Chapter 17

"W-W-What do I do?! S-Shields! Put up the shields! And... and turn the turrets on!"

Taro’s heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird in a blender. The tension was unbearable. He offered a silent, frantic prayer of thanks to whatever god had seen fit to make him empty his stomach earlier, then shrieked his orders in a voice that cracked like a prepubescent choir boy's.

Marl shot him a look that was roughly sixty percent irritation and forty percent pure, unadulterated "done with this."

"Shields for what, Teiro? Beams? Physical? Also, newsflash: we haven't actually loaded any ammunition into the turret bays yet. Calm down. The enemies are still miles away."

Taro nodded frantically at her, his head bobbing like a bobblehead in a hurricane. He was genuinely shocked at how utterly terrified he was. Then it hit him: he wasn't just scared for his own skin. There were other people here. People who depended on him not being a total incompetent.

"This is B112! Something that looks like a WIND just zipped past us! It’s heading for D024!" a voice crackled over the comms.

"C111 here! We’ve got company too! I can see two of 'em! Dammit, they’re everywhere! It’s a freaking swarm!"

"This is D024! Help! I’m being mauled by a WIND! Send help!"

"C164 calling. Route, give us some orders! The sensor interference is trash, I can’t see a damn thing!"

Panic-stricken screams flooded the bridge. Taro stared at the logs scrolling across the BISHOP interface, his eyes bugging out while he hyperventilated like a man who’d forgotten how lungs worked.

"W-Wait, wait a second. What am I supposed to do? I can't... I can't take responsibility for this!"

The situation was escalating way too fast. Taro scrambled up from his seat, his legs feeling like overcooked noodles.

"Mr. Teiro," Koume’s voice cut through the chaos, irritatingly calm. "The enemy outnumbers us significantly. Standard tactical procedure dictates we consolidate our forces at a single point. Could you perhaps calculate coordinates for an evacuation route?"

"R-Right. Got it. On it!" Taro choked out. He slammed his focus into BISHOP, trying to drown out the screaming in his head. He forced his shaking fingers to behave, meticulously deriving coordinates as if his life—and everyone else's—depended on it. Which it did.

"Done! Koume, blast those to the other ships! Marl, the weapons are all yours. I just need... I need a minute..."

"...Alright," Marl said, her voice dropping to a surprisingly gentle tone. "But listen to me, Teiro. Whatever happens next, it’s not your fault. I’m not saying that to be nice or to make you feel better. It’s just the truth. Please, don't forget that."

She turned back to her console to begin the armament startup sequence. Taro opened his mouth to ask, What the hell is that supposed to mean? but Koume’s icy voice beat him to it.

[CALL SIGN D024: BIOMETRIC SIGNAL LOST]

Taro froze, staring at Koume in horror. "Does that... does that mean the guy from just now is dead? Just like that? Poof?"

"Status unknown, Mr. Teiro," she replied. "Communication may have been severed, or they may have escaped via an alternative method. Or, yes, 'poof.'"

"There are way too many of them..." Marl muttered. "Teiro, four signatures are breaking off and heading our way. They’ll be in range in five minutes."

"Wait! Wait, wait, wait!"

Taro wanted to scream at the universe to hit the pause button. Marl and Koume were still dumping data on him, but his brain was busy projecting a private horror movie on the back of his eyelids.

Wreckage. Debris. A graveyard of ships in the Asteroid Belt.

A shattered, lifeless Koume drifting into the void.

Marl’s face, pale and cold.

"No... No, no, no!"

Me. Alone. Standing in this giant, empty tin can for eternity.

"I HATE BEING ALONE!"

Taro bolted from his seat, scooped Koume up into his arms, and sprinted out of the bridge. Marl sat there, jaw-droppingly confused, as he disappeared down the hall toward the one room protected by a cipher only he knew.

"Mr. Teiro?" Koume asked.

Taro heard her, but the words didn't register. He was in the zone—the "Oh God, we're all gonna die" zone. He rapidly linked the Cipher Function and slammed the door open.

Inside was a mechanical monstrosity. A behemoth of boxes and cables that stretched to the ceiling like a cybernetic elder god. And in the center: the cryogenic sleep device.

"Mr. Teiro," Koume’s voice echoed in the cavernous room. "I must flag this as a non-recommended course of action."

Taro didn't answer. He threw himself into the freezing unit, his eyes wide and manic.

