Incident at AB-334/Chapter I

''“Missile lock detected. Pull up.”''

''Zymon Anvar, pilot of the 15th DarkBird wing of the Third Necasian Fleet, felt the g-forces straining on him as he pulled upwards at several thousand miles an hour with the missiles of several enemy fighters locked onto him. Around him, other fighters spat off countermeasures and pulled off evasive manoeuvres to avoid the enemy volleys. With his flare supply expended, and his ECM suite inoperable, he had no option but hit the afterburners and pray.''

''“Rainbow Beta! Spit countermeasures and head back to the Venium!” Squadron leader Telus Rike came in priority over the comms channel.''

''“Negative, Frontguard.” Said Zymon through gritted teeth as sweat broke on his brow and warning lights lit up. “Countermeasures inoperable. Accelerating to mothership...”''

''He glanced at the tactical readouts on the heads-up display on the dashboard in front of him. The missile was just a few kilometers way and getting closer, as he skimmed the atmosphere towards the Elthior assault ship hanging in low orbit a few hundred miles ahead. Flak bursts and flashes lit up all over the combat zone, covering thousands of square miles of planetary atmosphere, as enemy fighters and missile volleys went at it like flies.''

“Missile impact in approximately eleven seconds.” His flight computer told him.

“Update: ten.”

“Damn it!” he spat, as his vision blurred.

''“Beta! Yukkie on your starboard!” He swivelled his neck to look out of the fighter canopy—an enemy Yukel fighter, almost close enough for him to see the visor of the pilot, heading straight for him. His mouth opened as the Gatling weapons on the wings of the enemy craft began to spin up.''

“Missile impact in three seconds.”

He closed his eyes, and braced himself.



“Hey! Wake up!”

Zymon sat up, taking in the smell of unwashed seats, rust, and power lines, and rubbed his eyes. After travelling through hyperspace for days, he had found napping to be the best way to kill time. The only person in the dark troop bay of the Ikarus-class transport shuttle he was in, he looked down towards the cockpit.

“We there?”

“You bet. Care to take a look at the highlight of your career, flyboy?”

Walking groggily to the cockpit, Zymon bent down as he passed through the low doorway and found himself faced with rows of controls, LCD readouts, and wall pinups, with the pilot casually munching on bubblegum. Through the windscreen, he found himself looking at a scatter of asteroids seemingly extending infinitely in all directions, with the glow of the system’s sun superimposed behind them. System AB-334—so obscure they didn’t even bother to give it a name. Light-years away from any battlefront, and of interest only to the insane or terminally small-minded. Charming place, he thought.

“Kiss goodbye to any dreams of killin’ Sravvies or DTM boys alongside guys like Curl, pal.” Grinned the pilot as they snaked through the asteroids, with several missile batteries placed on some of them swivelling in their direction. He could now make up ahead a larger asteroid dotted with weapons clusters, buildings, hangar entrances and docking ports, with a long, rectangular structure looking attached to one side. Docked to said structure was a streamlined, vaguely spoon-shaped Elthior-class ship, with much of its hull removed and looking almost as if it was to be decommissioned. Hanging in space in front of the asteroid was a Hound-class patrol ship, a conveyance barely a hundred meters long and armed with a few missile launchers.

“Guard Dog to Postal, welcome to AB-334 defence post.” A north Havez drawl came from the comm. Speakers. “Dock at port 12 and await reception there.”

Complying, the Ikarus approached the station and slowly moved into position over the appropriate docking port. Zymon sat up at the sound of scraping metal as connection was made and the engines finally died down.

“Well, kid, time to face the music. Let’s hope whatever bums live here are nice to you.” Said the pilot, adjusting his comms headset, as the airlock door opened.

Nervously, Zymon passed through and into a rock-lined corridor lit up with cheap, flickering bulbs and held up with metal beams. The floor was also little more than rock covered by metal plates haphazardly wielded together. Waiting for him was a man in battered combat trousers, a white vest, and dog tags, looking very bored. “You the new kid?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

“Uh, yeah. My name’s Zymon Anvar, 15th DarkBird wing, Third Fleet. I’m here...”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Save it for the commander, I don’t give a shavit. Follow me.”

They set off down the corridor, occasionally passing people in engineer or pilot overalls, who at best stole them a glance.

“What’s your name?” asked Zymon as the man lit up a torch as they entered a stretch of corridor that was even more badly lit.

“Mentez. Julius Mentez.” He grunted, as he finally stopped at two doors and pressed a button to have them open, stepping into a lift. As much as a metal cage on a pulley in a cold rock shaft could be called a lift, thought Zymon as Julius manipulated a control panel and stood as it juddered upwards.

