Prologue
The private plane Complex Fires flew alone over the Meditan Coast. It's sleek hull gleamed under the moonlight as it's engines propelled the plane through the night sky.
Inside, Anya Sinclair waited patiently in her seat. Her long tresses of red hair hung askew from her head. A vixen at heart and body, she was something to be coveted by almost all the men she knew and didn't. The flight to Medtitas was a long and hazardous journey, one that would ended in a fiery death if she wasn't careful. The local government promised safe passage and even that didn't cure her worries much. With the threat of civil war looming inside the local geography, she still worried over her plane being chased, boarded and herself taken as a hostage. And a valuable one as well. Her husband, Demitri, was in charge of Constance Air Manufacturing, one of the major authorities in plane distribution.
The stewardess walked by. "Would you like something to calm you down, Mrs. Sinclair?"
Anya looked up from the window to see her faithful and assistance, Winter. Winter's ermine fur almost shone like a mirror, her Husky face was ever so filled with servitude and order. She smiled at her companion and shook her head. Winter nodded and shuffled off, leaving almost no trace of her ever being there. She took a moment to look around. The plane was luxurious, too much for Demitri's standards: A well-stocked wet bar stood idly by in a corner. The main cabin was bordered by seats and plush cushions. A small command center stood in the center of the cabin; Demitri used it often when he traveled to continue on with business. It hooked all his communications and information on world markets together at his fingertips. Sometimes, Anya mused on how much stress he'd gained going on vacation then going back to work because he couldn't be in the office during some crisis or another. One time, she severed the main power cord to his console and Demitri spent the whole vacation fidgeting like some child. But at least his blood pressure went down several points.
"Radar, contact." The PA system announced. "Unknown object on intercept course. Closing fast."
Anya's nerves jumped several notches. Intercept course. Someone wanted to get to get to them! She leaped from her seat and ran up to the cockpit, her heels almost hovering over the thick carpeted floor. The plane veered to the right, causing the bottles on the wet bar to cascade down on the carpet. Several wine bottles shattered, staining it with blood-red colors.
She entered to cockpit, seeing the pilot and co-pilot working as one. The Co-pilot was busy getting an emergency message thorough, but he looked like he was failing. The pilot was busy at maneuvering the plane away from their pursuers. They both noticed her as she walked in.
"They're jamming all the channels, ma'am." The pilot reported with a business-like attachment. He didn't even look at her as he spoke, concentrating on the task at hand.
"They gave us a message to surrender and prepare to be boarded." He snorted softly and Anya immediately took the gesture as a challenge to them.
She had full confidence in these people; both hand-picked by Demitri himself. Both were excellent fighter pilots and soldiers during the Phobus Wars, where he had also fought in. He picked the best, the brightest, and the most intuitive in times of crisis. Anya agreed.
"How close are they?" Anya asked briskly. The plane was meant for travel and luxury, not for anything fancy like a fighter or a interceptor. But Demitri added a few tricks of his own to the Complex Fires. Most of which have never been tested until now.
"They'll be within firing range within-" The Co-Pilot started. Then gunfire roared at them. The plane rocked under the impact of bullets and the Pilot fought for control. The radio cackled again, repeated the Aggressor's last order to surrender.
The Pilot responded with a obscene remark, which was answered by more gunfire. The plane rocked again. Controls and lights started to blink red.
"What about defenses?" Anya asked them. "Have they been tested?"
"Not like this." The Pilot replied. He scanned the controls. "We're losing pressure in the number 3 engine; losing speed. Larson?"
The Co-Pilot responded. "No, Mel. They're still jamming us! I can't break through, and I can bet that they're using military-grade jammers; no one coming for us except them." He spoke of them with disdain.
Anya considered her options. "We can't call for help. We can't outrun them until that engine problems been fixed. And no one knows about our flight plan except for Constance Air. Could they've just came upon us, or was it an ambush?"
