Xingyun, Da Ling Liu, Baikonur Orbit, PFS Jaxim Vadimos, Vice Admiral Elgos Lilix, Bridge, , 1245, April 6th, 2157:

"Status of the enemy force?" I ask the Vadimos's sensor officer, my gaze not moving from the bridge's central display.

"Enemy central force, three known cruisers and one new cruiser of previously unidentified class, retain constant orbit with the observed thrust. Enemy light vessels, nine known vessels and an additional three of an unknown, lighter classification, have remained in the same position relative to the cruisers through constant thrust, no change. No activity from the planet besides some engine flairs indicative of minor shuttle travel. Enemy fighter craft remain unaccounted for."

I narrow my eyes. 'When will you show your hand.' In most circumstances, the fighters wouldn't be a major concern, perhaps a bit troubling considering their use for point defense, but not relevant for the total battle. This is not most circumstances, as the ruins of two cruisers can attest. Whatever those fighters are using for armament, what some of my engineers think is a warp weapon of some type, turns them from an auxiliary tool into the focal point of this battle. "Data on the new contacts?"

This time the senior officers has to look, their hands swiftly moving across the display in front of them. "Limited data on cruiser contact, estimates put it at between half and one million tons, can't get more specific with any degree of accuracy. Passives have noted less broadside weapons than previous cruiser class, but no information of spinal armament. Active scans will be effective within 5 minutes, which will provide more information- movement from the enemy formation!" The officer's words are interrupted by their own pronouncement. "Cruisers Alpha-1, and Alpha-2 are launching fighters. 12--43-65-83 contacts detected matching known fighter designs. Fighters are closing. An additional 8 larger contacts have also launched and are closing at a slower acceleration."

Their word's cause all of us to tense, our minds preparing for combat. "822nd and 823rd Frigate Flotillas are to intercept the fighters. All ships launch fighters."

The Communications Officer transmits my message to the task force, leading to the 12 frigates of the task force cutting their engines from the deceleration burn they were doing alongside the rest of the ships. They swiftly flip themselves and begin accelerating towards the enemy fighters. If the cruisers or even one of the destroyers did this, they would overshoot the deceleration later and shoot past the garden world. Frigates, however, are swift enough to catch up to the task force's burn even after such acceleration.

Slowly, the distance between the frigates and fighters closes, the rate only starting to stagnate once the fighters cut their engines to conserve their fuel. This changes when the sensor officer shouts out. "Contact! Ten engine plumes forward of the task force! Contacts match enemy heavy missiles!" My eyes swiftly turn towards the main display, now showing ten missiles closing at a rapid pace. While the missiles have started behind the fighters, the ship's display shows they, if their fuel levels displayed in the last battle hold true, will reach the frigates before the fighters.

Soon contact becomes imminent, only 30 seconds before the missiles reach the firing range of the frigates. Suddenly, something changes. "Change from the enemy missiles, correction burns initiated. 'What?! It's far too early for any correction burns for hitting the cruisers, unless.' "Frigates begin evasive maneuvers, they're the target!" The enemy's vector shifts, bringing the frigates into their sights. The frigates begin evasive maneuvers, attempting to outlast their fuel supplies, but the amount of fuel needed to dodge through hundreds of kilometers of mass accelerator fire is more than enough to make their evasion useless.

As they reach the edge of effective Guardian range, the missiles break up, their outer skins and primary fuel tanks turning into clouds of chaff, obstructing lidar readings and laser fire. This is expected, the standard for the alien's long range missiles so far. What is not normal is their payload; instead of the single massive payload seen during the Battle of Relay 314, dozens of small projectiles, not any larger than the munitions launched by their fighters. Ten of the 12 frigates were struck by the swarms, attempting to take them down the Guardian fire, but it was no use, with the ruins of the missiles protecting them and their sheer numbers, some still got through.

Seconds tick by in silence after the missiles hit, a deafening, tortuous silence. Until, finally, the comms officer begins to speak. "Contact remaining with 8 frigates, RF-841 and 844 reporting no damage, 899 and 816 reporting minor hull damage, 843, 888, 902, and 860 reporting heavy surface level damage, with significant reductions in sensor, heat management, and point defense capabilities. RF-790, 804, and 883 have not checked in."

The sensor officer speaks up. "RF-804 and 883 reading with completely destroyed comms systems. External readings show heavy surface damage on both." They stop, almost unwilling to speak their next words. "Antimatter detonation on the RF-790, ship has been destroyed."

My eyes turn to the bridge's main display, to the 12, no, 11 frigates in front of our formation, and to the over a hundred fighters now barring down on them.

