Anteevy, Esuain Sector, Mid Rim
Anteevy Airspace Searching for the Mark
The Interlude drops into the Anteevy system with a shudder, its bulk moving through space like a leviathan stirring from slumber. The freighter’s engines emit a low, steady hum, a sound Mirage feels more than hears as she sits in the co-pilot’s seat. Raul handles the controls, his hands sure and steady, his eyes scanning the endless black ahead. He’s quiet, his calm demeanor as much a fixture of the ship as its reinforced bulkheads.
The scanners chirp softly, and Mirage shifts her attention to the data feed. Five ships. Closing fast. A formation built for precision strikes, not random piracy. Something doesn’t sit right. Her fingers tighten on the armrest, her senses prickling. The Force whispers—subtle, almost teasing—and her eyes flick toward Raul.
He’s already adjusting their course, a fractional movement, as if he’s sensed the same thing. Mirage raises an eyebrow but says nothing. She unscrews the cap of her flask, the smell of her homemade liquor sharp and familiar. A sip grounds her, loosens the edges of her thoughts, and lets the Force flow freely. She sets the flask down with a soft clink and studies the tactical display.
“Five of them,” Raul murmurs. “One’s heavier. Bomber, most likely.”
The comm crackles as Fargo’s voice cuts in from the dorsal turret. “They look soft. Let’s swat ‘em out of the sky.”
“Clear comms, Fargo,” Mirage says sharply, her voice calm but cutting. She doesn’t need chatter muddying the tension.
Graves’ turret whirs faintly over the ship’s intercom as he locks onto targets.
The fighters break formation, the bomber lingering behind as the others fan out. Mirage’s gaze narrows as she studies their movements. They’re testing the Interlude, probing for weaknesses. She’s silent, watching, calculating. The fighters dart in, their lasers lighting up the void. The first volley slams into the freighter’s shields, the impact a muffled roar that vibrates through the ship.
“Shields holding,” Raul says, calm as ever.
The bomber lumbers forward, its shape hulking and ominous. It releases its payload—three ion torpedoes streaking toward the Interlude. Mirage inhales sharply, the Force rippling through her as it amplifies her awareness. Raul’s already moving, slowly twisting the ship’s bulk to take the hit on its starboard side. The torpedoes detonate in sequence, the flash briefly illuminating the cockpit. The shields flicker, then fail.
“Shields are down,” Raul reports, his tone steady but urgent.
"Three ion torps for us? Must be homemade. Underpowered for a bomber of that size," Mirage figures.
The fighters seize the opening, their lasers slamming into the hull. Each impact rings out like a hammer on steel, reverberating through the ship. Mirage remains still, her face lit red as the klaxon alarms blare. The armor holds, absorbing the punishment.
“Graves, Fargo, are you powered on yet?” she asks, her voice cold and clipped.
Graves’ turret roars to life in answer, its laser cannons tearing through space with surgical precision. His first shot connects with a fighter’s wing, shearing it clean off. The ship spirals uncontrollably, its pilot’s panicked screams cutting through the intercepted comms before it vanishes into Anteevy’s atmosphere. Fargo follows up, his turret peppering another fighter with bursts that cripple its engines. The ship has smoke trailing behind it.
“Got ‘em!” Fargo crows, his voice crackling over the comm.
“Clear comms,” Mirage snaps again, her tone accepting no argument.
The bomber lumbers closer, its bulky frame like a predator. Its quad engines glow faintly against the cold backdrop of space. It’s slow and unwieldy against a smaller target, but compared to the Interlude, it's quite nimble.
“Bomber’s making a move,” Raul says, his voice even, hands steady on the controls.
Mirage watches it carefully on the systems. The Interlude is too slow to keep any of these fighter in the front viewport for long.
“Hold steady,” she says softly.
The bomber fires its cannons, lasers rippling toward the Interlude. The first impacts along the ship’s dorsal armor with a sound like a thunderclap, but the freighter shrugs it off. The second shot glances heavy off the starboard plating, leaving a blackened scar and ripping off some of the durasteel plating, exposing some wiring underneath.
Raul’s voice cuts in, calm and cool. “They’re testing us.”
“Let them,” Mirage replies, her hand sliding to a covered black switch.
She thumbs the toggle, and the Interlude’s starboard utility mount hisses open to reveal the ion torpedo turret concealed within. The ship’s scanners hum, feeding her a wealth of targeting data. The bomber looms large on her display, moving in for its final attack run.
“Firing,” she announces.
An ion torpedo roars from the turret, a streak of blue energy against the blackness. Its trajectory is perfect. The bomber gets a final launch of missiles off before the torpedo strikes dead center and a crackling wave of electricity ripples across its hull. The bomber’s engines flicker and die, its shields collapsing in an instant. The ship drifts towards Anteevy, powerless and vulnerable.
The bomber’s comms come alive, intercepted through the Interlude’s scanners.
“It has torpedoes!”
“Mayday! We’re—”
The pilot’s voice cuts off as Graves opens fire. The dorsal turret erupts in a precise volley, bright streaks of laser fire punching through the bomber’s hull. The massive ship buckles under the onslaught, its frame breaking apart in a slow, fiery collapse.
Mirage watches the wreckage drift, her fingers relaxing on the controls. She doesn’t gloat. She doesn’t smile.
“Bomber’s down,” Raul reports, his voice still steady.
Mirage lowers the flask, her eyes fixed on the debris outside. “Good,” she says, her tone icy.
The remaining three fighters circle warily, their comms alive with fear.
“What the hell is that thing! Voss told us it was a freighter.”
“Fall back! It’s not worth it!”
Graves’ turret locks onto one of them, his next shot punching through its cockpit. The fighter explodes in a silent bloom of fire and debris. Fargo takes out another, his final burst ripping through its fuselage. The ship disintegrates, its remains scattering across the void.
The final ship, with its damaged engine, limps off into the distance. Far too quick for the Interlude to intercept.
Silence settles in the aftermath, broken only by the hum of the Interlude’s systems. Mirage takes another measured sip, the warmth spreading as she lets the tension ebb. Raul is assessing the damage.
“Good work, ship is practically unharmed, we’ll have to check the plating when we next land,” he says simply.
Mirage doesn’t respond, her gaze fixed on the falling wreckage outside. Her thoughts are cold and sharp, her fury coiling tighter with each breath.
“Voss,” she mutters, her voice a quiet promise.
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