Episode 62

Inside his cramped destroyer, Dingo bounced his gaze between the Radar Screen and the Tactical Monitor. He felt a swell of grim satisfaction; at least his subordinates weren't completely incompetent today.

"The boys are just venting their daily frustrations against the Empire, Boss," one of his men chirped, looking unusually chipper.

Dingo considered barking at the man to stay focused, but ultimately decided to let it slide. High morale was high morale, even if it smelled like a workplace grievance.

"Go wild. Ruin their day," Dingo broadcasted over the fleet-wide comms, his voice gravelly. "But listen up: do not scratch the Station. We’re going to need those Imperial hostages in mint condition for the ransom demands later. Everything else? Target practice."

He crossed his arms, leaning back to plot his next move. On paper, the enemy looked like a legitimate threat. Radar showed two distinct fleets, with the one lurking in the rear boasting thirty hulls. But Dingo wasn't buying it.

There’s no way they’ve gathered a real fleet in a backwater system like this, he scoffed to himself. The EAP is tapped out, and the TRB Union doesn’t have the corporate pockets to fund a bake sale, let alone an armada.

He squinted at the blips on the screen. He was ninety percent sure the rear fleet was a holographic bluff, but in this business, the remaining ten percent was usually what killed you.

"Split the units left and right," Dingo barked. "Center group, I want fast movers closing the gap for recon. If they look soft, bite 'em and don't let go."

His thirty vessels broke formation, shifting into three squads of ten. Light, twitchy frigates accelerated into the vanguard, forming a defensive screen around a dedicated scout ship packed to the gills with High-performance Scanners.

Where is he? That’s the only ship I actually give a damn about.

Dingo’s eyes were practically bulging out of his head as he scanned the data. Every twitch the enemy made was a potential lead. If he measured the time between a turn and a burn, he could guess the ship's tonnage. Heavy ships were sluggish; little ones were snappy.

"One Large-scale Ship... Is that it?"

Based on the sensor ghosts and the trickle of data from his vanguard, Dingo pinpointed the lone heavy hitter.

"Left wing, burn hard! Sync your Engagement Range with the center. Target the Cruiser—the one with four engine thrusters."

[LEFT WING HERE. ROGER THAT. TARGET CRUISER IDENTIFIED.]

[CENTER UNIT, WE’VE REACHED ENGAGEMENT RANGE. ENEMY IS SITTING STILL. THEY AREN’T DOING SQUAT.]

Dingo’s eyebrow twitched at the report.

"They aren't firing? Is that Fortress just a giant paperweight?"

His Wide-area Scan had confirmed a massive structure was sitting there, and he’d assumed they’d use it as a defensive Fortress.

What is Ganz thinking? Does he want to lure me into a brawl inside the superstructure?

The Alpha Star System was technically neighbor territory for Dingo. He knew the rumors. He knew about the notorious Mafia HAD pilot who lived there. Hell, in their last scrap, that pilot had knocked out two of his ships before Dingo could even find his coffee mug.

"Something stinks," Dingo growled, kicking his command table with a resounding clang. "Fall back! We wait for the heavy hitters to arrive."

If he were fighting the EAP, he would have charged in screaming. But against Teiro? He was terrified—though he’d rather die than admit he held the man in the same high, wary regard that Teiro held for him.

"They’re backing off... Thank the stars," Paul exhaled, his voice trembling with relief.

Alan collapsed into his pilot's seat, his legs turning to jelly. He blinked rapidly; his eyes were bone-dry from staring at the monitors without a single pause.

"Phew... My heart can't take much more of this. Thank god Dingo is a paranoid old bird."

Alan let out a jagged breath, his mind racing. He didn't need a victory; he just needed to kill time. Their HADs were terrifying in a knife fight, but they were useless if the enemy decided to just sit back and erase them with long-range snipes.

"NOT FIRING A SINGLE SHOT? THAT WAS QUITE THE GAMBLE. THEY TEACH YOU THAT IN THE ACADEMY?" Bella’s voice vibrated through the cockpit.

"Not a chance," Alan replied, wiping sweat from his brow. "I never went to officer school. But Dingo is a 'by-the-book' veteran. That’s his weakness. He’s terrified of the unknown, and Teiro gave him a hell of a trauma last time. I figured he’d overthink himself into a retreat if we acted weird."

"HEEH. LOOK AT YOU, ACTING THE PART OF THE GRAND STRATEGIST. I’LL BUY YOU A DRINK IF WE SURVIVE THIS."