"Tactics, combat, fleet command—I don't care what it is! Just give it to me!"

"However—" Koume started.

"We’re screwed, aren't we?! Marl doesn't make jokes like that! Twenty WINDs is an impossible number, right?! Koume, please! I'm begging you!"

Taro stared into her expressionless, mechanical face.

"Mr. Teiro, while this destroyer is a formidable vessel, it is possible that even against superior numbers—"

"I don't want 'possible,' Koume! I want 'guaranteed'!" Taro screamed, cutting her off. "The ship is a fancy new model with armor for days, sure! But the pilot is a total amateur! I’ve read the manuals, but that doesn't mean jack right now! We’re out of time!"

A long silence followed. Finally, Koume spoke.

[...VERY WELL, MR. TEIRO. SHALL WE PROCEED WITH THE OVERRIDE: IMPERIAL NAVY OFFICER EDUCATION?]

Taro forced a jagged, bravado-filled grin. "Thanks, Koume... Yeah. Do it fast. Marl’s gonna get lonely if we take too long."

Koume looked away from his twisted smile and plugged her interface finger into the cable beside him.

"This is an emergency procedure. We will bypass the sleep cycle. Mr. Teiro... please grit your teeth."

Taro tried to say something cool, but it came out as a strangled, wordless shriek.

Memories that weren't his flooded his mind like a broken dam. A kaleidoscope of data, violence, and history smashed into his psyche. His brain didn't even have time to scream 'Full' before the system began the process.

[SYSTEM: OVERRIDING...]

[UPDATING: ARMAMENT KNOWLEDGE] OPTICAL WEAPON OPERATION GUIDELINES... LIVE AMMUNITION WEAPON OPERATION GUIDELINES...

[UPDATING: WARSHIP CONTROL] COMBAT MANEUVER CONTROL... EVASIVE MANEUVER CONTROL... ELECTRONIC WARFARE CONTROL...

[UPDATING: CLOSE-QUARTERS COMBAT] AIMING CONTROL... FUTURE PREDICTION... CIPHER FIRING...

[UPDATING: OPERATIONAL COMMAND] DIVERSION... ASSAULT... SEARCH... CONCEALMENT... SURPRISE ATTACK...

[UPDATING: FLEET OPERATIONS] GROUP LEADERSHIP... COMMUNICATION MASTERY... FORMATION CONTROL...

[UPDATING: SPECIAL CONTROL] [................................................]

"UUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!"

Taro tumbled out of the machine, his eyes bloodshot and twitching. He puked on the floor, the stomach acid burning his throat, while his brain—which technically shouldn't feel pain—felt like it was being put through a meat grinder.

"Mr. Teiro, please inhale slowly. And remember to exhale. That part is important."

Taro stared at Koume with eyes that looked like they belonged to a different person. He synchronized his breathing with hers, gasping for air.

"Gah... cough... Let's go, Koume. Marl... Marl is waiting."

His head felt like a pile of mashed potatoes, but he forced himself to stand, leaning heavily on Koume. His right eye was projecting ship schematics. His left eye was a blur of the BISHOP interface, displaying a massive, bloated Function Group.

"Hehe... hehehe... Huh. Why am I laughing? Ah, damn. My brain is leaking."

Muttering nonsensical gibberish to himself, Taro stumbled back into the central control room.

"Teiro! Where did you—? Wait, are you okay? You look like death!" Marl cried, her face pale.

Taro didn't even turn his head; he just rolled his eyes toward her like a lizard. "I'm fine. Scold me later. Sit down."

He slammed himself into the command seat. "Engine output eighty percent. Ignore all debris with a danger level of three or lower. Concentrate lasers on the frontal arc. Recalculating fleet rendezvous point. Set shields and turrets to Beam. Divert reserve shields to Physical for collision mitigation."

Commands flew through BISHOP at lightspeed as Taro delegated tasks to Marl and Koume with terrifying efficiency.

Marl stared at him, horrified. "You... you used that machine, didn't you?"

"Eh, I just took a six-year crash course at the naval academy. No big deal."

"Mr. Teiro," Koume announced. "Hostile engagement imminent. T-minus 120 seconds to rendezvous."

"Copy that," Taro said. He pulled the ship into a hard drift, tucking it behind a massive hunk of space rock. "Rapid inversion."

"What?!" Marl shrieked.

"I said: Ra-pid in-ver-sion, Marl."

