Aki - The Arsonists
#1 of The Icaran Chronicles
Rejldr woke to the morning chorus; the chattering of rotary cannons, the snap-crack of laser fire, and the booming, bass-line detonations of missile fire. The skies above the inhospitable mining world were scarred by contrails and the soot-black clouds left in the wake of aircraft detonations. Higher still, in the voidspace of low, mid and high orbit were a plethora of drifting hulks; the remnants of orbital platforms, fleet ships and fighter squadrons destroyed in the conflict that no-one had yet found time to salvage. Mjol rolled from his cot and doubled up on the floor until the coughing fit went away. It was a damn painful way to wake up, but a few popped pills washed down with cheap spirit would get him through the day. A shaking hand grasped the neck of an empty bottle, but that was fine because the pill packet had come up empty too. The old Kyyreni, stuck on the wrong side of forty, cursed his luck and cursed the Gods as he shambled around the room looking for pants that, it turned out, he was already wearing. He stepped out into a fine morning drizzle and took a look at the skyline in time to spot a trio of Oraahnaj Siege Fighters, bedecked in black and brass, risk a low-altitude fly-by. It was likely some PR stunt; a sad attempt to convince the people of Rejldr that the Grand Imperial State still held control over their world. That "control" had supposedly been won about three months back and barely lasted two. Once upon a time, the town had been a mining settlement. Now it was a mercenary port. Every bar, pub and club in the city was a recruiting ground for the Raider companies, fighter squadrons and the myriad of support groups that gathered in their wake. Under corrugated lean-tos or under canvas awnings attack squadrons tended to their craft, with the Icaran built Minotaurs proving the most popular by a good margin. He strolled past a Kyyreni built gunship adorned in the rich blue hues and Tzajiian heraldry and turned into a pre-fab building, identical to its neighbours in every detail save for the sign on the door. "Mornin'", he huffed at the young man behind the desk as he entered. "Where's Fel? I need some more painkillers." Before the man could answer, his employer spoke for him. "If you want pills you can come back tomorrow; I've got a dozen burns and bullet holes to tend to first." "But I need my pills!" Mjol insisted. The doctor shrugged her shoulders, her face unreadable behind the traditional skull mask she wore. "You will live without them. Not all of these men will last the night. Come back tomorrow and I'll write you a chit for the quartermaster's yard. And no, before you ask, I will not give you any from my reserve stock. Honestly, Mjol, I'm not even convinced your pain is real." The old man answered with a well-timed cough. "You'd know it's real if you felt what I feel!" He stepped back out into the half-arsed weather and considered his options. It didn't take long, and the results were damn depressing. A miraculous gap in the clouds gave him a look at the sun and told him it was far too early for the bars to open, so he resigned himself to going home sober. By happy chance, something happened that had not happened in nearly four years; he found himself stood at his doorstep with a young woman waiting for him. "I can't help but notice you have a bailout on your porch," the woman said playfully. She needn't have spoken to point out the existence of the spent ejector seat, seeing as she was sat in it. "Was it yours, or did you steal it?" "It was mine," Mjol answered. "The ship wasn't, but I was flying it at the time." He took a moment to examine the woman. She was no more than twenty by his estimate and dressed head to toe in an ash grey flight suit, sans the helmet, webbing and support gear worn in actual flight. Her fur was likewise grey, save for a curious brown diamond patch that enveloped her muzzle. Her attire was devoid of any rank insignia or iconography that would mark her out as part of a squadron, which tipped Mjol off straight away that she was a mercenary. She rose from her seat, having clearly been giving him a similar look over. "Let's skip to the point, shall we? I've got my hands on quite a few machines, but I'm running short on pilots. I've been told you had real talent once upon a time; think you can still trade fire with the young blood?" "I've not flown in five years," Mjol answered. "And it shows. Look, if you like living in this shit hole that your business. I'm just after pilots and heard you need the coin. Yes or no?" The entire proposition sounded like a joke. He was crippled by age and injury, dependent on drugs and booze to get him through the day, and so far past his prime he couldn't remember when his prime had been... and here was a woman with a pilot seat going vacant who wanted him to fill it. Everything about it screamed of being a con or a suicide mission, and Mjol had nothing worth stealing. "To the Gate with it... I'm in." "Good to hear!" the woman replied, offering her hand for him to shake. "We've taken over the back room of the Burn Pit. Ask for 'Aki'... and welcome to the Arsonists."
