction as an ambush. It was nowhere to be found, and he couldn't put too much effort into trying before he had to worry about its partner once more.

He spied the cruiser growing ever closer to _Legacy_ , and he formulated an idea. With as much speed as he could wring from his fighter, he set a course. The Vandal kept up and Corbitt decided to mimic their highly erratic flying style to evade the target lock.

He had hoped with their ship in the line of fire, it might make his opponent think twice before letting loose with the guns, but that wasn't the case. The lasers came at him as freely as before, their pilot oblivious to the danger he created for that Vandal crew.

Corbitt opened fire himself, hoping to annoy the larger ship ahead and give his friend a new worry to fluster him. He even launched his missiles figuring he wouldn't find any better time to use them. Then, when the Vandal's fire increased in intensity, he tried a new gambit.

He hit the brakes briefly to alert his adversary to his intention. The Vandal was ready and hit his own before overshooting Corbitt, but that wasn't the plan. With the Vandal committed to a full stop, Corbitt accelerated once more putting space between them before the Vandal realized the ruse. It wouldn't be long before the other ship was again in pursuit, but for the moment, the trick had flustered him enough to remove his finger from the trigger.

Corbitt grew closer to the cruiser, using his brief reprieve to locate the second fighter. As he feared, the one behind him was a decoy. If it couldn't destroy him, it meant to distract him long enough for the second fighter to reach the _Legacy_. It wasn't there yet, but that Vandal was only minutes away from joining its parent with a more precise strike against the carrier.

Corbitt kept his fighter moving at top speed. He would have to bypass the cruiser now. _Legacy's_ gunners could take her on. For now, that second fighter was his responsibility.

* * *

Petron hovered within the flight command center watching down through the glass at the crew below painting the flight deck. In his mind it took them too long to get the paint, and he suspected the moment he left them alone, Park would pull them from the deck and return to business as usual. Sometimes with these men, micromanagement was the only way to get them to follow orders.

Park for his part, simply tried to ignore the man. He studied the channels coming from the bridge waiting for any order and judging the progress of the disastrous battle. It was clear no one up there had control of the situation. Petron needed to get up there and take control, but no one called down for him and Park himself knew it was a waste of time to suggest it. As far as the Captain was concerned, watching the paint dry was a more valuable use of his time.

All of a sudden, the chatter from the bridge ceased. Even the sudden crackling vanished as cries for instruction no longer received an indecisive "stand by." Confusion only grew on the ship-wide channels, to be fueled by a panicked call from maintenance.

"I need a damage control team to the bridge!"

"This is Lieutenant Lyman. Should I dispatch a medical team?"

"Don't bother. You won't find anyone left alive. If anyone knows where the Captain is, tell him to get his head out of his ass and do his job!"

Out of everything, it was the insult Petron heard above all else. He snapped around with all the force of a tornado, knocking Park and another technician out of his way to respond.

"This is Captain Petron," he spat furiously back to the insubordinate from maintenance. "I want to know who I have to write up for insubordination and conduct unbecoming!"

His answer would not come quickly enough. A Vandal blast tore through the outer door of the hangar, weakened considerably by the inner door. But damage to the inner door had been done. When a subsequent shot followed behind, the barrier didn't hold. The laser pushed inward, incinerating the painting crew before dangerously heating the fighters parked nearby.

One exploded, triggering a chain reaction down the line. The flight deck was consumed as one explosion after another added to the drama. A troop transport went up next, sending a metal beam up and into the glass protecting the officers in the command center. Like that of the exterior windows, the glass was strong and designed to survive most situations like this, but it wasn't impervious. The beam struck at just the right point and angle to crack the pane.

Petron looked on with horror, realizing the danger while those around him worried about the conditions below and the men in more immediate danger outside the hangar bay. He raced for the door in all the confusion, keeping his eye on that widening crack. There was barely enough time for him to get outside the room before the breach opened.

The cargo shuttle blew at the instant of breech, expanding the already confused atmosphere of the flight deck. Rather than the air from the command center rushing out, the blowback from the latest explosion followed the air up and into the control room.

Petron tried to shut the door on everyone to keep the fire from lashing out further, but he was not fast enough. The heat and the flames pushed the hatch back against him. The Captain was incinerated only a half second after Park and his crew.

* * *

Corbitt watched on stunned, aware of the consequences of the explosions he witnessed. The men and women of that flight deck were more than friends, they were his family. He was tighter with them than with the family he lost back on Earth. In many ways, watching the flight deck burn was harder than watching that poison spread through the sky.

These Vandals went far beyond mere terrorism and piracy. They were out to take everything away from him and his kind. Someone had to stop them, and his commanders seemed inept in that respect.

He turned sharply to face the fighter on his tail once again. That circling _Legacy_ and taking its own shots remained a ways off, but at least he could receive instant gratification.