Larson looked at her with even eyes. "Even the Air Pirates don't have access to a military-grade ECJs. And they won't either. We keep that stuff inventoried better then our payrolls. I can guess right now that they got a Electric Communication Jammer that'll keep anyone within a ten mile radius from even knowing about us. I'm thinking it's an ambush, pure and simple."
She looked at Mel, the pilot. "Any other details, Mel?"
Mel didn't bother to look at her, and that was just fine. He had more pressing matter at hand. "Our flight plan was filed when we came in; it wasn't when we came out. At least not with the local authorities. We filed our return flight plan at Constance Air. I think someone snitched." He almost spat that last sentence out like it was a vile- tasting substance. Clearly, the military mentality involving traitors was not out of both of them. But doing that would've deaden their skills as effective pilots and that was what Anya needed at the moment.
"Then we fight." Anya concluded. "Charge the explosive bolts and prepare to fire on my mark. Larson, get a SOS buoy ready to drop." She spoke with an air of authority and reason, and they complied like good soldiers. They didn't question, nor gripe, nor complain. They did as they were told. because personal feelings were unimportant in matters like these; survival was everything.
Anya left the cockpit and returned to the main cabin. Winter was already ripping a section of the carpeting apart with her once-hidden knife. Winter looked up at Anya.
"Just like old times," She managed to grin.
"For you perhaps," Anya returned the grin. "But lets keep it simple: Escape is the priority. Nothing else." And with that, Anya reached up above her and pulled a panel off the ceiling above, revealing a hidden hatch that led to the hidden gun turrets.
Winter finished prying off the carpet and pulled out a section of the floor underneath to reveal a similar hatch. They both opened them, and climbed inside. Anya climbed up into the top turret, using her athletic arms while Winter climbed down to the bottom turret.
The turrets were something that Demitri designed a while ago for some of the planes sold to diplomats and ambassadors traveling into hostile territory. They were hidden behind a panel of fuselage that held explosive bolts. Once detonated, the bolts exploded the panels away and the turrets pop through, ready to battle!
Anya got inside the cramped turret. It was never meant for space nor for large people; nothing more then a seat and harness for the gunner, a radio, a few emergency systems and the weapons. No frills, which Anya didn't have time for right now. She slipped in and quickly strapped on the harness that held her to the seat. The guns, 50. quads, awaited in there "resting" positions. She slipped a headset onto her head with one hand while chambering the rounds into each of the four guns with her other.
"Status, status?" She asked into her mike. "Stations, report."
"Standing by," Larson responded promptly.
"Locked and loaded, Mrs. Anya." Winter's quiet voice responded.
"Fire." Anya shouted, a little too loud then necessary.
The bolts fired and the hidden panels blew off. Anya felt a shift in gravity as the ball turret jolted forward into the locking position. She gripped the firing handles with both hands as she took a quick scan of her surroundings.
Six interceptors flew around, trying to entrap them and possibly force them down. Latest models by the design, no pirates or marauders from what Anya could tell. There wings bristled with rocket pods and machine gun emplacements. Mostly custom jobs and bad ones at that. Anya fixed her sights on the nearest one as it flew by her and fired off a volley.
"Winter, fire at will!" She ordered. "Mel, go into evasive. Larson, forget about the radio and fix that engine."
The first volley tore into the rear of the interceptor, ripping it to shreds. It seemed to shudder in the air for a brief moment before smoke erupted from it's side. The pilot barely had time to eject before the plane exploded. It's fuel and ammunitions lit the night sky like a miniature sun. Anya took a moment to look at the ejected pilot, who just released his 'chute. He was wearing a paramilitary outfit. But the details ended after that.
The interceptors veered off, trying to regroup and reorganize. Anya's shot reduced their numbers by one and now they grew cautious of the turrets. Overconfident at first, they must now realize that it cost them one of their planes.
"Mel, keep into evasive. If they find one of our blind spots, we've had it!" She was hyperventilating; she was dimly aware of that. Her senses were wired, sweat beaded into her brow. Another interceptor fell in her sights and she fired another volley off in response.
