As Moulding kept station on the outside, Brim eased into a right turn, grimacing wryly behind the mask of his battlesuit. It was difficult, he considered soberly— damn difficult—to continually let the Leaguers bring the war to him. Sometimes, he wished he commanded normal Starfuries with their large crew and intragalactic range. Now, there were ships that could take the war to the enemy! This new kind of remote-controlled, defensive patrolling at the beck and call of some distant BKAEW technician was sometimes repugnant to him—and to a lot of the other Helmsmen who dearly wanted to wade in and show the Leaguer bastards what a real fight was all about.
He shook his head and scanned the starry darkness around him. Eventually, he thought.
Eventually, they'd be on the offensive again. And this time, no Treaty of Garak would save the Tyrant to begin still another round of killing....
With effort, he forced his mind back to reality. Plenty of time to plan the future once he'd helped win it away from the Leaguers. But for the duration, whole fleets of zukeed bastards were still out there waiting. He could feel their presence—and their plans for after the war were totally unlike his own. At all...
While he searched the darkness around him, out on the tips of his Starfury's pontoons, tiny antennas sensed incoming radiation from another ship. They relayed their captured data to the Starfury's APW-11 proximity warning system, and presently, a yellow area began to blink on Brim's threats panel, slowly at first, then with increasing frequency as the stranger approached. "We've got company," he said calmly into the short-range COMM system as he extended his turn into a full circle.
"I've noticed," Moulding replied. "They should be coming from spinward."
"Hang on a moment, Toby," Brim interrupted tensely, "I think I can see them." Out ahead, two distant graviton plumes were perfectly silhouetted against the dark undercast. "Orange-Yellow and crossing.... Just above the horizon...."
"Daresay," Moulding answered. "I see the bastards, too— sneaking in for a little innocent mayhem, one supposes."
Brim narrowed his eyes and sounded action stations while his ship raced silently and undetected through the utter darkness of space. But as airtight doors slammed and the bridge filled with excited voices, the thrill he normally felt at the beginning of combat was—well—missing, somehow. He felt tired; seemed like he'd been tired for weeks. He shrugged mentally. Like millions of Imperials before him, he had a job to do for his Empire—and this one was a long way from over. Taking a deep breath, he resignedly pushed his thrust dampers to the stop and curved in toward the two unsuspecting Leaguers. A steep bank and a hard pull brought him in at their Orange-Yellow and closing rapidly.
Scant heartbeats later, he was above and behind two GH 262-Es, in perfect position to attack.
No time for philosophy now—only actions and reflexes. He ordered the disrupters energized and gave Goreman, the Gunnery Officer, permission to fire when he was ready.
It didn't take long at all. At only medium range, their initial salvo of disruptor fire sparkled all around the starboard "wing" of the rearmost Gorn-Hoff, instantly silencing its two aft-firing turrets. In the corner of his eye, Brim saw the surprised leader frantically peel off and claw upward toward free space.
Goreman quickly boosted off another short burst. This time, the Gorn-Hoff shot out a long, thin streamer of gravitons, followed by a dazzling plume of radiation fire. Suddenly, the chevron-shaped killer ship flipped onto its back and spiraled toward the stormy undercast, burning furiously.
"My compliments," Moulding radioed. "That puts paid to one Leaguer this morning."
"Thanks..." Brim answered. "Too bad his zukeed friend over there at Purple-Blue doesn't share your enthusiasm." Off to the port, the second Gorn-Hoff was streaking out of the darkness back toward their flight level. While he watched, the enemy starship rolled into a vertical bank, then hurtled around to come at them from behind.
Instinctively, he pivoted his Starfury to counter the threat, its spaceframe creaking and groaning with the strain. But the surprised Helmsman of the Gorn-Hoff overshot, and Brim rolled immediately onto his tail. A moment later, Goreman got off a long burst that flickered just behind the Gorn-Hoff's armored bridge—again with no apparent effect.
Brim lined up for a second shot, but this time, the Leaguer countered with a tremendous fusillade from its rear turrets that sparkled and hammered at the Starfury's armor. Then its Helmsman rolled and dived out of the way, streaking vertically for the surface in an attempt to throw off Brim's aiming devices against the ground clutter. The Carescrian followed, heedless of danger as he was during the days when he piloted ore barges. Soon, the Starfury's hullmetal skin was glowing cherry-white from atmospheric heating, and the temperature on the bridge had began to climb precipitously. No starship was designed to survive in these temperatures; the deep cold of outer space was their natural element, and normal landfalls were made gradually, to keep reentry heat within manageable ranges. Grinding his teeth, Brim turned down his battlesuit temperature and continued the dive. This chase would go to the ship with the best streamlining—and he was betting everything on his Starfury. Mitchell Trophy racers, on which Mark Valerian had based his designs, had been beautifully shaped to get them in and out of the atmosphere as rapidly as possible. That early design decision was going to count in the next few moments, or he would know the reason why.
And even as he made his prediction, the Leaguer—now glowing incandescently—suddenly pulled out and headed directly for one of the nearby storm cells. Enemy or no, the Helmsman had guts, at least in Brim's estimation. Temperatures on that flight bridge must long ago have reached the melting point of some metals. With a nod of grudging appreciation, he followed around in a wide curve toward the roiling, flickering clouds.
Moments later—only a few thousand irals above the surface—Brim found himself bumping violently through swirling turbulence, ram, and hailstones, but he held his course grimly while the proximity indicator guided him along the Leaguer's path. Goreman didn't need to see the Gorn-Hoff; the forward heat scanners were all that was necessary to aim. He began firing off short bursts into the murk as Brim veered through the sky, tracking the Leaguer as if its Helmsman were flying both starships. Presently, the two ships erupted back into the evening sky. Brim's eyes adjusting only in time to see the Gorn-Hoff send out a stream of gravitons and reverse course back into the cloud—just as if it were in the midst of some primitive fight between two old atmospheric flyers.
Once more, Brim careened after him into the roiling mists, jolting violently in a thousand directions as he coursed through the frantic blackness. Lightning crashed explosively near his starboard pontoon. Battling desperately to approximate the enemy Helmsman's course, he ground his teeth in feverish concentration on his instruments. A moment later, the proximity indicator's yellow eye blinked again. Reflexively Goreman fired a blind, fan-shaped salvo into the gloom—then they were once more in clear air. Ahead, the Gorn-Hoff was now trailing a thread of white vapor—that stopped abruptly as it turned again, this time so tightly that the two starships abruptly switched position.
Now, the deadly Gorn-Hoff was in the tail position, and it was Brim's turn for trouble.
Shimmering bolts of energy flashed past his Hyperscreens. The unfamiliar thunder of disrupters blasted his ears. And Moulding was nowhere in sight! He must have become separated in the cloud.