Incursion Vector

039

A swirling oblong pool of distorted light expanded out from nowhere and the bulky gunmetal frame of the Alkonst-class Frank Herbert pulled itself out of its event horizon. A few seconds after the entire ship emerged and the bridge collapsed in on itself an unfamiliar and slightly disappointed-sounding voice said over comex, "Late to the party, are we?"

"Herbert Control this is Heinlein Control, enemy took its fighters and ran about five minutes ago," replied the new communications officer Armstrong. "We have the wreckage of one Stingray-class vessel still in-sphere if you want to do some additional recon."

"Clear read, Heinlein Control. Launching Athenas in zero one mikes."

From where he sat at nearly the apex of the battlesphere Vic sounded utterly confused as he said on Methuselah's channel, "What's Herbert doing here? Isn't it kind of... I dunno, illegal to be taking a UF purposefully into a live engagement sphere?"

"Not illegal, technically," clarified Karda. "University Frigates are still warships, says so in the waiver we all got to sign when we boarded. But the Headmaster Captain is really going to piss some people off with this."

"Mmhmm," agreed Damien. "Something tells me Headmaster Captain Rungran really isn't going to give a shit though."

"Headmaster Captain Rungran is definitely not going to give a shit," said Calli, the only one among them who had actually met the retired Rear Admiral. "Heinlein Wing we've orders to beach for debrief. Apparently we're getting a new objective. Herbert Wing is taking over patrols."

"Hopefully it's 'chase the bastards down and nuke them in their dank little corner of space'," grunted Shanks, marking the first time the man had said anything to anyone other than doling out orders to his own flight and reporting their status back to control. "Errant's going to head in first. Sidewinder's missing a wing and Magog ate his weight in shrapnel."

"Go ahead, Shanks."

"Half my weight, thanks," interjected Justin Raoul, one of Errant's Abrams pilots. "Drinks on Hotfoot for being this week's dumb shit on deck."

Their Hayha pilot Colt Preizal sounded none too thrilled with his new designation. "Fuck you, asshole. It's what you're there for."

"You could just learn to dodge, dipshit. Give the deck crew a break from having to re-mod my fighter after every engagement."

The bickering pair must have taken their argument in to Errant's isolated channel because that was the last Keiji heard from either of them as their fighters made their way back to the Heinlein. Considering the chaos from earlier with the whole of Battle Group Bahamut jumping into their sphere with guns blazing and toting along the Hashemites from Virgil Station, he felt like he could have landed his fighter while sleeping. The adrenaline crash was kicking in hard and he realized that none of his flight had gotten a decent amount of sleep in almost three days.

Likely the only reason he was still awake and functional was because he was sitting in his exosuit. As soon as he crawled out of his fighter and stripped down into his jumpsuit he had a feeling he would fall face-first onto the deck dead asleep.

He lined up his deck landing by muscle memory, waited until he got the OK signal from the deck crew, then slid down the ladder out of his fighter, noting the dozens of new pits and cracks he had gained in the shrapnel burst let off by the Stingray. No doubt he would be getting an acerbic PM attached to his after-action report by the deck boss for scratching the paint again. Everyone knew by now that Lieutenant Jackson was a nitpicking asshole just because he could be, not because he cared how badly their fighters came back damaged. So long as the pilots climbed out of their marauders under their own power and he was stocked with enough modules to replace the damage the report addendum was likely all he would hear from the man.