Battlestar

After the first week command had even started to encourage the crew to study the empire's origins and history and mingle with their new allies. Part of this mingling had been sharing their fitness facilities. She had picked up fencing at the academy, lots of students did, and had gotten pretty good at it. Clad in a flexsteel skin suit, and wearing a shielded helmet, she had been on the mat sparring with Jason, her flight mate, when he had suddenly stepped back and lowered his rapier, looking at something behind her.

People had stopped all around her, when she turned she had found out why. Half a dozen of the imperial pilots had come in, wearing what looked like archaic leather armor, carrying large swords across their backs. Four of them had formed two pairs on the empty mat next to hers. They had donned what she had assumed was protective leather head gear, saluted each other by putting their right fist into their open left hand in front of their chest and bowing, and then they had unsheathed these large, slightly curved, two handed swords.

They looked a bit like the Japanese Samurai swords of old, but bigger. They had also looked pretty deadly. Now the rapier she herself used was pretty deadly too, but she was wearing a flexsteel suit and a force helmet, while it looked like they were wearing just protective leathers. And then they had started fighting, it had been nothing like fencing, from the two against two to the pure brutishness of it. It hadn't been about elegance, it had all been about efficiency.

She had quickly realized she wasn't watching dueling but mock combat. Everyone around her had been looking on in awe, and that's when she had first noticed one of the two Imps observing the fight from the sideline was Lieutenant Commander Arundel. The four men had fought for close to ten minutes, a whirlwind of feints, attacks and parries. Clashing steel, sparks flying, everyone present wondering why none of them were dead yet.

And then one of them had actually gone down. The padded leather on the outside of his thigh had been slashed open, revealing a glistening web of metal, and some blood, so there had been some inbuilt protection after all. The fighters had disengaged and the Imp standing next to the Lieutenant Commander had gotten onto the mat. She had watched him spray something onto the downed man's wound, then help him get up again, and guide him off the mat.

While everyone watching had been a bit shocked, the Nordicans clearly hadn't been impressed, the two men had actually been joking with each other while leaving the mat. Then the lieutenant Commander himself had stepped onto the mat. She had thought two young men facing off against one young man and one older man wouldn't be entirely fair. Actually, she had already been looking forward a bit to watching him getting his butt whipped.

And then he had taken position in the center of the mat, with the three younger men taking position around him at equal distances. Is he really going to take on all three of them? she had thought, but that was before she noticed the worried looks on the faces of the three younger men. He had donned his protective headgear, unsheathed his sword, and started warming up. The whole fitness facility had become silent as he turned himself into this choreographed blur of whistling steel, it looked like nothing she had ever witnessed before.

Not old, she had realized, just well trained, holy fuck! And then something had stirred deep inside her, a strange but strong sense of déjà vu. The men had greeted each other, and then, for the next half an hour or so, he had gave them a lesson, or really, a couple of dozen lessons. In the end he had disarmed all three of them in a matter of seconds, and then he had greeted them and left the mat. The uninjured one had taken his place, two against two again, with him observing them intently from the sideline, the injured man sitting cross-legged on the floor next to him.

The main show clearly over people had started fencing again all around her, and so had she and Jason, after she had finally managed to peel her eyes away from him, feeling confused. Soon she got back into dueling mode though, forgetting all around her again. Maybe ten minutes later she had scored a solid hit on Jason, they had disengaged, and then his voice had sounded behind her, "You're too impulsive, Lieutenant."

She had swirled around in reflex. He had been very close behind her, and caught her steel in his gloved hand. She had moved back a bit, "Your technique is quite good," he had said, "But you often leave yourself open to counter attack."

His unasked for advice had annoyed her, "I won, didn't I?" she had answered, not hiding her anger.

He had stepped back, "I'm sorry, just realize some day you might not be wearing that flexsteel suit, and your opponent might not be of inferior skill."

"Yeah," she had answered, "You would make really short work of me I bet."