Space was the ultimate expression of freedom. Eternity stretched out in every direction, hidden either by the bulk of Rejldr, or the thin ring of space debris left in the wake of countless battles. An old thrill, long forgotten but instantly familiar upon its return began to surge through Mjol as his innards lurched under deceleration forces and the uncanny sense of weightlessness gripped him. It was an urge to pick a direction at random and fired up the engines as hard as he could, for as long as he could. It was this itch that had taken him up into the stars so many years ago. He was in good company; every last one of the Arsonists indulged the same fantasy for a moment before turning their minds to the task at hand. The Darkstorm fighter began to roll; a lethargic manoeuvre that gradually placed the planet dorsal of the vessel. The other ships, Icaran built Manticores, were spread out ahead of him in various orientations, giving little concern for true combat order. In their midst, docked to the side of a laser-burned starship, were a trio of shuttles refitted for salvage operations. From the rear of the Darkstorm Garald, the team's only Human, announced the approach of some fresh faces. "The Skulltakers are up. Think they're on our side?" "Should be," Mjol answered. "I don't think there's a single squadron left on-planet that's willing to fly for the Empire." He turned in his seat to watch the new contacts as they passed close enough to be seen with the naked eye. Their Minotaurs were painted ivory white, contrasting sharply with the purple and flame colours of the Arsonists. The squadron leader dipped his wing in salute as he passed. "Good hunting, Aki!" he called over the comm. "May you burn forever!" "May your kills be glorious!" Aki answered.
An hour ticked by. The remnants of the Skulltakers began their return flight, passing slowly into the scrap belt as the sun began to creep out from behind the planet. The salvage teams were almost done now, not wanting to stay out too long for fear of attracting official attention. It was then that the signals began to come in. First was a Tzajiian pilot, a freelancer who'd lucked in on the Skulltaker's mission. He called for help, briefly, and then went silent. A pair of pilots out of Tavaraat were the next to begin squawking, screaming of a massive squadron of heavy voidfighters closing fast. They too fell silent. "I think we have a Black Flag inbound," the Skulltaker leader commented on an open channel. "Arsonists, do you have our backs?" In her cockpit, Aki allowed herself a playful grin. "Oh very much so!" she laughed. "Someone call down planetside and warn them the Empire's playing dirty!" "Already have," Rook replied. "Getting preliminary returns from the spy-buoy; I count three dozen fighters plus four heavy bombers. If they get planetside they will make one hell of a mess." "Then they don't get planetside," Aki replied firmly. "Arsonists, fall in and form up tight! Rook on point, Mjol on tail, rest of you shell up on me. Let's burn!"
* * *
Mjol had forgotten how terrifying the waiting was. It took twenty six minutes for the Black Flag squadron to make it to weapons range, by which time the ad-hoc defence flotilla had been reinforced with pilots from half a dozen operators. He saw Ny'ee ships jostling for position with Chaldakri heavies, each looking for the optimal ambush point. He saw the proud colours of Urokoni city-states, nations he had never seen yet whose reach influenced even the remotest of colonies. He saw the independents; lone wolves whose ships wore crude, almost tribal colours. Then he saw the Black Flags. And they were black; ink black ships visible only by the barely-visible flaring of their engines, or the holes they left in the world when an object passed behind them. Their camouflage didn't full the ship's systems though; the HUD painted them in a harsh yellow overlay to sharply contrast the emerald green of friendlies. Then he forgot the fear of waiting, because the fear of the clash caught up with him. A storm of missiles, torpedoes and self-guiding bombs smashed into the debris field, obliterating live and dead ships alike. The Skulltakers fired up their engines and pushed, with the Arsonists not far behind. He fired up his engines as a warhead cratered the derelict hauler he'd hidden behind; a hauler that the scavengers had vacated just five minutes ago. He found Aki and fell in on her tail as the squadron aimed itself at the enemy. Then they hit. It was over in three seconds, but they were the longest three seconds of any pilot's life. There was an explosion close ahead as someone caught a missile and was blown to kingdom come. Before that fireball had faded a Rus Clan interceptor took a heavy calibre bolt to its port main engine and was transformed into a high speed debris cloud. The ship behind her, an older model vessel lacking in any form of shielding, ran headlong into the shrapnel and hit hard enough to crack the canopy. Panicked, the pilot wasn't paying attention to the incoming enemies and was evaporated by laser fire whilst trying to eject. It was impossible to know who killed those pilots, or any of the others who died in the clash. Afterwards, Rook calmly asserted that he'd made a clean kill and damaged a second, with Aki being the probable cause of at least one more fatality. Mjol recalled holding down the trigger and lighting up on a ship as it came under him, but even with the nose and tail cameras it was hard to say if he'd died.