The interceptor dodged it, performing a spiral-roll. It circled around and fired it's weapons into the Complex Fires. She heard and felt the metal skin ripping apart from the bullet's barrage. Another interceptor fell into view and tried to fire at the turret she manned. Anya shielded her eyes as the bullets slammed into the turret, spreading spider-webs into the glass. Anya barely had time to scream when the entire ship rocked to it's side.
Explosion! Her mind roared. Something exploded!
"Larson," She panicked. "What happened?"
She was answered by filtered static. Larson's was barely heard thought the bee's noises from her earpiece. For a moment, she deduced in her mind that her pursuers just hit their intercom systems. She immediately hit the button marked: "Emergency Comms". She shouted again for status.
"Larson? Larson?" This was not going well.
"Mel here," Mel's voice sounded like an angel's voice for that moment. "They hit the cockpit; Larson's been hit badly. The radio exploded near him; he's got shrapnel in his chest. They took out two more engines."
Anya moaned audibly. Two engines down, one working, and the last one barely working. This was not supposed to happen! Her mind fairly screamed. She was to go home to her husband and they'd swap stories about what they did for the week they weren't together. Demitri would try to think up another set of ideas for the R&D boys to play with; she'd go out to another hospital for volunteer work with injured orphans and they'd be fine.
This...wasn't...supposed...to...happen.
A scream pierced her thoughts. Winter's cries of pain ended with gunfire. Anya heard in sheer horror as her ears picked up the sounds of bullets tearing into Winter's turret. Her senses were now up full throttle. She could feel her pulse through her fingertips, hear her heartbeats through her ears. She smelled the leather harness holding her down and smell of gun-oil from the quads. She even smelled a faint whiff of her talcum powder and the evergreen smell of her favorite shampoo.
The last image Anya Sinclair saw that horrid night was a wounded interceptor bearing down on her on a collision course.
The private plane Complex Fires flew alone over the Meditan Coast. It's sleek hull gleamed under the moonlight as it's engines propelled the plane through the night sky.
Inside, Anya Sinclair waited patiently in her seat. Her long tresses of red hair hung askew from her head. A vixen at heart and body, she was something to be coveted by almost all the men she knew and didn't. The flight to Medtitas was a long and hazardous journey, one that would ended in a fiery death if she wasn't careful. The local government promised safe passage and even that didn't cure her worries much. With the threat of civil war looming inside the local geography, she still worried over her plane being chased, boarded and herself taken as a hostage. And a valuable one as well. Her husband, Demitri, was in charge of Constance Air Manufacturing, one of the major authorities in plane distribution.
The stewardess walked by. "Would you like something to calm you down, Mrs. Sinclair?"
Anya looked up from the window to see her faithful and assistance, Winter. Winter's ermine fur almost shone like a mirror, her Husky face was ever so filled with servitude and order. She smiled at her companion and shook her head. Winter nodded and shuffled off, leaving almost no trace of her ever being there. She took a moment to look around. The plane was luxurious, too much for Demitri's standards: A well-stocked wet bar stood idly by in a corner. The main cabin was bordered by seats and plush cushions. A small command center stood in the center of the cabin; Demitri used it often when he traveled to continue on with business. It hooked all his communications and information on world markets together at his fingertips. Sometimes, Anya mused on how much stress he'd gained going on vacation then going back to work because he couldn't be in the office during some crisis or another. One time, she severed the main power cord to his console and Demitri spent the whole vacation fidgeting like some child. But at least his blood pressure went down several points.
"Radar, contact." The PA system announced. "Unknown object on intercept course. Closing fast."
Anya's nerves jumped several notches. Intercept course. Someone wanted to get to get to them! She leaped from her seat and ran up to the cockpit, her heels almost hovering over the thick carpeted floor. The plane veered to the right, causing the bottles on the wet bar to cascade down on the carpet. Several wine bottles shattered, staining it with blood-red colors.
