The Furies

"Paint your targets," Rebel said.

When she depressed the red button her computer cycled through several of the cruisers before finding one that wasn't already painted. This method of selecting targets was primitive, but with so few torpedoes and such a good rate of killing with one shot, it prevented several pilots from selecting the same target, over killing it while letting others get by unscathed.

She moved now to line up on her target, watching as the numbers fell on the targeting scope.

"It's away," someone called.

The declaration was followed by several more in a short span, but Rebel was on the farthest ship and so had to close more than the others. This put her in the most danger, as the running torpedoes would already be nearing their FTL boost before she even fired, putting her much closer to the explosions. She accepted that, the way Erica had when she lead. It was part of being a flight leader.

When her scope went green she fired and pulled up hard. She jammed her throttle to wide open, risking black out to get as much distance as she could from the blasts that would come any second.

"Get out of there, get out of there, get out of there," Erica whispered under her breath as she watched Black flight's attack run.

"Boss?"

"Yes," she snapped, looking up quickly.

"We've got two groups of bogies approaching from planetside," the sensor tech informed her.

"Rambler, you have bogies coming, two o'clock low," she called after examining her scope.

"Roger Boss, engage?"

"Affirm."

"Goose, take your fighters and move them to quadrant three in the protection grid, engage any fighters that get through at your discretion."

"Roger."

Erica glanced back at the scope.

"Black flight, Rowdies, reform and close on this vector,"

"Roger," Red called.

"Affirm," Cloudy said.

The Indian's voice rattled her. She desperately wanted to ask if Rebel was all right, but her professionalism prohibited her from doing so. Inside, however, she was dying.

The first thing she was aware of was her suit. It was slack on her body rather than tight. The next thing was the smell of ozone and burned plastic. She remembered pulling up, remembered giving the fighter all it had, and remembered vaguely the massive thump that seemed to lift her fighter and threw her forward so violently that her head had smashed into the canopy.

The control board was fried, with black scars where fires had burned and melted plastic covering most of the dials, not that they were working. She tried to move and was rewarded with throbbing pain from her shoulders where her harness had stopped her forward momentum.

"Fuck," she said, enunciating the word like a prayer.

It was dead silent, no buzz from the tac net, no hum of the engines. Far, far away she saw the lights and explosions of a battle through her shattered canopy. From here, it was beautiful and the tranquility around her lent an even more surreal quality to the scene.

With no boards she was going to be doing a lot of guessing, and the first had to be the engines. She felt no throb, heard no sound, so she guessed they were dead. She flipped up the safety cover on the manual start and tensed, as she hit the switch. If they were already on, she might well blow her ship up, but she had no choice.

There was a solid thunking sound and jolt, followed by the hum and lights winking on.

She sighed heavily, only then realizing she had been holding her breath. She saw steam when she breathed out and realized it was freezing in the cockpit. She must have been out for quite some time.

"Rebel to Black flight, anyone copy?" she called. Silence greeted her, not even the white noise that would let her know she was transmitting or receiving.

She placed her hand on the throttle and then removed it. Her suit was still slack. Looking down she saw the floor of the cockpit was coated with black fluid.

She returned her hand to the throttle and eased it forward, again holding her breath. The ship smoothly accelerated. She couldn't believe how far away from the ships she was. And she didn't dare use more than a quarter power without her flight suit. It was going to be a long ride home.

She brought up her stores list and fired both her copperheads, then tried to fire her lone remaining torpedo. Nothing happened when she depressed the trigger. It sat their in her stores list, glowing red. She opened the switch and tried to disarm it, but nothing happened. Giving up on lightening the load and decreasing her danger, she aimed towards the far distant battle and throttled up.

Cloudy pulled the stick violently to starboard and kicked down on the rudder pedal while jamming the throttle to full. Her vision clouded with red as she pulled nearly negative ten Gs at the top of the inverted loop. Her ship came out of it, with the bastard who had been pummeling her rear shields directly in front of her.

She flipped the selector on her stick from auxiliary to primary and took the slack out of her trigger. Eight PPCs fired, sending bluish arcs of light into the enemy fighter. It wavered and then exploded in a ball of flame.

"Help!" Lou screamed.