"All frigates are to retreat back to the main fleet! Fighters, move to intercept! Destroyers, move between the cruisers and fighters!" I shout out, retaining the composure expected of a commander, if only barely. I have spent the last decade fighting pirates, dealing with skirmishes that at most see ships damaged and their crews rescued, not ones where two entire flotillas seem to be on the precipice of annihilation.

Xingyun, Da Ling Liu, Baikonur Orbit, Fighter Bravo-1, Lieutenant Junior Grade Frederick Walker, 1247, April 6th, 2157:

An unimaginable feeling overcomes me when my thrusters turn back on, when I start feeling the acceleration pushing on me again, when my suit start contracting and pressuring to keep my blood flow going right. when my heart starts beating stronger than it ever does outside the cockpit, when my mind sharpens to a razor's edge, adrenalin flooding my system like a drug. The dozen alien frigates in front of me are only an afterthought compared to this sensation, the reason I am with the Alliance.

It diminishes as the inertial compensators catch up, but not entirely. While modifying the settings of our fighters without approval is technically forbidden, it hurts no one if my compensators are toned down a bit lower than standard, saves power and service time anyways.

I watch my display as the frigates get closer and closer, some burning away from us towards their fleet, others still drifting, their drives cold or sputtering. Neither will escape, even the swiftest of warships being snails compared to fighters, and too much inertia having been accumulated over their original burn and their second one.

As the squadrons of Bidents and Tridents close in on the drifting frigates, missiles are launched ahead of us. Each of the objects break apart, spreading clouds of anti-laser chaff in the path of the frigates' lasers. This isn't the Battle of Da Ling Er, we aren't kitted out for hunting pirates, we aren't lucky to have loaded torpedoes at all. We have had days to stew in defeat, to learn from mankind's first major battle beyond the Relays, and to load a true combat load instead of one better suited for taking out budget fighters and half working hulks.

Lances of invisible light strike out against us as we close. Some strike the chaff, bright flairs visible for only a moment before dying out. As the bombardment goes on, the number stopped by the chaff falls, some piercing through the dispersing field and moving beyond it diminished, but other finding paths already cleared by their predecessors, VI intelligences adapting to the new impediment. The field buys us seconds before dispersing to irrelevance, but they were important seconds. By the time the number of fighters hit by anything more than a light scorching grows beyond the single digits, it is already too late.

The waves in front of me, diminished through the enemy's fire, launches their torpedoes, disruptors by hundred torpedoes lancing towards the alien craft. Many fail to hit, either dodged by the alien vessels or shot down by laser fire, but others hit, warping the hulls of these craft and shredding kinetic barriers into memories.

Lifeboats flee from one of the frigates, its crew abandoning ship in the face of destruction. Fighters from the next waves redirect towards different targets, leaving the crews in peace, after the battle is over one side or another will pick them up. An order comes from the attack's commander, ordering us to conserve munitions against the drifting frigates, so when my pass comes, I fire only a single torpedo and a generous application of gunfire instead of dropping my main toy. Still, dozens of fighters strafing a pair of frigates is a devastating blow, with one being left a broken hulk, and the other going up in antiproton fire.

We turn our attention towards the retreating frigates, closing in far quicker than any warship could. The chaff field proved less effective than before, having to be spread across more firing angles. Dozens of fighters are hit, some damaged to the point they retreated out of the chase, while others were lost in their entirety. Nonetheless, we quickly closed the distance and the first waves let loose their payloads, disruptor torpedoes in the hundreds overwhelming the seven remaining frigates. A pair of the frigates cut their engines after the damage, with one of them launching lifeboats. Even as a number of my squadron mates shift to targeting the disabled frigate, I close in on my target and deploy my torpedoes and single, main payload, causing the frigate to fall victim to a lance of nuclear fire.

Converting the flak mines for use as a fighter-launched bomb was relatively simple; they were designed to be deployed by fighters, so converting those connection points to fit with Alliance standard ones was no challenge. The wisdom in that decision is now evident to me with the burning wreckage of the alien frigate shown on my fighter's display, damage even visible on the other side of the ship from the impact.

Of the 24 mines deployed for this attack, 16 made it to their targets, basking them in nuclear fire. Only two of the frigates appear to be combat effective, the rest either drifting, launching lifeboats, or ripped to shreds by their own antimatter.

The remaining frigates continue to flee towards the enemy fleet, and we don't pursue due to orders. Insted, we flip over and start burning towards our fleet, with some of the fighters staying behind to pick up ejection pods.

