Majesty's Offspring (Books 1 & 2)

  ******

  Reece observed the aerobatics; he should have been upset with Taffy for not following the plan, but he understood what he felt and certainly could not condemn the results.

  On the conference, he could hear Taffy still chiding the enemy.

  “Come on there, fellow—shoot back! Good flying alone never killed anyone.”

  The bandits, if they were listening, would not respond, probably a good thing as all it would do was encourage Taffy to keep talking.

  With increasing confidence in their chances, Reece watched Cronin use his electronic warfare skills to jam and spoof the seven remaining missiles. Fortunate indeed appeared to favor them.

  With the enemy’s initial attack thwarted, they now had something that could help turn the tables on their foe—the initiative. However, they would need to move in quickly to take advantage of it, before the enemy lit up another volley of candles.

  “All right, Mac,” Reece said. “Let’s get in the fight.”

  “Not Mac—Stogie!” Mac corrected.

  Reece adjusted his tactical to view the images from Taffy and Cronin’s telemetry feed. Taffy was now inside the dogfight cone and began firing freely into the enemy squadron.

  Four of the Z-44Cs broke away from the main group and engaged Taffy. Cronin was close behind and began firing as well.

  The other five bogeys took a direct vector toward him and Mac. A warning alarm sounded: the Z-44Cs were locking their last volley of missiles on them. The tactical showed they would soon be inside minimum distance for missiles, which is where they needed to be.

  “If they fire,” Reece said, “freeze inertia, break away, and spoof. Then immediately get on their angle and engage—they’ll be too close for missiles at that point—so it will be a straight-up dogfight.”

  “Aye, aye Lieutenant Scruffy,” Mac said.

  Reece had to suppress any concern about Mac’s sobriety—it was too late for worrying now.

  Flicking the safety off his control stick, Reece pressed the button underneath. The hummingbird boom extended from the cone of his fighter. As he closed in, he focused on getting the crosshairs on his targets. The bogeys were now in visible range, and he could just make out the reflection of light on their silver wings.

  “Ahhh, my friend,” Taffy said on the conference, “you left such a beautiful blooming flower in your wake. Splash one!”

  Reece did not have time to congratulate him, as the crosshairs changed color from red to orange. He pulled the trigger and unleashed a volley at his target.

  As he was firing, the warning alarm pitched up and a new indicator appeared on his visual: a missile fired at them, too close to be accurate, but also too close to evade. Reece kept shooting his cannons until they found their mark.

  The missile exploded, igniting a shockwave that shook his Z-40, just as the enemy bogeys flew past them.

  The onboard instrumentation went out and the control stick went limp. Reece felt cold at the realization that he lost control of his fighter. However within seconds, the instrumentation came back on and he had control once again—a close call.

  “Stogie, you okay?”

  There was a delay before he answered.

  “Aye! Thought I was done in—lost my instruments a second. I think that was an EMP candle we blew out. Better check your weapons because it appears I’ve been castrated.”

  Reece pulled the trigger, expecting to see a burst of accelerated protons fire off.

  Nothing happened.

  Glancing down at the damage control system, he verified that indeed all weapons were out—even missiles.

  “Mine are down too,” he said. “Go evasive. Let’s follow the plan and lead them out of the zone.”

  “Aye, Scruffy!”

  Reece oriented his craft toward the debris field. He examined the tactical, adjusting it to show the sphere of influence for the artificial gravity well. It ended just before Stream Three, which was exactly what he planned on.

  The enemy bogeys had circled around to pursue, trying to get an angle on them. He kept at the ready to jink and spoof if necessary, but the enemy did not fire off any shots.

  On a whim, he purposely let himself drift into their firing cone so that he would be as vulnerable as possible. Several seconds passed—still nothing.

  “I think that blast might have taken out their weapons systems too. We seem to be awash in luck.”

  “Luck, lad? Luck? That’s beyond luck—that’s divine intervention!”

  “Whatever it is, let’s hope it lasts.”