Since the first attack run, things had gone swiftly downhill. They had lost Rebel and Cloudy had taken over. The Air Boss had vectored them onto a contingent of battlecruisers that seemed to be making for the fleet. Their torpedoes had decimated it, but in the confusion they had lost the covering ghostdogs and were now surrounded by enemy fighters.

Cloudy frantically looked for Lou, she saw the country girl's ship away and below her. The tall Indian nosed over into a dive.

"Run straight, Lou," she commanded.

"Straight? Are you out of your friggin mind?!!"

"Just do it!" Cloudy ordered.

Lou's ship leveled out and the fighter behind it did so as well, to get the killing shot, but in doing so he flattened his flight path right into Cloudy's guns. She flipped her selector from guns to missiles, got tone and launched her remaining copperhead. The small missle shot off her wing pylon and tracked right into the Trog's tail, obliterating the stout fighter in a silent explosion.

"How bad are you hit?" Cloudy asked as she swooped in and took up station in Lou's six, a little behind and above her.

"All kinds of electrical problems Cloudy, and it's responding sluggishly."

"Jugs?"

"A minute," came the clipped reply.

After a few seconds of silence, one of the Rowdies called, "Thanks Jugs,"

"What ya need?" the blonde called.

"Form up on Lou. We've lost Rebel and Troy, I'm taking us in," Cloudy said.

"Roger."

"Boss?" Cloudy called.

"Go ahead," the boss replied.

"I'm bringing Black flight in," Cloudy said.

"Roger, use the center landing bay, How many you bringing in?"

"Three, but we are nursing a cripple,"

"Roger, get your cripple in, then join up with the Lucky Strikes. They are rearming for another sortie,"

"Roger,"

Cloudy heard something in the Boss's voice. A kind of dead flatness that lacked resonance. She wondered what it meant.

"Fifteen battleships approaching," a sensor tech shouted.

"Thirty degree turn to port, all guns to fire at the turn!" Quarrels bellowed.

Erica braced herself as the big ship began to turn, a deep, throaty boom echoed through the ship, followed by more as the ancient PPCs added their volume to the outgoing fire. The ship suddenly shuddered and the power went down to emergency lighting.

"Damage report," the Admiral demanded.

"All communications out below G deck!" a tech shouted.

Another massive blow rocked the old warhorse and Erica struggled up from her seat.

"Where are you going?' Quarrels shouted.

"Hangar deck!" she shouted back, stumbling as the deck rocked beneath her under another hammer blow.

Erica took the lift down to the hangar deck, it opened on a scene of chaos. Fires burned and the service corridor was choked with massive I beams and smaller debris. She ran down the hall, climbing over and dodging under debris. Farther along she had to shove her way through the press of wounded and bewildered civilians and deck crews.

Thankfully the hangar deck was in good shape and she tore off her uniform as she crossed the bay. Her ship sat on the ready alert catapult and she jumped on the wing while kicking off her shoes. Chavez tossed her boots up to her and unchoked the wheels as she pulled them on.

Another massive blow rocked the old ship as Erica settled into the cockpit, nearly taking the short tech off the wing. She held on grimly, attaching hoses to Erica's flight suit, which she had worn under her uniform.

As soon as the helmet was on, Chavez closed the canopy and leaped off the wing. Erica hit the launch button and switched to her secondary weapon as she accelerated. Once in space, she flipped the red covers and armed the torpedoes. Two of the battleships were directly in front of her, at about thirty thousand yards. They were the ones hammering the Yorktown.

Erica accelerated to attack speed and brought the targeting reticule to one, then the other. At four thousand yards she launched, but rather than pull up she slewed her ship violently to one side, gained tone on the other and launched her second torpedo before pulling up and boosting away from the doomed ships.

She didn't know it, but at almost the same time, the Lucky Strikes had fired on the two ships companions. The vaporizing of a battleship squadron was too much for the Trogs. Less than a minute later their ravaged fleet jumped, leaving the system to the Terrans.

It was a quiet night in Bel's place, but the old warrior wasn't happy. He kept turning his eyes to the regulars' table and the Air Boss, who seemed intent on drinking herself into a coma. Bel was a good man and he understood how the losses of a major battle could wear on the officers. He also understood the dangers of letting alcohol give solace and he was more than passingly familiar with the Air Boss's past.