She entered to cockpit, seeing the pilot and co-pilot working as one. The Co-pilot was busy getting an emergency message thorough, but he looked like he was failing. The pilot was busy at maneuvering the plane away from their pursuers. They both noticed her as she walked in.
"They're jamming all the channels, ma'am." The pilot reported with a business-like attachment. He didn't even look at her as he spoke, concentrating on the task at hand.
"They gave us a message to surrender and prepare to be boarded." He snorted softly and Anya immediately took the gesture as a challenge to them.
She had full confidence in these people; both hand-picked by Demitri himself. Both were excellent fighter pilots and soldiers during the Phobus Wars, where he had also fought in. He picked the best, the brightest, and the most intuitive in times of crisis. Anya agreed.
"How close are they?" Anya asked briskly. The plane was meant for travel and luxury, not for anything fancy like a fighter or a interceptor. But Demitri added a few tricks of his own to the Complex Fires. Most of which have never been tested until now.
"They'll be within firing range within-" The Co-Pilot started. Then gunfire roared at them. The plane rocked under the impact of bullets and the Pilot fought for control. The radio cackled again, repeated the Aggressor's last order to surrender.
The Pilot responded with a obscene remark, which was answered by more gunfire. The plane rocked again. Controls and lights started to blink red.
"What about defenses?" Anya asked them. "Have they been tested?"
"Not like this." The Pilot replied. He scanned the controls. "We're losing pressure in the number 3 engine; losing speed. Larson?"
The Co-Pilot responded. "No, Mel. They're still jamming us! I can't break through, and I can bet that they're using military-grade jammers; no one coming for us except them." He spoke of them with disdain.
Anya considered her options. "We can't call for help. We can't outrun them until that engine problems been fixed. And no one knows about our flight plan except for Constance Air. Could they've just came upon us, or was it an ambush?"
Larson looked at her with even eyes. "Even the Air Pirates don't have access to a military-grade ECJs. And they won't either. We keep that stuff inventoried better then our payrolls. I can guess right now that they got a Electric Communication Jammer that'll keep anyone within a ten mile radius from even knowing about us. I'm thinking it's an ambush, pure and simple."
She looked at Mel, the pilot. "Any other details, Mel?"
Mel didn't bother to look at her, and that was just fine. He had more pressing matter at hand. "Our flight plan was filed when we came in; it wasn't when we came out. At least not with the local authorities. We filed our return flight plan at Constance Air. I think someone snitched." He almost spat that last sentence out like it was a vile- tasting substance. Clearly, the military mentality involving traitors was not out of both of them. But doing that would've deaden their skills as effective pilots and that was what Anya needed at the moment.
"Then we fight." Anya concluded. "Charge the explosive bolts and prepare to fire on my mark. Larson, get a SOS buoy ready to drop." She spoke with an air of authority and reason, and they complied like good soldiers. They didn't question, nor gripe, nor complain. They did as they were told. because personal feelings were unimportant in matters like these; survival was everything.
Anya left the cockpit and returned to the main cabin. Winter was already ripping a section of the carpeting apart with her once-hidden knife. Winter looked up at Anya.
"Just like old times," She managed to grin.
"For you perhaps," Anya returned the grin. "But lets keep it simple: Escape is the priority. Nothing else." And with that, Anya reached up above her and pulled a panel off the ceiling above, revealing a hidden hatch that led to the hidden gun turrets.
Winter finished prying off the carpet and pulled out a section of the floor underneath to reveal a similar hatch. They both opened them, and climbed inside. Anya climbed up into the top turret, using her athletic arms while Winter climbed down to the bottom turret.
The turrets were something that Demitri designed a while ago for some of the planes sold to diplomats and ambassadors traveling into hostile territory. They were hidden behind a panel of fuselage that held explosive bolts. Once detonated, the bolts exploded the panels away and the turrets pop through, ready to battle!
