Xenen ETA minus 28 hours
Mikele kept up a steady stream of most unladylike expletives, punctuated by the occasional squeal from Arfor, as she dodged and wove away from the fire of three enemy fighters. At least she assumed those weird rock-things were fighters. They were of size and capability comparable to her X-wing (though a fair bit nimbler, much to her annoyance), anyway. Best to call them fighters and let the Intel boys fuss out the nomenclature.
But first not die. That was key.
Arfor let out a shrill cry, and Mikele barely twisted away from a pair of fighters trying to pincer her; Arfor's cry morphed into a plaintive, almost seasick wail. That pair barely twisted away from crashing into each other. A trio of GDF A-wings from the local garrison slammed into that pair, and for a moment she was free and clear. She realized then that she hadn't fired a shot since that first torpedo volley; no real wonder, that, since the enemy hadn't been in the business of flying in front of her!
Her flight was scattered all to hell and gone, but...
"... and frak it all," she finished her muttering, and then keyed the com. "Ten, Twelve, copy, over?"
"Eleven, Ten," Bren called. "Coming up on your left."
She twisted in her seat to look out the cockpit. Sure enough, there was a slightly scorched blue-and-silver X-wing forming up on her.
"Oh, there you are Bren," she said conversationally. "How's Cueball?"
"He's fine," Bren said shortly; his wave-cap-white R2 unit shook its dome in acknowledgment. "Where the hell is Cullen?"
"Could use a bit of help, over here."
"Cullen! Where- Arfor, ping that transmission!"
"Twelve, status?" Bren asked.
Arfor flashed a single friendly blip on Mikele's HUD, identifying it as Charlie Twelve.
"One riding my butt, and I can't shake him off."
"Where are you?"
"Don't know. HUD's down."
"Eleven?"
"Twenty degrees starboard by fifteen degrees down-pitch. One klick."
"On me."
"Right, boss."
She throttled back a bit as he turned and passed in front of her; she fell into formation still to his right but now slightly behind. They dived through the battle, past a burning Gules, and at last came in range of Cullen. Smoke and debris trailed from his X-wing, the squadron marks obscured by long scorches, but though his maneuverability was clearly degraded, he somehow still dodged the killing stroke and kept the range open.
She targeted him and checked his shields; holding, but barely.
She shifted target to the enemy fighter, and waited for Bren's order and for the range to close.
They were almost there when one of the enemy's shots pierced through Cullen's weakened shields brushed against his upper starboard engine.
------
The platoon barracks were located near the center of the station, in plane with the hangar bays. High-speed lifts could carry them, in the event a pirate or Imp tried something foolhardy, from the barracks to any one of the hangars or nearly any point in between. The Lieutenant, for this operation, had elected to one of the in between points; an intersection which would allow the platoon to split three ways (the Lieutenant and Sergeant took a third of each squad to form the third group), and take advantage of their access to the security systems to pincer the enemy.
Corporal Tand's squad had drawn the right side of the pincer; the Lieutenant took his group down the middle; Corporal Napatha took the left. Tand, for his part, alternated between leading his squad ("Walk this way," and make sure the boys didn't try to imitate him step for step; they were weird like that) and checking the security feed on his monocle. The enemy had long since left the hangar bay, though they left something attached to one of the computers; it looked like a cross between a heptopus and a giant ball of crap, so Tand didn't look at it too much. Instead he followed the enemy's progress on a tactical display, until-
What the hell?
He tossed his head fractionally to the right, switching from tactical to full video and audio.
"-alone, you son of a bitch!" the man screamed at the scarred freak who roughly grasped a limp and crying woman by the arms. They were both in bedclothes, clearly from one of the prior crew shifts and probably married or at least cohabiting. The man broke past a group of the freaks, who didn't bother to stop him but instead showed and expression that felt like an eager smile, as if they were about to see a good show. The man launched himself at the enemy, but the enemy caught his with one hand, and held him at arms length while the man flailed and cursed. The enemy growled something in a language that Tand had never heard, and roughly flung the man into the wall. Tand could hear the ribs snap over the audio, and then the enemy backhanded the man in the face, shattering his jaw in a spray of blood-
"Gods Above and Force Around, what in the- Lieutenant, Tand."
"Go."
"Sir, have you been monitoring the visuals from the security feed?"
"We've stayed on tactical. Why?"
"Check corridor Delta-Six-Seven, sir."
There came a silence, which Tand took to mean the Lieutenant was checking the security feed.
"Platoon," the Lieutenant growled in a voice that Tand had never heard before, one full of rage and naked durasteel, "at the double-quick."
They broke into a fast trot, each squad now transmitting in the clear; moving fast and coordinating the assault now meant more than radio silence. The timing had to be perfect, as the two flanks hit the enemy first and then the middle when they were distracted at the sides; for that, they had to communicate.
His squad had five turns left when the security feed dissolved into static, and the comm chatter gave way to a high, loud, painful hiss.
"Lieutenant!" he called over the com. "Lieutenant, please respond!"
There was no answer.