  The two Z-40s shot toward Stream Three, bogeys on their tail. Reece watched the tactical’s topographical map. The group of fighters would reach the stream in a about a minute. Since neither friend nor foe could fire, the moment would go by quietly.

  Reece used the time to examine the telemetry feed and see how Taffy and Cronin were fairing. He had not heard anymore of Taffy’s boastings on the conference. Sadly, he saw no feed for him.

  Damn.

  Taffy must have bought the farm. Cronin, to his credit, was still alive and tackling the two remaining bogeys.

  “Stogie,” Reece said, “I think Taffy’s—”

  “I see that. He was a good friend and quite the ace. But don’t fret for him now, lad.”

  Reece thought about all that had happened until now: how far they seemed to have come and how little they had to show for it. As much as he should have felt deprived for not getting any real reward for all this, it didn’t matter. It was still the most exciting time of his life and he would do it all over again if given the choice. Still, one nagging question did bother him.

  “Stogie, do you ever wonder if we’re in the wrong? Like maybe we picked the wrong side and are the bad guys in all this?”

  Mac belched. “Ah, mate, don’t weigh your soul down with regrets. Regret is an itch for which you have no nails to scratch.

  “We’ve always been a fair bunch, protecting each other—and never wronged anyone who didn’t have it coming to them. There’s no real good or bad, lad. But if there is, I’d say we’re quite a bit closer to good than bad.”

  “So you don’t think we have bad… karma?”

  “Karma? Bah! Look lad, the UEP, the Confed, the Vens… I don’t know what lurks inside their souls. But I do know what’s inside yours, mate… and Taffy’s, Cronin’s, Eddie’s, Tash’s—and it’s nothing I’m ashamed to have at my side when we die and take ownership of the Milky Way Farm.”

  Reece smiled. Mac always had a way of making him feel better about things.

  “Thanks, Mac.”

  “Bah, don’t get all sentimental on me, ya scallywag. The minute we hit the farm, it’s every man for himself as I’m going to raid all the booze stores.”

  “I’m sure there’ll be plenty to go around.”

  Reece glanced at the tactical: ten more seconds. Ahead, he could now clearly see the streams—a frightful scene, as both Streams Three and Two met head on. A dust cloud bloomed outward, obscuring the constant collisions that took place within it.

  “Ha!” Mac said. “I doubt there’ll be much booze left with the head-start Tash, Eddie, and Taffy already have.”

  A beep sounded from his navigation system—it was time.

  “See you on the other side, mate,” Reece said, as he adjusted his trajectory into the debris cloud.

  “Don’t count us out yet, laddy. Remember, the man who has luck in the morning still has luck in the afternoon.”

  “Well, let’s hope that extends into the evening. Good luck.”

  The debris cloud now filled his view; it would be any second to insertion. The navigation computer on his fighter was tweaked to give guidance on proper trajectory into the stream to avoid a collision. Nevertheless, there was still that element of luck—bad luck.

  Reece took in a breath and closed his eyes a moment. This was it: all the sacrifices, all the killing. He hoped what he was doing somehow had some cosmic
significance—that it would be written in the history books in a positive light. He hoped that being on Chorus’ side was the right choice in the end—and that he really would be remembered as one of the good guys.

  A beep sounded.

  Reece opened his eyes and hit the stealth control. His Z-40, now out of the influence of the gravity well, fell into the stealth shroud and became invisible to the enemy. He then jerked the control stick, plunging his fighter into the debris cloud, his screen now awash in brown dust that obscured all visuals.

  Reece maneuvered his fighter through digital overlays that depicted the debris he could not see. As he traversed through it, the screen cleared and he could now see the target point. Adjusting his trajectory, he shot toward the reverse gravity stream underneath Stream 2.

  As he flew down toward it, he gazed directly into the mouth of Stream Two. It was like a giant worm reaching out to devour him—but the beast was one he had already tamed.

  He safely deposited himself into the reverse stream, riding the current underneath Stream Two, which could carry him to Stream One if he chose. But that was not the plan.

