Nothing Else Matters. (X3)

[BlackValkyire]

Genre: Action
Length: Short story








Nothing Else Matters







Everyone has good days and bad days, but for Mic Razor, it was somewhere in between. The kind of day where everything seemed fine, but you were never quite sure what was really happening, there was that feeling at the back of your head, depressing you, making everything seem just so off. Not that it mattered, he was still here, in the cockpit of his Nova, bored out of his mind. Patrol, on the frontier at least, was supposedly exhilarating. Here, in Home of Light, it was as boring as boring could get. Nothing happened, mainly because of the number of fighter patrols backed up by capital ships. Even if a full scale invasion force jumped in from nowhere, reinforcements were all around. Still, he was a fighter pilot, and he had a job to do. Mic moved the stick slightly, and depressed his starboard yaw pedal. Tiny jets on the hull of his fighter burst to life and the Vanguard class Nova arced gracefully through the eternal night of space, towards the south gate. Oddly, the feeling of emptiness in the back of Mic’s head grew worse, and a mild throbbing headache threatened his concentration. Not that it mattered.

Of course, the thought of ‘it doesn’t matter’ was something that anyone on the frontier would regret, and the frontier was where Mic wanted to be, out with the colonists, wondering every day if it was going to be the last. Black Hole Sun, that was where he wanted to be. Not that it mattered. This was just another lonely patrol in a core Argon system. A civilian ship was passing into his scanning range, so as a matter of habit, Mic activated the freight scanner. To his complete and utter dismay, everything was normal. Just as his head turned back to his HUD, something blipped. He immediately yanked his vision back to the scanner read-out. It displayed an analysis of some kind of high-output communications device, and next to it was a large bracket marked ‘ILLEGAL’. Mic sighed. He spoke openly into his headset so that the built in transmitters would detect his voice. “Attention Omega patrol, this is Omega lead. We have illegal goods on nearest civilian vessel, am sending target data now. Form up on me.”

The Nova arced clearly through space again, and moved into an intercept course. “Attention Civilian ship, this is Argon security vessel 497, we have detected illegal goods onboard your vessel. Jettison these goods or you will be fired upon.” he said bluntly. His interest peaked when there was no response, and then interest turned to alarm when he saw a massive power spike from the vessel, his cargo scan readout indicated that a massive 150 energy cells had just been consumed. Before he could react, the vessel exploded before his eyes. Instinct took over at such close a range, and he yanked hard on the stick. The Nova heaved and abruptly went into a heavy climb, or dive, depending on your spatial orientation. “What the hell was that!?” Omega two blurted over the com. “Unsure. Alert status to yellow, power all weapon systems. I’ve got a sinking feeling about this.” Mic replied. The headache was suddenly pounding, but Mic ignored it as fresh adrenaline slammed through his veins. His eyes darted between his scanner and the cockpit. Something was definitely wrong about the whole thing. It was unlikely that the ship had done anything but self destruct, and straight after using the transmitter. Troubling.

Not that it mattered, or so he thought when twenty minutes later, sector activity was nothing but normal. There were all sorts of space-happy whack-o’s in space, so it COULD be explained away, but the headache was still pounding and getting worse, and Mic felt so low that his were watering. What the hell was going on? It all became clear moments later. As they entered the sub-decameter range of the south gate on the patrol, his headache abruptly vanished, and the sinking feeling in his chest dissipated. Mic almost smiled, until an alarm he wasn’t really familiar with. However, instincts from combat training surged forward, and his hands lashed out for the throttle. He slammed it home and pressed a key on his targeting computer. A haunting female voice came to him: “Kha’ak, Destroyer.”
Mic’s eyes bulged as he whipped the Nova around into a visual angle. And to his disbelief, there it was. A hellish take on a warship, it was covered in dark armor plating and eery purple lighting. Not that it mattered. Three more had appeared, and fighters were everywhere. Mic began evasive maneuvers, and began speaking into his com, but not that it mattered as a heavy beam from the destroyer smashed into Omega three’s shields, followed up by three more. In a heartbeat, meager armor of an M4 buster was melted into slag, and the fighter was completely vaporized.