Anya got inside the cramped turret. It was never meant for space nor for large people; nothing more then a seat and harness for the gunner, a radio, a few emergency systems and the weapons. No frills, which Anya didn't have time for right now. She slipped in and quickly strapped on the harness that held her to the seat. The guns, 50. quads, awaited in there "resting" positions. She slipped a headset onto her head with one hand while chambering the rounds into each of the four guns with her other.
"Status, status?" She asked into her mike. "Stations, report."
"Standing by," Larson responded promptly.
"Locked and loaded, Mrs. Anya." Winter's quiet voice responded.
"Fire." Anya shouted, a little too loud then necessary.
The bolts fired and the hidden panels blew off. Anya felt a shift in gravity as the ball turret jolted forward into the locking position. She gripped the firing handles with both hands as she took a quick scan of her surroundings.
Six interceptors flew around, trying to entrap them and possibly force them down. Latest models by the design, no pirates or marauders from what Anya could tell. There wings bristled with rocket pods and machine gun emplacements. Mostly custom jobs and bad ones at that. Anya fixed her sights on the nearest one as it flew by her and fired off a volley.
"Winter, fire at will!" She ordered. "Mel, go into evasive. Larson, forget about the radio and fix that engine."
The first volley tore into the rear of the interceptor, ripping it to shreds. It seemed to shudder in the air for a brief moment before smoke erupted from it's side. The pilot barely had time to eject before the plane exploded. It's fuel and ammunitions lit the night sky like a miniature sun. Anya took a moment to look at the ejected pilot, who just released his 'chute. He was wearing a paramilitary outfit. But the details ended after that.
The interceptors veered off, trying to regroup and reorganize. Anya's shot reduced their numbers by one and now they grew cautious of the turrets. Overconfident at first, they must now realize that it cost them one of their planes.
"Mel, keep into evasive. If they find one of our blind spots, we've had it!" She was hyperventilating; she was dimly aware of that. Her senses were wired, sweat beaded into her brow. Another interceptor fell in her sights and she fired another volley off in response.
The interceptor dodged it, performing a spiral-roll. It circled around and fired it's weapons into the Complex Fires. She heard and felt the metal skin ripping apart from the bullet's barrage. Another interceptor fell into view and tried to fire at the turret she manned. Anya shielded her eyes as the bullets slammed into the turret, spreading spider-webs into the glass. Anya barely had time to scream when the entire ship rocked to it's side.
Explosion! Her mind roared. Something exploded!
"Larson," She panicked. "What happened?"
She was answered by filtered static. Larson's was barely heard thought the bee's noises from her earpiece. For a moment, she deduced in her mind that her pursuers just hit their intercom systems. She immediately hit the button marked: "Emergency Comms". She shouted again for status.
"Larson? Larson?" This was not going well.
"Mel here," Mel's voice sounded like an angel's voice for that moment. "They hit the cockpit; Larson's been hit badly. The radio exploded near him; he's got shrapnel in his chest. They took out two more engines."
Anya moaned audibly. Two engines down, one working, and the last one barely working. This was not supposed to happen! Her mind fairly screamed. She was to go home to her husband and they'd swap stories about what they did for the week they weren't together. Demitri would try to think up another set of ideas for the R&D boys to play with; she'd go out to another hospital for volunteer work with injured orphans and they'd be fine.
This...wasn't...supposed...to...happen.
A scream pierced her thoughts. Winter's cries of pain ended with gunfire. Anya heard in sheer horror as her ears picked up the sounds of bullets tearing into Winter's turret. Her senses were now up full throttle. She could feel her pulse through her fingertips, hear her heartbeats through her ears. She smelled the leather harness holding her down and smell of gun-oil from the quads. She even smelled a faint whiff of her talcum powder and the evergreen smell of her favorite shampoo.
The last image Anya Sinclair saw that horrid night was a wounded interceptor bearing down on her on a collision course.