Three seconds passed, and Mjol remembered how to breathe. He was still with the team, still alive and still airborne. The deflector shield was gone, blown out by a kinetic penetrator round. A few more had buried themselves in the front armour, but the auto-diagnostic reported no loss of performance on any front. "Good old Darkstorms," he sighed. There wasn't any time to pat each other on the back. The Aronists broke off into two groups and turned to find their targets. Rook led half back round to duel with the fighters, whilst Aki's priority was the bombers. Mjol followed her; his old ship was too big and heavy to dogfight worth a damn. "Still with me, Mjol?" Aki enquired as they rounded a derelict frigate and began their attack run. "I am," Mjol confirmed. "Vjal isn't," Garald added. "Poor bastard got spiked, and I don't see Elket either." "Shit happens," was Aki's response. "Let's make sure it doesn't happen to us. Throttle up and go in hard!"
And they did. They pushed the engines to their limits and tucked in tight to the frigate, coming so close that their wingtips kicked up clouds of frozen gas off its surface. The bombers had escorts - Darkstorms like Mjol's bird of choice. Tail-gunners opened up on them as soon as they rounded the wreck, but the Arsonists were reacting before the first shots were fired. Aki fired her port jets and viffed to the right, whilst Mjol hopped his ship dorsal-ward and let the cannons roar. His prey stood no chance; Darkstorms were bomber killers, and their armour couldn't withstand their own main guns. The Black Flag ruptured, yellow-white explosions rippling along its belly and spine as hyper-sonic rounds punched their way inside and detonated. Her own internal ordnance began to cook off as the tracers worked up across her mid-section, and in the blink of an eye the proud, powerful warship was nothing more than a neon-green afterglow burned onto Mjol's retinas. Out to starboard, Aki made the first bomber kill. Her Minotaur was outfitted with a self-guided torpedo on the belly mount, and its nuclear-grade payload was frankly overkill. She liked overkill. He was half a mile away from her victim, yet he saw the debris rebound off the nose cone of his fighter. He barrelled round onto the next Darkstorm, all the while watchful of the bombers and their twin-barrel beam cannons mounted on dorsal and keel turret mounts. An Arsonist, maybe Cyylh, crippled bomber #2 with a flurry of rockets because falling foul of one of those turrets. Three pieces of glowing metal floated away in different directions, cut into near-perfect thirds. Garald began to shout into Mjol's ear, but he wasn't listening. His eyes were locked on the Darkstorm below him, which was soon above him as he rolled to optimise the attack. In void, up and down theoretically had no meaning, but that was a rookie mistake. Canopies gave far better vision above, and most ships had an uneven thrust distribution that made pulling up easier than diving. The trick was to find the optimal flight path, the route that brought your target clean across your sights and gave you a quick, safe exit. He rolled again, letting his victim disappear for a split-second beneath his nose cone, and opened fire as it re-emerged. His cannons punctured the arterial power lines behind the cockpit, causing a backfire that blew the entire front end clean off. He powered through the debris aimed for a bomber. Only then did he finally hear Garald's words. Two Sabres - Oraahnaj built fighters - had joined in the fight to defend the bomber squadron. "Keep them busy a minute!" Mjol snapped as shots began to fly through his field of vision. "I'm lining up a kill here!" The bomber passed before his sights just briefly before exploding. Aki, starboard wing holed to hell and being chased by a third Sabre, had somehow managed to detonate the thing with a short-range missile. A fuselage bolt impaled itself into the canopy, burrowing through but stopping at the over-sized bolt head. It was more than enough to make Mjol lose control of his sphincter. Reality snapped back quickly and he powered left and down, rolling into the final bomber. Behind him, Garald was doing everything he could to shake their chasers. Sabres were fast and agile, and though their firepower was light compared to most dedicated void fighters they could still do a lot of damage. He caught a lucky hit on one, but nothing came of it save a brief shower of sparks from the hull. The tail gunner's second hit was more satisfying; a cockpit blowout. The enemy pilot was jolted from his seat as the restraints snapped and pin wheeled away from his ship, clawing desperately at nothing until he was lost from sight. Rook, out of nowhere, killed the next one. The entire Arsonist squadron was now in the fight for the bombers, backed up by most of the independents. Mjol eased up just enough to let the smaller, faster ships take point, then throttled up to follow them in for the kill. There were two enemy fighters left, but they ran for their lives when they saw what was coming. The order was given - "Missiles free!" - and the last bomber vanished in a storm of high explosive hell.