He had looked wounded, "I'm sorry," he reacted, "I didn't want to upset you Lieutenant, please excuse me." And then he had turned and walked back to the sitting man. She looked after him, anger suddenly turning into confusion again, maybe even regret. She had reengaged Jason, and the next time she looked in his direction the injured man was alone and his commander had gone.

***

That had also been the last time he had said anything to her, she had stopped being what had felt like his personal conversion project, though somehow it hadn't brought the feeling of relief expected. His truly awesome display of martial skill had, among other things, spiked her interest in imperial military history. To her surprise it had been an interesting subject, and so had the empire's history in general. She had downloaded a lot of material, provided by their new 'allies' on her reader, mainly following the principle: 'know your enemy'.

And so she had learned how this whole 'Parliamentary Monarchy' thing was supposed to work. About how Caledon had been colonized by people primarily hailing from the north-west of Europe, about how the Nordic Empire had grown from it, and about the role this warrior tradition of theirs had played in it all. It explained much about why the empire was militarily so much stronger than its relatively small size warranted.

As her interest was mainly focused on the military aspect, she had read much about the Nordic warrior cult too, which was apparently based on the customs, history, and mythology, of various tribes that once lived in north-west Europe during the first millennium, of which a people named the Vikings was the most prominent. What had surprised her, however, was that, in contrast to what she had assumed, these old tribes often produced fierce female warriors that fought side to side with the men.

So keeping women away from the more dangerous jobs in the military wasn't based on their old history. Today she had finally found the time to look into the reasons behind this aspect of the empire. The answer she had found had shocked her a bit. The reason they kept their women away from the most dangerous activities wasn't because the men didn't consider them fit for those activities, as she had thought, but because the men couldn't handle losing them.

Women actually played a big role in their society apparently, they were represented at all levels of science and government, often even in majority numbers, it was only the military where they were restricted in what they could do. It had placed an entirely different light on her previous view of their society, and she suddenly felt bad about the way in which she had handled the Lieutenant Commander.

She had rebuked his attempts at friendship not only because she was convinced he was an enemy, but also because she was convinced he didn't consider her an equal, that he considered women inferior to men. The truth, however, was that he probably considered women simply too precious to do the really dangerous work in war.

Helga's communicator beeps loudly, calling for her attention. She activates the display, thinking about how she doesn't agree with him on that, but how she can hardly hate him for it either. She thinks back to their last 'skirmish' in the fitness facility, over a week ago now. With hindsight it hadn't been one of her finer moments. Maybe she, and her shipmates, should indeed bury the past, like he had suggested they all should do that first time she had met him.

And maybe it could indeed start with him and her. Next time you run into him just be friendly, and see where he takes it from there. The imagery of him warming up before the sword fight replays in her mind - it isn't the first time that has happened. He had looked so good, so masculine, it hadn't just impressed her, it had aroused her too. Which was, with hindsight, probably the main reason she had rebuffed him so hard when he had interfered with her fencing.

He was an older man, he was the enemy, and yet he had invoked these feelings in her. It had felt like trickery, and she had reacted in defense. But it really hadn't been, hadn't it? And where does that leave her now? The display blinks, roll call for the 647th, her wing, and the imperial 37th, in ten minutes. The task force is currently cruising in deep space, recharging jump drives, but they are passing an uninhabited star system, located to port.

With only two of the Pacifica's eight wings called to action there can't be a real threat, but something is clearly up. Helga confirms reception, looks at the blue blazing 'Six Sisters' for a last time, her thoughts with the enigmatic Lieutenant Commander, then she turns and leaves the observation deck behind.

Into Action

Benjy had been close to the briefing room when his federation provided communicator went off. As a result he was one of the first to arrive, and is now watching the rest of the pilots from the 647th wing as well as his own 37th filling in. The contrast between his own people sitting themselves down to the left of the central aisle and the federation pilots sitting themselves down to its right is stark, both when it comes to their appearance as when it comes to their gender.

