“And where do you think you’re going?” A static-filled voice echoes.
Angling the sole of my foot against edge of the last step before boarding my Imperial Cutter, I wrangle my command of motion back from space. The crimson coat of my vessel gleams from the glances of its interior lights, reflected clearly against my helmet. “I think you already know.”
“How could you still go out there after what it did?!” My crew protests with exacerbated breathing, planting her feet firmly on the makeshift landing pad.
The persistent humming of my ship resonates with the suffusing silence, meandering to every dark corner of this hidden asteriod dock adjacent to the Sisters’ Refuge asteriod station.
Chuckling quietly with a bitter grin, I wave my hand casually. “Aaron and Conner would give anything to see you panic the way you do, Turner.”
“They’re dead, they’re dead because you insisted that we—”
“I know,” interposing while turning away from my fighter pilot at the bottom of the stairs, I haggardly ascend to the top of the boarding platform of my vessel. My gloved fingers brush against the printed ship’s name on the panel to my right. Private Pir— Vessel Akane. The second word has faded due to wear and tear, fortunately.
Turner crosses her arms in front of her chest. “This is suicide, wait for reinforcements.”
“I need to do this,” I retort.
“Bloody hell,” snapping back, the woman leans forward as she sprints up the stairs after me. “Since when did you care about anyone else but yourself, you’re a pirate for god’s sake!”
“Was,” I grit my teeth, emphasizing as I stare into the helmet of my crew. “Do not pretend you joined my crew for anything but the pay.”
“Nowhere in the description said anything about pirating when I applied,” throwing her arms into the air, she rolls her eyes.
Raising an eyebrow, I point out. “You did not leave.”
That seems to shut her up, or perhaps she’s at a loss of words. Regardless, I have no time for petty chatter, so I point to the bottom of the stairs instead. “Get off my ship then, I do not have time for this.”
Grunting at her indecision, I slam the “retract” button for the boarding stairs. Turner stumbles a little before showing me the finger, hopping in just in time with a rushed leap. “Hell’s empty and you’re here.”
Sneering, I head toward the central elevator to reach the bridge with a shake of my head. “Get FCS online, and spool up the FSD.”
“If I make it out of this alive, I’m quitting,” Turner exits the central elevator before me, entering the bridge and taking the auxiliary seat.
I kick against the back of the elevator, propelling myself against the roof. I push against the ceiling with two fingers, orienting myself to land in the pilot’s seat.
My hand trembles as they reach the throttle lever, as if shocked. My lips move on their own to form a low whisper. “Sorry.”
I’m unsure if Turner refused to reply or simply did not hear me, but it matters not.
“Engines online,” Turner announces as she runs her fingers fluidly across the controls before her, glowing in a light blue hue.
The howling of the modified engine rumbles throughout the ship. Every dark corner of this hidden dock glows with the decorative scarlet engine fume.
I close my eyes for a short prayer before giving my command, as if any god would bring salvation to someone who abandoned his home world, betrayed his navy, and forsaken his crew.
“Let us bring the Thargoid down,” my eyes open once more, greeted by the marvelous colors of the hyperspace. Myriad stars flash before me, I feel as if an arbiter yet insignificant.
However, the spectrum of colors shifts into a curious, but sinister green as the frame of my ship groans under pressure.
“Hyperspace conduit is unstable, we’re being hyperdicted,” Turner waves the countless critical warnings popping into view aside, focusing on stabilizing the conduit. “I guess we didn’t need to go looking for them after all.”
The cry of my Imperial Cutter softens as we come tumbling out of hyperspace. Before the rotating ship, a dark green, flower-shaped entity drifts by the ship’s canopy, missing contact by mere inches. Panels resembling heat vents glow green within each of the eight organic petals, centering on a black, transparent eye.
The propulsion system of the entity leaves behind shimmering thin threads of red specter, blurring space as if desert’s heat haze.
A terrifying, low-pitched shriek bounces between the walls of this ship, reproduced by the ship’s system.
Not before long, the ship warns. “Energy surge detected.”
The once green glowing fiend now sparkles cyan as it prepares to deploy the shutdown field. A wave of cyan web explodes outward in a sphere, quickly engulfing the space around itself.
“Shutdown field neutralized,” Turner reports, along with a sigh of relief from me. “System capacity low, recharging now.”
“I will take over ship control, get into the fighter,” I motion with a hand before deploying the xeno scanner.
Destroying the first heart brings a wail, in pain and misery. Even without learning Thargoid language, I am fully aware by instinct. But my moment of hesitation comes with a cost. Enraged and flashing bright yellow, the interceptor’s energy focuses itself into a stream of lightning as it smites down on my shields. Sparks bounce both on the exterior and interior of the ship.
The engines have been disabled temporarily due to the interceptor’s wrath. I can hear the Thargon swarm zooming in with their barrage. The hull of the Cutter trembles as I hear organic oozing and movement all around, the damage certainly sounds corrosive.
The second the engines stutter back to life, I floor the boosters. A few Thargon swarm fighters meet their end by colliding against my hull. They sound like the crack of an egg, life taken before granted fulfillment. Whirling the ship into position again, it drifts in reverse while I assess the damage suffered. While the shield remains active with the help of shield cell banks, the hull suffered quite heavily. The same mistake must not be made.