  The telemetry feed showed Mac right behind him with four of the bogeys tailing him. He noticed a white bloom on the tactical, from an explosion that registered seconds ago. The field splashed one of them—just one.

  “These guys know about the streams,” Reece said.

  “I see that. They should have all bought the farm back there. What’s the plan now, mate?”

  Reece thought it over. They could try to get them to make a mistake at Stream One, but they already showed their ability to handle Stream Three, so One would be a milk run by comparison.

  “Okay, Stogie, we have a choice to make. Once we clear Stream One and exit the anomaly, we could safely jump out and the bandits would never find us. We would be free. We could then try to find a safe haven somewhere and claim our shares of the plunder from our secret accounts, maybe even buy ourselves new identities so we can live.

  “The other choice: somehow take these two bogeys out and improve the odds for the Sea Wolf and our mates to escape. It’s your decision.”

  Mac belched and then started coughing. “Sorry, a little bit came up there.”

  He coughed some more. After finally recovering he continued.

  “You seriously consider abandoning our comrades a decision, lad? You should know better.”

  “All right. I had to ask though.”

  “You shouldn’t have to!” Mac said.

  “Fine. I have an idea then. Let’s break away at the stream’s exit, then vector at them and ram their asses into the rocks.”

  Mac laughed. “Now that’s going to be one funny sight, Scruffy. I love it!”

  Reece did not love it—but it was all they had left.

  They soon approached the end of Stream Two. The gravity field at the end curved the debris over the top where it joined the main part that led back to Stream Three. Stream One bent around this point, but did not touch it, allowing for a relatively navigable crossing.

  Reece keyed in a rally point coordinate for Mac to join him. He then adjusted the hummingbird boom’s intensity for full stop when activated. It was uncertain whether the visible halo of the boom would break through the stealth, but it was chance he had to take.

  The console beeped. Reece jerked the stick and ignited his engines for a second, then cut it off. His Z-40 skipped the edge of Stream One, drifting on its inertia into the empty patch of space.

  As he neared the target area, Reece activated the hummingbird boom—a visible glow did emanate from it, so he hoped it went unnoticed. His fighter came to a complete stop. The tactical showed Mac in position on his wing. The bogeys began entering Stream One, seemingly unaware of what just happened.

  He and Mac picked their targets, indicators highlighting their respective quarry. Reece waited, watching them float along the stream until the right moment—and that moment came.

  Reece pushed the acceleration to full and aimed his fighter at the bogey. The Z-40 shot into the stream, slipping in between transient debris. He yawed his fighter to port just before ramming him so that it would strike with his side. The two fighters collided and they bounced away from each other.

  Warning alarms sounded all over his console as Reece got knocked around in his seat.

  He immediately hit the hummingbird boom and stopped his inertia. The fighter shook wildly as the gravity stream fought him. He cut off the boom and the agitation subsided, allowing the gravity stream to take over. Just as he was going to try and get his bearings, something collided with him, shooting him clear out of the stream and into the debris field.

  “Splash two mate!” he heard Mac’s voice boom.

  Reece fought to stabilize his ship. He was no longer in the stream, and he was not in open space. This was inside the danger zone where the errant gravitons influenced all matter in unpredictable ways.

  With power cut off, the ship stopped wobbling and he seemed to drift to a stop. The tactical showed one of the remaining bogeys out there with him—probably what rammed him out of the stream. It was now on his six and gaining speed to ram him again—the other was in the stream with Mac.

  Glancing at his damage control, he noted that his gravity amplifier was out, so there would be no more stealth and no jumping away to escape. Reece reactivated propulsion and jerked his fighter away from his bogey.

  “Stogie, lead that one to the end of the stream, then finish him.”

  “Mate, you can’t fly out there. You need to get back into a stream.”

  Reece adjusted the navigation and plotted a new course. It would be a rough ride.

  “I’ll be fine. I have a plan. You just worry about yourself and take care of that one. Meet you back at the Sea Wolf or the farm, whichever comes first.”

  “Aye, mate. Good luck!”