Roughly a third of the federation pilots are female, a fact that jars with his cultural background, but is also something he personally respects. Helga is one of the last to come in; she's smiling, and for a second he thinks she's actually smiling at him, which is nonsense of course. When his wing first arrived on the Pacifica, now some three weeks ago, it had been the clear animosity hanging in the air that had pushed him to reach out to the observing federation personnel.

For their own good, and for the war effort in general, their units needed to bond, and the longer it took for someone to start that process the more difficult that process would become. The reason he had approached her instead of one of the other federation pilots hanging around nearby had been purely based on the personal attraction to her he had felt. Lieutenant Korobitsyna was, simply put, a stunningly beautiful female.

She's maybe a bit small compared to Nordic women, but very well shaped, and with the face of an angel. The exotic touch of her dark hair only adds to that. But what had touched him most that day in the hangar bay had been her eyes, she has the eyes of Alfhild, a grayish-brown with this golden shimmer in them. Looking into them he had felt sorry he wasn't ten years younger. Unfortunately though, when it came to the bonding, she hadn't been able to look past their nations history, as was the case for all of her comrades.

This wasn't a problem unique to the federation personnel: to his sadness his own people had reacted much the same way. That will change, he thinks, It will change after the first time we bury our dead together. It will change after enough people unnecessarily die on both sides. It will change once we have learned to hate our new enemies more than our old ones. His thoughts end as Captain Mölders, Pacifica's fighter group commander, ascends the podium and addresses them.

Apparently a garbled distress call has been received, emanating from a civilian ship inside the uninhabited star system they are currently passing, located just a short distance to port. The star is highly unstable, causing huge gravity shifts inside the system, the remains of its planets are all in relatively close orbit around it. The system has also been turned into an electromagnetic cauldron by it, making it impossible to exactly pinpoint the source of the transmission, meaning a relatively large area will have to be searched.

The unstable gravity, and all the floating debris, also renders the system much more dangerous for large ships than for small ones. Add the time constraints, there is still a war to fight, and the decision has been made not to divert the task force but send in a bunch of fighters instead. One of the federation pilots raises an arm, the captain nods at him, "Wouldn't it be simpler to just send in some rescue shuttles Sir?" the young man asks.

The Captain shakes his head, "We are close to the fringe and just a week away from the last known enemy position, and the electromagnetic mess at the systems center could easily hide an entire battle-fleet from our sensors. There's no way I'm going to send a bunch of defenseless shuttles in there. The shuttles will be on standby in case an actual rescue mission needs to be mounted. But that has to wait until the ship has been found and the actual situation assessed. Odds are they are all long dead."

Next a 3d projection of the search area is brought up and all six squadrons involved are assigned call signs and a search area. His eyes drift across the aisle, to where Helga is sitting. It is her squadron's turn to be assigned a sector, so she's concentrating on the briefing. He feels his heart warm, it always does when he observes her. And then this feeling of dread suddenly descends on him. He frowns, it is only going to be a search and rescue mission. He shakes it off, ten minutes later they are all mounting their fighters.

***

The system proves to be a mess indeed. The star clearly ripped apart its planets long ago, and then pulled in much of the debris. Rogue asteroids and glowing gas clouds are everywhere. What the hell was that ship doing here in the first place, he thinks. Half an hour into their search one of his spread out flights calls in to report a faint contact. Five minutes later his own flight nears the three other fighters from his squadron that arrived at the wreck just before them.

The moment he has the first clear visual a proverb that would have shocked even a Filistian whore escapes him. They were hiding, that's what they were doing here, he thinks.

"I'm registering twelve faint life signs inside," one of his pilots reports.

"No," he answers, "Those aren't live signs, not really, keep your bloody distance, and stay alert." He closes as far as needed to get a good internal reading, then he switches to the group frequency. "This is Lieutenant Commander Arundel speaking. Target found. Wreck is cocooned. Detecting a dozen infested inside. Scourge threat imminent. On my authority, all units retreat to Pacifica immediately. I repeat, Scourge threat imminent. All units retreat to Pacifica immediately. Get the hell out of here people."