His earlier ploy fooled the Vandal into thinking his latest maneuver was another ploy. By the time he realized it was not, Corbitt had already turned the tables and become the hunter. He maintained a steady hold on the trigger, unleashing an unbroken beam of deadly light ahead of him. Fishtailing the fighter turned it into a visual wave, making it difficult for the Vandal to avoid.

When the Vandal tried to swerve up and down, Corbitt followed suit. He filled the space ahead with so much heat and light, the Vandal's options ran out and his tail was blasted off. Spiraling helplessly out of control, it presented a far more predictable target. Corbitt realigned his fighter to place the Vandal in his crosshairs.

But death wasn't instant. He waited for a moment to enjoy his prey. He wanted to give this kid time to think on his death and fear what might await him on the other side. Corbitt wanted those last moments of life flooded with abject terror and self-reflection before he took the shot to obliterate the craft.

One fighter remained, so he punched the engines again to hurry himself back to _Legacy_ and the insect buzzing about its hull. The carrier remained within the top layer of the atmosphere and with control fading from the crew's grasp, _Fury's_ attacks drove it further downward.

The fighters were designed to perform flawlessly in atmosphere, but it presented a whole new dynamic for the pilot accustomed to space combat. Corbitt had to fight the moon's increasing gravity and the drag of the air on his hull. Full stops would be impossible and sharp turns had to be considered carefully so as not to send the ship plunging to the surface.

Any hindrances placed on his skills would surely weigh on the Vandal pilot more heavily. The cocky young kid at those controls probably never experienced atmospheric flight. So far, he had been able to circle the _Legacy_ unchallenged. Now Corbitt planned to overtax the kid's abilities.

He made a preliminary orbit around the ship to study the damage already inflicted. Each section opened to the outside represented entire teams snuffed from existence. Each scorch mark represented one more act of vengeance owed to those monsters.

Completing his loop, Corbitt spied the fighter flying by _Legacy's_ aft sections and circling around. He knew it meant to target the engines, and he accelerated once more hoping to target the fighter first. It opened fire before he could. Several shots struck their mark before one breached the hull and triggered another chain reaction explosion.

But the Vandal had been careless, allowing his fighter to get too close to his success. Though the ship in orbit appeared stationary in relation to the moon, it in fact travelled at a high rate of speed to maintain that orbit. Consequently, the explosions within engineering blew back and left the ship at a similarly high rate of relative speed. The fire jet captured and engulfed the Vandal fighter before he even recognized his mistake.

And before Corbitt could celebrate, he realized he had passed the engines at the moment of their destruction. The intense flames caught the tip of his wing and melted the flaps in place. In space it would have been survivable, but in the atmosphere, he couldn't fight against its drag or the moon's gravity. Best he could hope for was to use the flaps in the other wing and the rudder to keep the ship stable enough to survive the drop. It wouldn't be pretty or comfortable, but if he could keep the nose up, he might be able to keep his fighter in one piece and survive the crash.

He looked up through his canopy to judge his chances for rescue, though with the hangar bay gone, there were no ships to send. Spying the _Legacy_ in its deteriorating state, it didn't seem to matter. It too had lost all hope of maintaining orbit. The heat from the atmospheric friction set the ship aglow in a bath of red and orange. Corbitt could just make out that heat spilling into the open sections of hull and stripping away more of the hull plating. He could almost hear the screams in his head of the crew before their lives were reduced to ash.

Like him, _Legacy_ was going down, but there seemed to be no one left to keep it stable and its nose pointed forward. There would be no one left alive, and it would be a miracle if any part of the structure survived to the surface.

With the ground in sight, Corbitt realized successfully landing this fighter wouldn't keep him alive, it only delayed his death by a few days without the support and supplies of the _Legacy_.

* * *

Min's crew erupted in celebration as the shape of the EDF carrier vanished into an increasing fireball. Though not a unique victory for her, it was momentous nonetheless. The destruction of a full carrier would no doubt strike a crippling blow against the already crippled EDF forces. Still, the Captain knew this battle was not necessarily over.

She brought the raucous crew to silence once more and returned their focus to their jobs.

"What is this moon like? If there are survivors, can they last down there?"

"No one could survive that," Evermore challenged.

Min would not take it for granted. She hadn't noticed Corbitt's fighter struggling to keep its occupant alive; she simply wouldn't underestimate the strength of those carriers. She knew they were sturdy and their hulls resilient. If the atmosphere was thin enough, it was conceivable survivors would remain in the innermost compartments. If the moon gave them the means, they might even stay alive long enough for rescue; and word of _Fury's_ success would elevate the Vandals' already hated status in the EDF.

One of the young kids pulled up the information from the database. Whatever they had on this moon had come from an Earth report, captured in some raid or assimilated from a stolen ship. All Min cared about was the information itself.