He had been debating and ruminating for about an hour when she called for another bottle. That had done it for him. Once he delivered it to her table he slipped to the phone in the rear and made the call.

Less than twenty minutes later, Tucker walked in.

"Let's go, Boss," he said, striding up to her table.

"Fuck you," she slurred.

Tucker didn't even flinch, but turned to the three pilots at the bar. They were all new and had been part of the last training class.

"Turn your backs," Tucker ordered.

Despite outranking him now and despite being off duty, they all complied instantly. The burly Sergeant Major grabbed Erica by the shoulders and hauled her to her feet. She started to curse at him, but he hit her, his balled fist striking right on the point of her chin and driving consciousness out of her. Her body collapsed back onto the table.

He picked her up, slung her limp form over his shoulder and walked out, pausing only to toss a handful of script on the bar.

She came to in the Jeep as it bounced over the hastily laid temporary coverings that masked the deep scars in the old ship's deck plates.

She groaned, and then sat up, rubbing her chin.

"Tuck?"

"Almost home, Boss," he replied.

"I'm going to cut Bel's balls off the next time I see him," she said.

Tucker wasn't surprised she was lucid. It took a hell of a lot to get her drunk and even ripped she could fool most people. She had made it five months in a combat command, drunk off her ass.

"Say something, Tucker," she demanded.

He knew better. She just needed something to latch onto and the tirade would begin. If he left her to her own devices, she would be asleep before they made her quarters. When they got there Tucker lifted her out of the jeep and put her to bed. Walking out of her quarters he found the Goose standing next to the jeep, resting a foot on the running board.

"Figured you would be getting some of that redhead's pussy," Tucker said.

"She's working, all the techs are, I'll be lucky if I get laid again this month."

"What brings you here?"

"Worried about the Boss. I know you watch over her, but there are some things a woman can only tell another woman. Feel like letting me in on it?"

He didn't respond but climbed into the jeep. When he looked at her, she shrugged and got in with him. He said nothing as they made the long drive back to York. He stopped outside Bel's and they both went in and got a seat. Bel brought them both their regular drinks and Tucker savored his before speaking.

"Don't suppose you know much about the Boss," he began.

"No more than she's told me, which I admit isn't much," Goose acknowledged.

Tucker nodded slightly, refilled his tumbler and seemed lost in thought for a while.

"Ever hear of Quantro?" he said at last.

"No," she said.

"Doesn't surprise me. The place that doesn't exist. It was a border world, out near Persephone. The population fucked up and let some religious nut get control. First thing he did was declare God, not the emperor, was supreme and that the planet was seceding from the empire."

"Good lord."

"Yeah. Well, no surprise that went over like a turd in the punch bowl on Earth and the three seventy-fifth was dispatched on the carrier Ajax to deal with it. Planetary rebellion, no big deal right? Wrong. This holly roller had purchased a shit load of old CVD-Tomcats. Caught us with our pants down and most of the air wing was annihilated. Among those killed was the boss's fiancé, William Tripper."

Goose sipped her drink and waited. She had never known Tucker to say so much, and he seemed lost in memories now. A good judge of character, she figured he would speak again only when ready. In the end it was almost half the bottle of whiskey before he spoke.

"Trips was a son of a bitch. He treated the Boss worse than a whore. Cheated on her with every piece of ass that came along. Everyone could see it but her. Most of us were glad to see him gone, but the boss…she loved him, ya know?"

"Yeah, I've been there," Goose replied.

Tucker looked at her hard and then nodded.

"Yeah, you have the look. We knocked all the fighters out, were getting ready to send in the marines to retake the capitol when word came down…"

She waited a long time, but he seemed to have stopped talking.

"What word?"

"No invasion. An example had to be made."

"And?"

"Total sterilization of the planet, by thermonuclear bombardment." He said grimly.

"My god!" Goose exclaimed.

"There is no God." He declared bitterly, before killing the tumbler and taking his next hit directly from the bottle.

"Twenty-three," he whispered.

He seemed to be struggling with himself, so the next words came out haltingly, with long pause between.

"She was twenty-three…Just a kid who joined up to avoid jail time for being unregistered…Lost her first lover…then they ordered her to kill four and a half billion people…in cold blood."