He switches back to the squadron frequency, "That goes for you boys too. Retreat immediately. Snake, you take command of the squadron. I'll blow the wreck ten minutes from now, then follow you all out."

The Hurricanes already on the scene start to turn immediately, the younger pilots might have never seen a cocooned ship up close before, but unlike the federation pilots they are all well familiar with the Scourge threat and know blowing the wreck will draw in any Scourge still around. And with their brood not having hatched yet they WILL still be around. He returns his attention to the wreck, the ship is dead, but the cocoon provides a warm and moist environment inside it.

The infested people aboard are paralyzed, but still conscious, and being eaten away from the inside by the larvae the Scourge have planted inside them. Getting them out, even if it were possible, is useless because the larvae will then kill them. It is the most painful and horrible way to die imaginable, the only thing he can do is end their suffering by blowing up the wreck. He starts charging the Hurricane's short range plasma weapon, which is normally only used for attack runs on capital ships.

In his mind a distant memory keeps repeating. Three centuries ago the Scourge had still been an unknown phenomenon, so his group had entered the cocooned wreck and he had ended up eye to eye with one of the infested, a young woman. He had heard her barely audible pleading for him to kill her. They had tried to get them out of the wreck instead, which hadn't ended well. The larvae had killed their hosts, and then attacked the rescuers. Six men had entered the wreck, he had been the only one to make it out again alive.

***

Helga's squadron had started heading out the moment Lieutenant Commander Arundel reported in his findings and ordered everyone back to Pacifica. The Scourge had never manifested themselves inside the federation proper, their sparse sightings were localized to the core-ward fringe. You are at the core-ward fringe. But everyone knew what they were, everyone had seen the 3dv horror movies.

The squadron had dispersed for the search, and hadn't yet formed up again, so it's just the three Hellcats of her flight, with her herself taking up position slightly back and to starboard from Elise, call sign 'Storm', her flight leader. A shiver runs down her spine, she can feel the hairs in her neck rise, "Break to port!" Elise's voice suddenly commands. The Hellcat at her ten o'clock breaks away violently, and she starts to follow, trying to maintain formation with both Elise and Jason on her port wing.

Within seconds a small group of dark organically shaped forms speed by to starboard. The IFF system recognizes them as Wraith fighters. The one bringing up the rear is damaged, streaming plasma from its hull. In a reflex she checks her six, arming her guns, then turns in on its tail. She's only seconds away from a firing solution, "Stay in formation Bunny!" Elise's voice, commanding. The plasma stream stops, and the sinister looking craft in her aiming rectangle suddenly accelerates hard.

"BREAK BREAK!" Jason's voice, she swings the Hellcat back, towards her retreating flight, feeling nauseated; the next moment three blue spheres blossom around her. Her cockpit displays die, her drive follows half a second later. The blue light dies away, her Hellcat starts to tumble slowly, and she feels herself lift from her seat as the artificial gravity cuts out too. The two blue flames representing the other two Hellcat's exhausts quickly get smaller as she watches, at least a dozen greenish exhaust flames following them, it feels like a bad dream.

The Hellcat stabilizes, she has been hit by some energy draining weapon. She looks at her instruments, hoping the stabilizing is a sign that power is returning. Everything stays black though, then three dark shapes emerge from the surrounding darkness, small jets of green flame erupting seemingly randomly from their maneuvering jets. The Wraiths surround her paralyzed fighter, and reddish beams erupt from them, starting to cocoon the Hellcat.

Helga panics for a moment as her fate dawns on her. She screams out loud, then a cold resolution sinks in. She unbuttons her holster, pulling out her needle gun; raising it she notices its display is as dead as her fighter. She swallows, she had often wondered these last weeks why those Royal Navy pilots were all toting ancient firearms in their holsters. Now she realizes: those don't need electricity. You fucked up Helga, and now you're going to die horribly. She re-holsters the useless weapon, then starts to cry silently.