"I'll hold you to that. But I’m no strategist. Against a pro like Dingo, I’m just a guy stalling for time. Teiro is the same way. We’re just two guys relying on dirty tricks because the alternative is blowing up."

He meant it. You didn't survive decades on the front lines like Dingo by being an idiot. You only underestimated a man like that if you had overwhelming power—or if you were a special breed of moron.

[WIZ ALAN, ENCRYPTED LONG-RANGE COMMUNICATION RECEIVED. SENDER: TIGER.]

"Tiger... Lin?" Alan sat up. "Decode it. Actually, wait, pass it here. I'll do it."

He pulled the data into BISHOP. He had the Fixed Key from Lin, but the encryption was a nightmare.

If Teiro were here, he’d have cracked this in three seconds. Hurry the hell up, Boss.

Thinking of his boss always made Alan feel a bit inadequate. The man processed data like a Quantum Computer.

"Okay, got it... Oh, son of a... I really wish I hadn't read that."

Lin’s report was grim: the EAP offensive had withered. Alan scanned the attached tactical data and felt his stomach drop.

"Bella, reinforcements are coming. And it’s bad. We’re looking at a Battleship-class. A Kilometer-class."

"WELL, THAT’S REFRESHINGLY HORRIBLE. IS DINGO DIVERTING HIS MAIN FORCE HERE?"

"Looks like it. To him, Alpha is a knife at his throat. He’ll take the Stargate even if it costs him everything else. He probably thinks he can just recapture his lost territory later."

Alan went silent, his brain whirring at redline. Most of the plans he’d made with Teiro were useless now because Dingo had arrived way too early. But he wasn't ready to give up. He had a reputation to uphold.

"I’ve never failed a job in my life," Alan hissed, a malicious glint entering his eyes. "I’m not starting today. Time to show these outlaws how a real pro handles a keyboard."

He began aggressively hacking into Alpha Station’s High-performance Scanner.

"Boss, the Communication Scanner just intercepted a weird long-range burst."

Dingo, who had been brooding while waiting for his Battleship to arrive, looked up. "Show me."

"It’s a transmission aimed at Interstellar Space, sir. Deep vacuum. A deception?"

Dingo rubbed his beard. It was a classic trick: talk to empty space to pretend you had reinforcements. But then again, maybe they did have a detachment hiding out there.

"Hit that coordinate with a Directional Scan. Now!"

One of his scout ships blasted a high-intensity scan toward the empty void. It was like screaming "I am here!" in a dark room, but Dingo didn't care. He was already standing in the middle of the room with the lights on.

A few minutes later, the data came back. Dingo’s face went pale.

"Small debris clusters... Multiple stealth-capable ship silhouettes... Is the signal two-way?"

"Yes, sir. We’re picking up encoded handshakes."

"Then it’s not debris! Those are Electronic Warfare Craft! Dammit! Scatter Anti-Drive Particles! Now! Everywhere!"

"But Boss, that’ll slow down our own reinforcements—"

"I SAID DO IT!" Dingo roared, resisting the urge to throttle the man.

I don't know where Rising Sun gets their credits, but no way they can afford a fleet of Electronic Warfare Craft, Dingo reasoned. If they had that kind of money, they’d have bought a Battleship. That means those stealth ships out there belong to the Imperial Navy.

"Swap all jammer suites!" Dingo commanded. "I want Lock-on Stabilizers and Scan Stabilizers on every single hull!"

He remembered a story from his rookie days: five Electronic Warfare Craft once deleted an entire fleet of forty ships. The EW ships had jammed every sensor, leaving the fleet blind and helpless while they were picked apart one by one. They hadn't even managed to fire a single return shot.

But now I know, Dingo thought, a smug, desperate grin spreading across his face. The Empire is definitely in bed with these Rising Sun punks. That’s a lead I can use.

"Hello, Alan. This is a surprise. Finally decided to crawl back to the military?"

Dean’s face appeared on the comms, looking as condescending as ever. Alan stared at him with a dead-eyed expression.

"You haven't changed a bit, Dean."

"And you’re still a traitor. Why are you calling? I have no interest in your little squabble with Dingo."

"Oh, I'm not looking for help," Alan said, watching his sensor logs. He saw the Scan Particles from Dingo’s fleet wash over the space near Dean’s Imperial detachment. "I just wanted to say hi. I’ve already got what I wanted."

He cut the feed before Dean could ask what the hell he was talking about.

"There. That should buy us a few more hours. That’s about as much magic as I can pull out of my hat."

Alan slumped back into his seat and let out a long, shuddering breath of victory.