Taro hammered the BISHOP controls, and the ship pulled a vertical 180-degree flip. The stars that had been streaking past the windows suddenly reversed, giving the sickening sensation that they were backing up at Mach-Jesus.

"The Thunderbolt’s guns are front-loaded. Killing the engines. We're going to coast using this rock as a shield. Koume, lock 'em up."

"Lock-on acknowledged. Priority target: most imminent threat?"

"Nah," Taro grinned. "All of 'em."

Koume’s mechanical movements actually hitched in a moment of very un-robotic surprise. Taro ignored it, simultaneously slaving every turret lock system in BISHOP to his own mind. He began parallel-processing the entire battlefield, factoring in everything from debris paths to the micro-gravity of nearby asteroids to differentiate "junk" from "targets."

"C111 here! I see you, Route! Providing cover! Who do we shoot?"

"This is C164, we're right behind you! Interference is killing our locks!"

"Marl, squirt the targeting data to C111 and C164. Turrets one and two, fire at will! Koume, I’m betting my life on your shield management!"

Suddenly, a pack of WINDs swarmed out from the debris—ugly, mismatched piles of scrap metal that looked like they’d been built in a junkyard. The Plum’s turrets roared to life, spitting lances of blue light that punched straight through the lead attacker, turning it into a very expensive firework.

[HOSTILE REACTION VANISHED. ONE KILL CONFIRMED.]

"Hell yeah! Keep 'em coming! Open up ports three and four!"

The Plum’s four Twin Turrets went into a frenzy, barking out shots once every second. Eight beams of blue light crisscrossed the debris field, reflecting off the ice and metal in a display that would have been beautiful if it weren't so incredibly lethal.

"B112 here! Sorry I'm late! I've got three WINDs on my tail! Can you help?!"

Taro deleted two more WINDs before even blinking, his focus shifting to the ship designated B112.

"This is Route. Fly straight. Don't touch the controls," Taro commanded. "Marl, give me thrust. Keep us moving backward just fast enough that we don't leave the group behind."

He didn't wait for a "yes." He just opened fire. A tiny ship zipped through the debris with a WIND hot on its heels; a split second later, the WIND evaporated in a hail of laser fire. The remaining two hostiles pivoted, turning their aggression toward the Plum.

"Mr. Teiro, two units have opened fire. Three more entering the engagement zone. C111 has claimed one kill."

"Roger that, Koume-chan! Keep those shields tight!"

"Teiro! We're breaking out of the Asteroid Belt!" Marl yelled.

The three survivor ships burst out of the debris field, flying backward at high velocity. The WINDs gave chase, only to be met by a wall of fire from the Plum. Beams slammed into the Plum’s shields, the energy flaring as the system struggled to dissipate the heat.

"You want a slugfest?! I’ll give you a slugfest, you rusty bastards!" Taro roared. "This is a Destroyer! The clue is in the name!"

The Plum positioned itself as a literal shield for the smaller ships, vomiting beams non-stop. The WINDs tried to jam the lasers, but Taro was already calculating the atmospheric refraction and sensor ghosting in real-time. He sniped them out of the sky like he was playing a carnival game.

The brutal, point-blank firefight raged for nearly thirty minutes. Finally, as the Plum’s shields flickered at a precarious twenty percent, the last WIND erupted into a ball of white-hot plasma.

Silence reclaimed the void.

"Come on... come out, you cowards. I’ll shoot every last one of you," Taro hissed, his bloodshot eyes darting across the screens.

"Mr. Teiro," Koume said softly. "Total confirmed kills have reached twenty-five."

"Twenty-five? Only three left... oh. That’s the guys behind us."

"Yeah..." Marl exhaled, her body slumping. "I think I just lost ten years of my life. We're not out of the woods yet, but for now, we're alive. Also, the hull is fine. Mostly. We’ve got some singe marks."

Taro ran a quick diagnostic. She was right—the armor was scorched where the beams had bled through the shields, but the internal structure was intact.

"C111 here. You saved our skins, Boss. I owe you a drink—no, a whole keg—when we get home."

"C164 here. That was some legendary flying. Hey, guys, what do you say we toss a chunk of the Stargate Bureau’s compensation money toward Route?"

"B112 here. C164, I like the way you think. Count me in."

Hearing the voices of the survivors, Taro felt a wave of relief so powerful it was almost physical. He closed his eyes, tilted his seat back, and promptly fell unconscious before his head even hit the headrest.