“All units, break and engage, condition red, evasive action! Get out of range and then engage those fighters, go!” he shouted down his com, slapping his rear turret to active while simultaneously looping the Nova to flee from the deadly fire of the destroyer. Kyon beams rained around him as he strafed his fighter in all manner of different maneuvers, recklessly modifying and combining his most practiced maneuvers as his Nova tried desperately to evade. The computer chimed up again: “Kha’ak, fighter.” as a new ship closed with him. Its speed was slightly higher than his, but it was flying straight, while he was doing loops. The distance quickly began to disappear, and as Mic dodged beams of glowing death, his rear turret began spitting an answer to the fighter’s challenge. A high energy plasma thrower spewed bolts of angry green energy at the closing M3, which opened fire at the same time. Mic moved into a power dive, and flicked com channels. “Attention all Argon vessels, this is Omega patrol in Home of Light, have contact with Kha’ak fleet, including three M2’s, an M1, and high amounts of fighter clusters, requesting immediate backup!” he shouted as his critical shield alarm began to scream at him. In the distance, several kilometers away, several Titan-class ships began to reorient, and his HUD indicated that several full flights of fighters were inbound. But they were going to be a few minutes.

He rolled hard to the right, just barely evading a blast from the M3 on his tail. His eyes flicked to the window containing his current agressor, the M3 tailing him. Its shields were also rather low, thanks to his turret, but it was still on HIS tail and doing most of the shooting. Mic thrashed the stick and yaw pedals, the fighter’s hull groaning as he executed a maximum gee turn, then throwing his thrusters into full reverse for two seconds. The heavy breaking combined with his massive turn ended him up flanking the fighter, not quite where he wanted to be. His left hand smashed the throttle to its physical limit, and his engines burned hard as he accelerated, strafing to port. The fighter juked slightly at his move, and tried to evade, but to no avail, Mic ended up with a perfect firing position. His finger squeezed the firing stud, and he watched as a bolts of laser energy stabbed outward. The heavy barrage burnt out his target’s shields quickly, his particle accelerator cannons and plasma throwers continually spitting high-energy death. Doubtless, the destroyers would be moving into firing range rather quickly thanks to his maneuvering, and the course that had the fighter fleeing for a nearby M2. Beams of suppressing fire began to rain down on him, but he held his course steady. The enemy fire was intensifying rapidly, but none of it mattered. His weapons finally lined up and began to melt hull armor into slag, burning circuitry, vaporizing components, and ultimately piercing the reactor.

Ahead of him, the fighter exploded into a giant fire ball. Not that it mattered. His shields were at 25% strength and he was two klicks away from an Kha’ak destroyer. Not that that mattered either. He had a mission as a soldier and combat patrol pilot. He kept his trigger down as he entered firing range, bobbing and weaving and rolling, desperately trying to dodge bolts of enemy fire, which were now coming from his rear from a group of interceptors and scouts. Kyon beams raked across his shields as his all out fusillade slammed home into the destroyer’s shields. Not that it mattered. His shields failed. His energy was depleted, but he held his course steady, hanging onto for that last moment. Kyon beams pierced his hull and ruptured his coolant system. Mic knew that it didn’t matter, nothing mattered. In a heartbeat, he mashed his firing stud with his thumb, and watched, with a smile, as a volley of firestorm torpedoes launched from his Nova. The range was less than a kilometer, and his hull was critical. Not that it mattered. Mic reached for the eject button, and just as his fighter was ripped apart by a shining beam of horror, he looked up from his suit, saw the…

[SOTS]

Saw the what? Ack! Why did you stop it there?!

Also, excellent work

Only noticed one mistake in the whole thing:

and Mic felt so low that his were watering

perhaps should be

and Mic felt so low that his eyes were watering?

But other than that teeny tiny thing, nicely done!

[BlackValkyire]

Thanks for the kind words, glad you enjoyed it! Yeah, it was type-o, im a bit dozy like that. I was just making a short story to see if I could get the style of it right, so if I get some more positive feedback, I might try some more writing.

[SOTS]

You have my wholehearted encouragement, then, as far as writing more goes. I'm looking forward to seeing more!

As far as experiment goes, a fairly spot on first attempt.