"Did she do it?"

"Course she did. What choice did she have? But it unhinged her. She hit the bottle. Hard. I watched. Looked after her. Covered for her. But I couldn't make it better. She came out of it on her own, after I found her in her quarters with her wrists slit. Hospital time, de-tox, they didn't bust her. I pulled some strings and Admiral Graff ruled it was stress so they reassigned her here."

"You love her, don't you?" Mindy blurted.

"Not like you're thinking, but yeah, I love her."

"Does she always get drunk when she loses pilots?"

"No. I think it's losing a particular pilot that got to her."

"I don't get you."

He smiled at her and took another slug of whiskey.

"Ever seen her go out? When was the last time she went on a date? Ever seen her even look twice at a male recruit?"

Suddenly a light went on in Goose's head.

"No," she said, shaking her head.

"I don't even think she knows it yet," he said.

"That's just not possible, Tucker, I'd have known. Lucky or Surfer would have for sure."

"Nope. None of you know 'cause she doesn't, or at least hasn't admitted it to herself. She don't act like one, but I think she's a muff diver,"

"You sure you aren't just saying that cause you love her and she isn't interested?" Goose asked.

She instantly wished she hadn't said it, but Tucker only smiled.

"I don't love her that way, little lady. I lost my…equipment in action on Quartermine. Ball-buster mine. She's more like a daughter to me, and one I have spent a long time watching after. I tried for a while to hook her up with a good man so I wouldn't have to worry so much. No dice. After a while I started to wonder. So I finally asked a bull dyke friend of mine to talk to her. They hit it off pretty well, nothing sexual, but Cindy told me she was pretty sure the Boss was into girls, but was in denial. I trust that girl, trust her judgment."

"So who was she interested in?"

"Who do you think?"

"Fuck. Rebel. Has to be."

"Give that girl a cigar."

They finished the bottle in silence. Min went home after they parted ways, dodging through the streets that were still being cleared of rubble by deck crews, even at four in the morning. She couldn't sleep, her head filled with rational denials. By seven the next morning she was out of them and convinced Tucker was right.

"Captain, we have an unidentified craft approaching," the sensor tech called.

"What kind of craft?"

"Fighter by the looks of its profile."

"Any communication?"

"No sir,"

"Scramble the ready alert,"

She saw them coming and tensed. Rebel had no way of communicating. Her radio was out and her blinker broken, even the running lights wouldn't come on. Worse than any of that, she had a live torpedo that she couldn't disarm. She eased the throttle back to dead idle, killed the engines again and waited as the four fighters surrounded her.

They were Ghostdogs. Interceptors and probably would let her have it for the least provocation. She sat and waited while they buzzed her ship. She hoped the leader would be one of the less brain dead ones, but that hope faded as time passed and the cold began to creep back into the cockpit. She desperately wanted to reengage the engines, but she had been through to much to risk being killed by an overzealous reprobate.

Goose was sitting in the Boss's office when the red bridge phone rang. Tucker was off filling out a fake sickbay report while Goose covered the office. Erica was still sleeping it off in her quarters, but they had taken all her clothes to make sure she stayed there and didn't ruin the deception. The big sergeant had been grateful for her help, even though he hadn't said so.

"Flight Ops," she said, after hesitantly lifting the receiver.

"I need the Boss," the voice demanded.

"She's sick, I'm acting. What's up?"

"Got an inbound. Ready alert says there is no communication and it looks like one of yours."

"I'll check it out," Goose said before hanging up.

She pondered a moment and then went to the flight line, shedding her uniform in the locker she hastily squeezed into her flight suit and went to the ready alert cat.

"Out!" she shouted to the pilot, a thin girl named Victoria, but called Vic the Knife by everyone because of her sharp tongue.

Goose climbed up on the wing and helped the girl out before jumping in and attaching her hoses. She then put on her helmet and pulled the canopy down. Goose hit the launch button and was soon in space.

"This is bridge to unidentified craft," her radio squaked.

"IFF you dumbass," she called.

"Oh. Sorry…"

A few seconds later another voice came on.

"Sorry ma'am, we're trying to train some civilians to take the place of bridge casualties."