“Newbie lesson one: if you start to feel sick here, don’t be alarmed. Art-grav can be a bit screwy in this area.” He said as Zymon suddenly threw up over the side. The lift jerked to a halt and they stepped through into a larger room, better lit than the corridor but still relatively dim, with jazzy music playing faintly in the background. One part of it was taken up by a bar, selling mostly unlabelled bottles, with various individuals sitting around circular tables nearby. A Necasian flag hung on one wall, tattered and faded, and beside it a portrait of Askar Invado, leader of the Necasian Military itself and chief of its crusade to rid the galaxy of violent deluded upstarts like the Srav Federation and Death’s Tongue Militia, as the infofeeds put it, covered in dart holes and with a twirly mustache drawn onto his face.

“Welcome to the Longue.” Said Julius stiffly. “Everyone, we got fresh meat!”

All eyes turned in his direction. Zymon waved his hand in gretting. “Er, hi.” A long-haired man, much like everyone else, also dressed in trousers and a vest, got up and walked towards him. Unshaven, fifty-something, and with a limp, and the back of his neck covered in tattoos. To Zymon’s surprise, he smiled and reached out a hand.

“Hey, kid. Welcome to334. I’m commander Claud Bownam. You’re Zymon, from the third fleet?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Meet the crew.” He gestured at Julius. “I take it you’ve met our deputy squadron commander.”

He gestured at the table from where he had come from, with the fairly nondescript, badly shaven typical asteroid boys seated around it. “Tyi Nemon, chief engineer. Ben Kominae, gunnery ops. Michie Lombardi, squadron leader. Virgil Danikeen, pilot and resident tough guy. And that...” He gestured at a man partly covered in shadow in the corner, wearing part of a Marine armor set, “...is Gene Sorel, Marine security chief.”

“Is this the new kid?” A dark-skinned woman had entered, carrying a battered datapad.

“What’s a woman doing here?” Zymon found himself saying out loud.

She chuckled. “My name’s Anada Yalia. Technically, I’m a civilian. A psychological advisor. The local therapist, if you will. It’s my job to stop everyone from going mad on this rock.”

“So kid, why not sit down and have some beer? Chat about why you’re here?” said Michie, indicating a free seat.

“So...what do you guys do around here?” asked Zymon as he sat down.

“Well, to be frank, this system’s of barely any interest to anyone beyond raiders and pirates looking for someplace to hide.” Said Danikeen, taking a sip of beer. “That’s why they filled this place with washouts and poldroc failures like us. Sometimes we get a few Srav or Death’s Tongue scout ships looking for something to do, but that’s usually for the missile batteries to take care of. So, we just usually chill, and be thankful we’re not on the front fighting bloodthirsty Sravvies or crazy Death’s Tonguers.”

“Chill out?” uttered Zymon.

“Oh yeah. We sometimes hang out in the movie room, laugh at the crappy ‘morale incitement’ videos they ship along with the supply batches. When they remember to ship the supply batches, that is.” Chimed in Tyi. “Plus, Anada’s sometimes provides some...’morale support’ of her own, if you get my drift.”

Anada blushed as the men around the table chuckled.

“Oh, and there’s Gando, first name Max. He’s a hammy SpecOps washout with a serious stick up his rear end. Here’s hoping...”

“Attention on deck!” A dark-skinned man in a SpecOps armor vest and hat burst in briskly. Zymon knew about the SpecOps legions—best soldiers in the galaxy, invincible in battle, yadda yadda. What one was doing here was anyone’s guest. “Stand up, you little pieces of Mynock waste!” he shouted. Lazily, everyone stumbled out of their chairs and stood up. “I’ve been sent down to this little rock to bring some discipline to you space bums, to remind you what you’re fighting for—hell, to remind that there’s still a war on—and you’re just frakkin’ around drinking beer! When I could be out there fighting, I’m stuck out here trying to get you little kriffs to recite the anthem! In fact, let’s do that now! One, two, three!”

A high-pitched wail came from one of the tables, screeching to the tune of the Necasian anthem, and was met with roaring laughter.

“Do we have a eunuch in this bordello now? Sing, damn you, sing!” Gando groaned in defeat as he was met with more laughter, with the others sitting down and resumed chatting and drinking beer. Looking deflated, he sat down at the bar and ordered something.

“He says he’s been sent to ‘keep discipline’.” Said Ben cheerily. “Kinda frustrated by the fact that as this is technically a fleet joint and he’s army, he’s outranked by most of us. Spends most of the time being corny as hell, yellin’, trying to make us sing the anthem, and generally being a pain in the backside. Typical Specboy, then.”

Zymon looked over his shoulder. Gendo was now at the bar, looking like he was sobbing.

“So...none of you guys take this seriously?” he asked.

“What’s to take seriously?” asked Michie. “We’re the rejects. No hopes, no prospects. There’s nothing worthwhile in this system beyond rocks and comets. No chance of getting off here until leave, retirement, or until someone wins the war. Half the time command barely remembers this place exists. I don’t know if the Sravvies or Death’s Tonguers know we’re here, and if they do I’m pretty sure they don’t give a kriff.” He downed what remained of his beer.

“Now, whaddya want to drink?”