Howdy! I write daily short stories on various topics as part of writing exercise stuff that I do. Today's ended up being inspired by Elite: Dangerous, which I've been playing with a friend. They made the suggestion that I share it on the forums, so... here ya go! Feel free to leave feedback, even if you hate it. 
As a quick warning, it's in a pretty 'raw' form and lacks any real editing. Because it's midnight here and I'm tired!
The monolithic superstructure of the Anaconda came up into view through the cockpit; the smaller Cobra Mk III spun through space, thrusters barely managing to overcome the multi-purpose fighter’s own inertia. The nearby star’s light blazed across the larger ship, highlighting each and every turret that lined up a shot for Commander Ancallan Arguros’ ship with a hellish gleam. A full broadside from the pirate’s vessel would see the Commander’s career (and life) ended in a flash of light -- focused photon rays combined with multi-cannon slugs the size of a fist, all ready to tear through shields and hull alike.
Outgunned as he was, the Commander was not one to fight at a disadvantage. No, in this engagement he had a few things up his sleeve. The most obvious? Speed. The Cobra was faster, more maneuverable, it could hit and run if need be. Turning off flight assist at the right moment, combined with steady hand and years of honed discipline would allow the mercenary to glide in and out of blind spots almost at will.
At least, that would be the case if he had a credit to his name and had managed to afford repairs to the thrusters from the last engagement. As it was, multi-vectored engines were misfiring at the worst of times and running far below optimal efficiency at the best. It was one just misfire that blasted him into the current situation he was in… close enough to count each and every multi-cannon aiming his way as the ship’s proximity alert helpfully buzzed away, filling the cockpit with a flashing red light.
But a good mercenary doesn’t run with just one advantage. The other trick he had up his sleeve was a bit of intel. The pirate might be flying with a multi-crew ship, but he knew for a fact that each and every one of those turrets were controlled by an automated heat signature tracking system. Greed had been this particular criminal’s folly -- less crew, less people to share the booty with.
A button press (or, really, a desperate and wide-eyed slam of the console) along with a muttered prayer would herald the tell-tale sound of a chaff launcher at work. Rivulets of superheated plasma shot out in random directions all around the ship just as the guns began to launch their deadly payloads. Heat signatures unsure of which heat source was which, the turrets went hay-wire. Some lucky few glanced off the Cobra’s shields, most went wildly astray.
Countermeasures couldn’t last forever though and the Commander returned fire, gimballed turrets compensating for the nearby thermic noise and easily aligning with the huge ship.
“Target shields offline,” chimed in the ship computer as the soothing blue of the Anaconda’s shields fell away to a much more satisfying explosion-orange, lasers and slugs slamming in against the metallic hull.
Then the spray of white-hot ions that had provided life-saving distraction ended. The pirate’s arsenal had no trouble whatsoever distinguishing the Cobra and its smoking barrels as the target and each and every one of those automated turrets took to seeking revenge.
This time the ship’s computer cheerfully announced a new sentence, “Shields offline.”
Not the target shields. The Commander’s shields. Protective barrier torn through in an instant, each and every hit landed on the Cobra could be felt as, bit by bit, disaster and catastrophe became ever-closer.
Ancallan would not have survived this long, however, if he only fought with two advantages on his side. The third, and most important advantage, was that of superior numbers. Namely, two against one.
The second Commander, Lisava Silver, had already begun her assault on the wanted criminal with her Viper. It was just a little hard to tell as the canopy of the Cobra became cracked, lights danced off of either ship as the subtle ballet of combat became little more than a chaotic, all-out brawl.
Between the two of them, the Anaconda was short work. It was a large ship, no doubt, but it was not ready to stand up to two (or, maybe one and a half) combat-ready vessels. The shields down, power plant subsystems automatically targeted by the team, it wasn’t long before the hull had been punched through by the duo. The concentrated assault on the single point inevitably ended in a cascade reaction that spread throughout the large vessel, explosions blowing out all throughout as systems suffered spikes of power, overloaded pressure or otherwise succumbed to the hail of fire.
Debris scattered in every direction from the final shockwave that tore the pirate ship apart, bounty claims automatically being split and registered in either pilot’s name for the next time they docked.
Sitting back in his seat, Commander Ancallan breathed a sigh of relief, paying little heat to the smoking, sparking control panel before him. He was used to it. His partner pulled her Viper in front, cockpit to cockpit. He couldn’t see the woman’s face, naturally, but he imagined that she must be grinning at least a little bit as she playfully rolled the ship left and right. Or maybe she was taunting him? Eh, he didn’t care.
Punching in a few words on his comms keyboard, he directed a message to the other Commander’s ship, trusting in the advanced technology to instantaneously transfer the celebratory jibe.