"Surveys report a stabile atmosphere and sparse plant life, but the surface is dry. There is no water to be found down there."

She crossed the bridge to study the report for herself, allaying her own fears. Though the moon had held no value for the long-gone research team to continue studying, it put her mind at ease. If there were survivors, they wouldn't last, nor would anyone take another look at this moon and chance upon the wreck.

"Satisfied?" Evermore asked, secretly hoping to return the celebratory mood.

Min returned to her chair and sat comfortably down, taking in the faces waiting on her answer. "Yes I am. Now please get us out of this system before we attract any more attention."

Author's Notes

Thank you for reading this preview of my new epic adventure.

Dione's War is a massive, 300,000 word, world-building epic of hardship, tragedy, and survival. I think of it as a complete series without some of the constraints serialized storytelling imposes, and without the frustrations of finishing a book only to find a cliffhanger. Just as a popular streaming service I won't name releases their original programming all at once, Dione's War will give you the full arc in one volume without making you wait for new parts to be released.

That's not to say there won't be a sequel at some point. I will be leaving some threads open for that possibility, but they will be addressed in such a way that they will be considered resolved in the context of this story.

I recommend you follow me on Facebook and Twitter for updates on future releases, as well as coupon codes for discounts on my books.

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Also By J.J. Mainor

The Depot-14 Series

The Americium Shipment

Best friends Jakarta Jones and Colton Wells own and operate one of fourteen supply depots in orbit around the planet Durango. Today proves to be a bad one when an armed gang boards the depot, taking them and their clients hostage while they wait for a cargo ship carrying a valuable load of americium. To keep the hostages alive, the pair must bide their time and wait for the right opportunity to strike back. But as the cargo ship grows ever closer to the station, can they find that opportunity, or will they lose the americium?

Broken Saber

When Colton goes down for murder, it's up to Jakarta to find the evidence that will free him.

Family Vengeance

After returning home to settle the estate, Colton learns his father's death was murder. Now he must fight his own desire for revenge to avoid becoming a murderer himself.

Crash Landing

A security job turns into a fight for survival when a passenger ship crash-lands on the hostile world of Hen. While Jakarta struggles to defend the survivors, her biggest threat may not be the natives.

Revenge With a Kiss

Jakarta falls for a traveler Colton doesn't like. Are his feelings justified, or is it a case of simple jealousy?

The Freedom Reigns Series

The Siege of LX-925

In the early 23rd century, four nations dominate interstellar travel. Their programs have remained a mystery to the people of Earth, including their own people, and the UN wants to know why. Previous inspectors have yielded little insightful information. Dr. Remy Duval is the latest to venture into the unknown.

The Republic Ship Freedom has been ordered to remove a group of defiant miners from the dead world LX-925. As Remy marvels over the advanced technology at the crew's disposal, he quickly understands the horrific downside to these wonders. Risking everything, Remy schemes to bring a peaceful end to the standoff before it escalates into genocide.

The Vorman Insurgence

Broken and humiliated, Remy Duval must play the defeated prisoner to the sadistic Colonel Freedom while he plans his escape and return to Earth.

The Colonel and his crew are after answers to the uprising on LX-925 when new orders send them to TL-311, a planet recently conquered from an alien race called the Vorman. Half his lieutenants are sent down to the surface with their own teams to test their leadership. The mission: to seek out and eradicate any Vorman that remain behind.

With half the staff remaining behind, Remy expects to get his chance to take over the ship and make his escape...until Colonel Freedom sends him down to the planet with Lieutenant Anders. When things couldn't get any worse, they find out too late there are more than just a few Vorman waiting on the surface.

The introduction to Hell is over...now it's time for Remy to burn.

Subject D-20

When the Acerna threaten an Independent Union facility, the RS Freedom is called in to extract the Republic's liaison. During the mission, Remy Duval witnesses the most heinous act yet, and decides he's had enough. With a new ally by his side, he takes advantage of the growing chaos to attempt a mutiny.

Aliens get aboard, a spy runs loose, and to top it off, Major Sadile's medical experiment, Subject D-20, escapes the medical bay; the sadistic Colonel may be the least of Remy's worries. But one thing is certain: failure means the end of the road for the UN inspector.

The Fifth Fleet

With the Freedom under his control and repairs nearly complete, Remy Duval and his small crew of rebels find their plans to return to Earth placed on hold when a Vorman ship discovers their location. His old friend Sake seeks peace, but determining his true intentions will expose everyone's secrets and betrayal. However it will be the Republic's largest secret, the Fifth Fleet, that threatens all his dreams of peace.