  The flight to his destination was not as turbulent as he expected. He soon reached the mouth of Stream Three, from a different perspective than he was used to: its side. The bogey stayed close on his six, matching course, but keeping speed. He was not trying to ram him anymore, at least not yet.

  Reece scanned the area and found what he was looking for. He pictured the maneuver in his mind, remembering what he had done in the past and hoping to duplicate the results. The cloud of debris filled his screen. It was time.

  He hit the engines to full acceleration and plunged into the cloud, adjusting his trajectory so it was directly toward the ejecting matter from Stream Three.

  His Z-40 traversed across the mouth and deposited itself into a pocket adjacent to it. As he reached it, his inertia slowed and he killed power. His fighter wobbled for a moment, then came to a stop, firmly glued inside the Flytrap.

  Reece looked down at his tactical, hoping to see the report of an explosion, an indication that his enemy was out of the game. Instead, he gazed outside his canopy to find his enemy, a Z-44C Hornet, staring back at him—floating and stuck, right next to him inside the Flytrap.

  Reece cursed. They had no weapons and they could not move. They were effectively out of the game.

  He stared at his adversary, imagining that he was probably gloating over the fact that eventually his buddies would show up—to save him and arrest or kill Reece.

  “No,” Reece said, “not like this. I’m not going to float here with you and wait for your friends. I’m not letting you win like that.”

  He looked at his sleeve and verified the atmospheric integrity of his flight suit. Then, without any hesitation, he reached over his head and pulled the ejection lever. The canopy flew open and he was launched out of his fighter.

  The inertia carried him away briefly, but then the Flytrap’s influence grabbed him and he stopped.

  Reece now floated a couple of meters above his fighter. Flailing his arms and legs in a swimming motion, he rotated his body to face the Z-44C. It was close. He estimated no more than twenty meters away.

  He re
ached into a suit pocket and pulled out his flicker pistol. After adjusting it to full intensity, he aimed at the enemy bogey and fired.

  At first, the flicker fire missed completely. Reece was never good with a pistol. However, using the tracers as a guide, he adjusted his fire and managed to land some shots.

  Unfortunately, when they did strike the fighter, the only damage seemed to be slight burn marks on its hull. He kept firing anyway, trying to make a game out of it, placing the shots as close to one another as he could. What else was there to do?

  Suddenly, and to his surprise, the enemy fighter’s canopy flew off and its pilot ejected. Mirroring what happened to him, the pilot’s inertia broke and he was floating above his Z-44C, his back to Reece.

  The enemy pilot rotated himself until he faced Reece. Without hesitating, he pulled his own pistol out and fired at Reece.

  His shot missed, streaking past Reece.

  Reflexively, Reece returned fire, but his aim was way off, even as the enemy’s tracers drew rapidly closer to their mark.

  Angry, he thought how unfair it was for things to end like this: he should have been in a fighter firing his cannons, not in a pistoleer duel.

  The moment became surreal, and as the enemy’s tracers gradually got closer, a fleeting memory came to him of a conversation he had with Taffy. It was back at Stromond’s. They were at a shooting range and Reece had become frustrated at his poor flicker pistol skills.

  “Relax mate,” Taffy had said. “If you’re ever in a scuff, you need to shoot one-handed. Flicker pistols have no recoil. If he’s at range, turn to your side. It exposes a smaller target and allows you to look down the length through the pistol. Then focus with both eyes. Don’t anticipate or you’ll flinch. Just let the shot happen. Don’t even think about it.”

  “Then what?” Reece had asked, as he held the pistol steady at the fixed target.

  “At that point mate,” Taffy said with a smile, “may the best man win.”

  Reece adjusted himself using Taffy’s advice—turning to his side and pointing the pistol far ahead of him. The last streak of enemy tracers whizzed by him to the left, so close that the sudden flash of light actually blinded him for a second. Reece had to make his next shot count, as it would likely be his last one.

  “All right, Taffy,” he said aloud before pulling the trigger. “Let’s hope I’m the best man.”