Remote flak detonation comes only 500 meters away from my canopy view, the simultaneous combustion of the flak rounds light up as they devour the Thargon swarm. Lunging through a cloud of orange and green from the explosions and Thargon remains, I manage to exert another heart of the Interceptor with a volley of missiles. However I navigate beneath its nose as it utilizes its lightning, and misses. I can hear the lightning crackle chases the ship’s engines, licking its trail.
The only unit of time I can still use to measure is my remaining ammunition and the operational Thargoid hearts. After the last has been destroyed, an energy surge appears imminent. My system capacity is dangerously low from shield recharge and the need of charging the neutralizer. Before I can make a proper decision, I hear the expansion of the field, to which I engage the neutralizer.
A bead of sweat drips from my eyebrow as I gawk at the vanishing last pip of my system capacity, right as the shutdown field passes through.
A flurry of critical warning messages expand throughout the flickering hologram before me. Half of the ship is paralyzed, literally, even half of the engines.
“Caustic missile incoming,” The ship warns with flashing red alerts in the darkened bridge. I have no proper aiming assistance from the hologram interface.
“Hull integrity at twenty-five percent.”
“The ship—ship’s malfunctioning,” I stammer. “Shoot down the organic missile or we’re done for!”
Instead of aiming for the missile, Turner throws the ship around after getting ahead of it, guarding the ship with her fighter as they both explode right before my canopy. I cover my eyes with a hand as I watch the green substance splatter across the ship’s shield.
“There’s no way I could’ve shot that down in time,” Turner defends herself the moment she returns from telepresence, to which I do not complain. Yet, worse news awaits. “The fighter bay module is malfunctioning, too.”
I turn to her with a horrified gaze, away from the pressuring Thargoids. “Then we’re done for.”
“Ugh,” bouncing out from her seat, Turner drifts toward the elevator as she kicks the back of her chair.
“Where do you think you’re going?!” I try to maneuver with the remaining thrusts to avoid the Thargoids, but I can hear projectiles scraping by.
Turner opens the central elevator before narrowing her eyes at me. “I think you already know.”
“You think you can get away in an escape pod?” I jump out of my seat as well, angered by the desertion of my crew, to which I have no right to be.
With an almost meek smile, she shakes her head at my vehement outcry. “No.”
My realization comes too late, but my hand thrusts forth before calling out her name desperately. “Angelica!”
A starboard explosion throws me off my feet and the elevator closes. I crawl back into my pilot’s seat before cursing under my breath. “Son of a—”
“Take care of the Thargon swarm, I really don’t want to be shot down before launching,” Turner transmits her voice through the same static, again.
My eyes are dark in the shadows, but my fingers stopped trembling. “Make sure you come back, alive.”
“Roger.”
Maneuvering the ship becomes a chore, with half of its thrusters offline. However, I manage to line up a shot for the incoming Thargon swarm. Without the predictive hologram, I can only eye it. Nevertheless I launched the last of my flak rounds. They catch the tail ends of the swarm, reducing the number down to four.
“Launching,” Turner whispers, launching without a catapult, nor telepresence.
The Cutter’s shielding has finally collapsed after a sizzling tear, to which the interceptor exploits. On the other hand, the swarm targets the freshly launched fighter, nicking it in one of its main thrusters.
“Turner!” I call out.
“I’m fine, just a scratch, what about the Thargoid’s hull integrity?”
“Down to four percent, if I can just line up a shot, damn it!” My fist slams down on one of the disabled panels of the ship controls.
“Hull integrity at ten percent.” The Cutter cries.
The interceptor appears desperate, as well. It commands the swarm to launch themselves as missiles after the fighter. Turner outmaneuvers three of them, but the last one catches the belly of her fighter. A small explosion rips the fighter into halves, the cockpit unit floats freely away from the rest of the thrusters, coming into my view, and the Thargoid’s.
“Angelica, respond. Angelica!” I scream as I try to hail Turner, over and over. The only thing echoing is static, and the only thing I see is the wounded Thargoid advancing toward the floating cockpit unit.
“—fire straight ahead—in twenty seconds,” a voice drenched in agony and dry coughing. “My targeting computer—still works.”
There is no visual feed from the fighter’s cockpit considering how damaged it is. But I know the voice of someone who has accepted death, it’s raspy, solemn, and chilling.
“Hold on, I can get into the other fighter and—” I shake my head in disbelief, a few beads of liquid swirl away from my eyes.
“Do you want to die, too?” the voice mutters, then another cough follows, it’s wet this time.
My thumb trembles as I observe the Thargoid extending its green beams of light toward the detached fighter cockpit, the trigger has never felt more immovable, even with both hands.
“Th—three, two, one,” Turner counts down as I close my eyes completely, I refuse to believe what I am about to do. I refuse to see it. “Fir—”
A heartful howl bursts forth, in space, and aboard.
No hard and fast rules, so choose to use or not, but might be helpful for those who don't have too much experience writing a story.