* * *
It was midday, more or less, and every bar in the town was full to bursting. Every pilot had a story to tell; of how many they killed, or of the one perfect kill, or just of how many times they came close to death. The Skulltakers had taken over most of the Burn Pit's main area, and it was their round. It had been their round for the past three, but nobody was complaining, least of all Aki and her crew. Mjol sat to one side and cradled his ale, listening with a smile on his face as a young pilot of fifteen recounted his exploits. "So I'm diving fast, right? Warning systems are screaming at me all the while 'coz the gun pod's been shot off. This bad-boy Hailstorm swings up from that gutted carrier, right? He's got me, got me fucking square, right? So I just dove right at him in a damn panic and fired a missile off, not even locking on! Next thing... BOOM! Fucker goes up! Blindfired missile right in the bastard's nose-cone!" "It's true," another pilot replied, raising his glass in toast. "I watched his flight record when we touched down. Single best damn shot I have ever seen a man make!" A roar of approval rose up, and was swiftly drowned in alcohol. Mjol drank up as well and placed the empty mug back on the counter. In under a minute Aki had refilled it for him. "Not bad for a first day," she said with a grin and offered him a packet of pills. "I hear you've been trying to get a prescription." Mjol shook his head. "I'm good." "Will you be good tomorrow?" She asked, still holding the pills out to him. "I... I will be. I'll take them just in case-", and he did, "-but I won't need them. I think I just needed to be back in the sky." Aki's laugh, like the sound of fire dancing over wood, briefly lit up Mjol's world. "I don't care what you get up to on your time, Mjol, as long as you're an ass-kicking son of a bitch on mine. Speaking of..."
There was a change in the air as the new visitors entered. Half a dozen Kyyreni pilots in mustard yellow flight suits were marched into the bar at gun point by Rook. They were all the worse for wear, having each been on the receiving end of a pretty thorough beating. Aki took centre stage, sauntering up to the group's leader and playfully stroking his chin. "Oh, you came! And here I was afraid you wouldn't get my invitation!" "What the hell do you want?" the man spat back in a distinctly Oraahnajian accent. "Payment," was Aki's blunt answer. "You boys were flying Black Flag, and we don't like Black Flags here. Do you know how hard it is to claim bounty on people who haven't officially taken a side? If you'd have flown under Imperial colours we would all be sitting pretty on a very nice bounty right now. Hell, we might even be buying you drinks and wishing you better luck next time. But no, you had to play dirty... well, we know all about how to play dirty, right guys?" And with that the captives were taken out back. Aki marched ahead of the mob, flicking her tail playfully back and forth and passing flirtatious glances toward her prisoners. They came out into a fenced off courtyard that acted as a beer garden, though today it had been cleared of all furnishings save a large pile of scrap timber and several fuel canisters. Aki selected one and opened the cap. "I think we should start youngest to oldest, yes? Captain last, obviously; we want to make sure he gets the message." The 'youngest' Black Flag was dragged forward by Rook and thrown down into the middle of the courtyard. He tried to stand, but a point-blank bullet through the back of each knee-cap put an end to that ambition. He screamed, naturally, but his screams doubled when Aki began to douse him in fuel. "Fireflies, fireflies, burning in the sky! Little stars that came to earth, how I wonder why!" she cheerily sang the old nursery rhyme as she finished her grim task and, with great ceremony, drew out a cheap wooden match from her pocket. "You bitch!" the Black Flag captain roared. "You sick little whore! You'll pay for this! I swear to the gods you will pay!" Aki simply laughed at him. His gaze met hers, and he saw the inferno within; an urge for carnage and destruction that chilled even his soul. She looked away down to the young pilot at her feet, begging for his life. "May you burn forever!" she laughed, and threw the match into the fuel.