Freedom's Wake

Remy Duval's one chance to save Earth lies in navigating the Freedom across a deadly patch of concentrated radiation known as the Crucible. His sanctuary lies in a hidden dimension while the ship travels unguided. But when a race of mechanical beings slips aboard and threatens their plans, Remy and his crew must suffer exposure to repel this new menace.

Target: Earth

The race is on! Remy Duval must rely on every trick and tactic picked up during his long ordeal if he expects to stop the Vorman attack on Earth, but first he must deal with his own demons and the nagging fear that to win the day, he must sacrifice the last bits of his own morality. In the end, he may be more like the monsters he spent his life prosecuting than he cares to admit.

The Timberlands Series

Timberlands: Blood and Prey

After witnessing his brother's death and fleeing from the killer in the woods during a camping trip, Gunner returns to the remote timberlands of Northern Maine with three friends to recover the body. He feels he's ready for the killer this time, but he's not ready for the surprises the forest hides.

Timberlands 2: Fatal Friendships

A real estate agent selling the timberlands finds eight trespassers searching for their missing friends unaware that the curse of the timberlands has transformed one of those missing friends into an angry killer.

Timberlands 3: Inferno

A team of hotshots move into the timberlands to battle a wildfire, but they march straight into a grudge match between two killers battling for dominance – and bodies!

They Knew

An ancient race called the Oegyein once ruled this galaxy, but today, very little remains of their empire. Most of what we know is the stuff of legends and myths.

When Tau Bello discovers an ancient ship floating in the cold emptiness of space, it proves to be but the first clue in a treasure hunt that promises to unravel those legends and myths. It is a hunt that attracts a lot of unwanted attention, and for some, those promises are worth killing for. Tau quickly discovers the real treasure may not be untold riches or vast scientific knowledge, but his very life!

Dione's War

A generation after the Vandals wiped out Earth's population, a tenuous peace has settled in between the Vandals and the few survivors to have escaped Armageddon. Many of the refugees have accepted Vandal rule as Loyalists while the rest have held onto some sort of independence in the Opposition Colonies.

Dione Pafford lived with her parents as Loyalists, mining their tiny and desolate moon. While on a survey mission to a previously unexplored corner of that moon, she discovers the wreckage of a long-crashed Earth warship and its lone survivor: Jack Corbitt. It is a discovery that upends the peace and finds her people once more hunted by an enemy who has grown too powerful. To survive extinction, Loyalists and Colonials alike look to Dione as the entire conflict becomes her personal war.

The Greenburg Timelines: Prisoners of Utopia

Cole Greenburg wanted nothing more than to see his father one last time before his deployment to Iraq.

Jessica Fulton was a semester away from earning her doctorate in astrophysics and attaining a promising future with NASA.

Michael Greenburg was close to completing his life's work on his theories of multiple universes when his device sent the trio out prematurely, leaving them to wander the alternate Earths aimlessly.

Their one hope to get back home and resume their normal lives lies with a world more advanced than their own.

On an alternate Earth where the Ancient Greeks still rule and Natives still dominate the western world, technology has placed society on a course for self-destruction. Their hope lies in expansion and Michael's hopper promises to open up new worlds. In exchange for access to other, uninhabited, alternate Earths, the Greeks offer a path home; but as the group realizes this advanced world is not the utopia they believed, and the people are not the altruists they presented themselves as, Cole risks everything to fix their mistakes while his father tries to open the door for them to leave before their time runs out.

USS Krakowski

Disgraced Lieutenant Jace Modeen takes a team aboard an alien drone ship for what should have been a routine mission of study and discovery. But it quickly becomes his chance to demonstrate his leadership and redeem his past mistakes when he learns the ship heralds a larger attack force with a world-shattering origin.

Are There Heroes In Hell?

The long-awaited follow-up to USS Krakowski!

Nearly 40 years before Jace Modeen and the USS Krakowski saved the Earth, the Arctic Wars dragged the world's nations into a conflict so brutal, old friends become enemies, and old enemies become monsters.

USMC Lance Corporal Jackson Freebourne served on the front lines before his position was overrun and he was captured by Canadian forces and sent to an icy prison. If the elements don't kill him, the guards might, and the only chance for survival involves keeping his head down and staying invisible. But it is hard to stay invisible when torture and death are the rules of the day.

Compared To What

Hades Garden is a small town in legal limbo. It has become a safe haven for criminals looking to start over. As long as you're in town, state and federal law can't touch you, but break the laws of Hades Garden and you're out

Dale Ridgewick comes to Hades Garden with the cops on his tail and a bagful of cash in his truck. Trying to start a new life, he buys a house, finds a girlfriend, and gets a job. But when a workplace rivalry threatens the peace he seeks, Dale harnesses his dark past to wage war, unaware his nemesis harbors his own deadly past.

Plantation

A murderous ghost stalks the guests and staff at a bed and breakfast.