Unfortunately, that trust was misplaced.
“Transmission not sent; Unable to connect to Lisava Silver.”
As a quick warning, it's in a pretty 'raw' form and lacks any real editing. Because it's midnight here and I'm tired!
The monolithic superstructure of the Anaconda came up into view through the cockpit; the smaller Cobra Mk III spun through space, thrusters barely managing to overcome the multi-purpose fighter’s own inertia. The nearby star’s light blazed across the larger ship, highlighting each and every turret that lined up a shot for Commander Ancallan Arguros’ ship with a hellish gleam. A full broadside from the pirate’s vessel would see the Commander’s career (and life) ended in a flash of light -- focused photon rays combined with multi-cannon slugs the size of a fist, all ready to tear through shields and hull alike.
Outgunned as he was, the Commander was not one to fight at a disadvantage. No, in this engagement he had a few things up his sleeve. The most obvious? Speed. The Cobra was faster, more maneuverable, it could hit and run if need be. Turning off flight assist at the right moment, combined with steady hand and years of honed discipline would allow the mercenary to glide in and out of blind spots almost at will.
At least, that would be the case if he had a credit to his name and had managed to afford repairs to the thrusters from the last engagement. As it was, multi-vectored engines were misfiring at the worst of times and running far below optimal efficiency at the best. It was one just misfire that blasted him into the current situation he was in… close enough to count each and every multi-cannon aiming his way as the ship’s proximity alert helpfully buzzed away, filling the cockpit with a flashing red light.
But a good mercenary doesn’t run with just one advantage. The other trick he had up his sleeve was a bit of intel. The pirate might be flying with a multi-crew ship, but he knew for a fact that each and every one of those turrets were controlled by an automated heat signature tracking system. Greed had been this particular criminal’s folly -- less crew, less people to share the booty with.
A button press (or, really, a desperate and wide-eyed slam of the console) along with a muttered prayer would herald the tell-tale sound of a chaff launcher at work. Rivulets of superheated plasma shot out in random directions all around the ship just as the guns began to launch their deadly payloads. Heat signatures unsure of which heat source was which, the turrets went hay-wire. Some lucky few glanced off the Cobra’s shields, most went wildly astray.
Countermeasures couldn’t last forever though and the Commander returned fire, gimballed turrets compensating for the nearby thermic noise and easily aligning with the huge ship.
“Target shields offline,” chimed in the ship computer as the soothing blue of the Anaconda’s shields fell away to a much more satisfying explosion-orange, lasers and slugs slamming in against the metallic hull.
Then the spray of white-hot ions that had provided life-saving distraction ended. The pirate’s arsenal had no trouble whatsoever distinguishing the Cobra and its smoking barrels as the target and each and every one of those automated turrets took to seeking revenge.
This time the ship’s computer cheerfully announced a new sentence, “Shields offline.”
Not the target shields. The Commander’s shields. Protective barrier torn through in an instant, each and every hit landed on the Cobra could be felt as, bit by bit, disaster and catastrophe became ever-closer.
Ancallan would not have survived this long, however, if he only fought with two advantages on his side. The third, and most important advantage, was that of superior numbers. Namely, two against one.
The second Commander, Lisava Silver, had already begun her assault on the wanted criminal with her Viper. It was just a little hard to tell as the canopy of the Cobra became cracked, lights danced off of either ship as the subtle ballet of combat became little more than a chaotic, all-out brawl.
Between the two of them, the Anaconda was short work. It was a large ship, no doubt, but it was not ready to stand up to two (or, maybe one and a half) combat-ready vessels. The shields down, power plant subsystems automatically targeted by the team, it wasn’t long before the hull had been punched through by the duo. The concentrated assault on the single point inevitably ended in a cascade reaction that spread throughout the large vessel, explosions blowing out all throughout as systems suffered spikes of power, overloaded pressure or otherwise succumbed to the hail of fire.
Debris scattered in every direction from the final shockwave that tore the pirate ship apart, bounty claims automatically being split and registered in either pilot’s name for the next time they docked.
Sitting back in his seat, Commander Ancallan breathed a sigh of relief, paying little heat to the smoking, sparking control panel before him. He was used to it. His partner pulled her Viper in front, cockpit to cockpit. He couldn’t see the woman’s face, naturally, but he imagined that she must be grinning at least a little bit as she playfully rolled the ship left and right. Or maybe she was taunting him? Eh, he didn’t care.
Punching in a few words on his comms keyboard, he directed a message to the other Commander’s ship, trusting in the advanced technology to instantaneously transfer the celebratory jibe.
Unfortunately, that trust was misplaced.
“Transmission not sent; Unable to connect to Lisava Silver.”