I look at my display and scowl at what is shown: of the 83 fighters we brough, only 45 remain, nearly 50 percent casualties! Most of the manned fighters lost were simply too damaged to make it back to the ships, leaving their pilots to activate their ejection pods and wait for rescue; seven pilots went down with their fighters, being taken out directly by enemy laser fire. The 56 remaining fighters aren't in a good shape either, all being out of torpedoes and many having significant damage from laser fire, leaving them less effective in another fight. Only a few are carrying additional flack mines to cover our retreat. 'We may not have the firepower left to pull this off. At least the shuttles seem to have finished their job.'

I check the data feed on enemy movements, and see 90 of their fighters closing in on us, even with our fighters burning as fast as they can back toward allied lines. 'Seems like they took the bait, good. Let's hope we make it to the frigates before they hit us, we won't survive another fight.'

Xingyun, Da Ling Liu, Baikonur Orbit, Fighter Alpha-5, Sub Lieutenant Sanaris Vorseen, 1248, April 6th, 2157:

A snarl graces my face as my fighter races towards the enemy craft, the same ones that just killed hundreds of turians. That snarl turns into a viscous grin as the distance between us and the fleeing fighters close. I see the enemy's frigates attempting to reach their fighters, a futile endeavor, by the time they reach them, they will be floating debris.

My display reveals new contacts drifting towards our fighters 'Mines.' my mind supplies me. 'Probably the same ones that killed off most of the 88th Fighter Division.' The mines are quite dangerous, but while their stealth coatings can hid them from our sensors, they can't conceal themselves from the far more effective sensors on the frigates, which are still in the battlespace and feeding us sensor data.

I fire on the mines, the short effective range of my small guns not mattering when shooting an unpowered target. The work of myself and some of the other fighters sees the destruction of most of the mines before whoever was controlling them detonated them. Having been activated prematurely, they do little damage, with only a single fighter with a faulty kinetic barrier being scorched by them, and even then the damage isn't enough to take the fighter out of the battle.

Soon the frigates reach us, the less damaged one staying with us to provide support while the other continues on towards the fleet.

Second by second, the gap closes, our slight advantage in acceleration allowing us to outpace the enemy fighters, if only barely. We are still not in effective range for our mass accelerators when alerts start blaring in my cockpit, signaling the launcher of enemy missiles. Almost a hundred missiles streak towards us, each fighter launching a pair from under their wings. Soon, they are not alone. Countless more missiles activate, appearing to have been drifting in the void, how they go there I don't know. Ninety missiles turn into 186 racing towards us. Thrusters dim as power is turned towards accelerators, thousands of rounds leaving the 180 barrels spread across the 6 squadrons of fighters, our accuracy enhanced by the RF-844 cutting through the enemy's ECM using its advanced sensors. Nearly 200 missiles turn into 150, then 120, then 80, before only 75 reach us. My head almost slams into the cockpit's wall as the entire fighter seems to shake, alarms blaring into my ears and my fighter spinning like a childrens toy. A look to my port side reveals the cause, the mangalled remnants of my maneuvering wing, the stubby spike half wrecked by a missile hit. My helmet display quickly overlays a more detailed analysis over my vision: the thruster inoperable while the kinetic barriers across the port and fore damaged.

I try to bring my fighter out of its spiral, thanking the spirits the starboard maneuvering wing is still operational, while the Verrix class has many virtues, it has horrible maneuverability without its thruster wings.

I check my display, revealing the damage we took to that salvo: 65 fighters hit. Most survived, but some took multiple hits or a lucky strike, leaving 22 ruined fighters drifting. Most that were hit but survived are still combat capable, if diminished, meaning we retain the advantage over the enemy.

However, only moments from reaching weapons range, a shout comes from the comms. "All fighters, return to the fleet! Repeat, all fighters, return the fleet! Enemy fighters closing in!"

'What!?'

Xingyun, Da Ling Liu, Baikonur Orbit, Fighter Alpha-5, Ensign Jacqueline Snord, 1250, April 6th, 2157:

A grin overcomes my face as my fighter activates its thrusters, revealing itself and the dozens of other Bidents to the aliens only seconds after their lidars caught us, far too late for the enemy's far out of position fighters to stop us.

The squadron races towards the enemy cruisers, the nine warships frantically coming to life in the face of both us and Hammer 3 coming in on a different vector, 64 fighters ready to bring a world of hurt onto them. The three smaller cruisers, fighters, and the frigates are all burning towards the alien fleet, but it is far too late. We cross the distance in seconds, moving like lightning towards the Earth. I unleash my payload; six disruptor torpedoes now racing toward one of the smaller cruisers alongside the 18 others, ripping into the vessel as we fly past.

A check of my display shows the result of our run: none of the alien ships are gone, none have gone up in those fantastical explosions so often seen in movies and a surprising amount in real life due to antimatter, but all of them show damage. A visual sent by Hammer 3 shows the scarred side of my target, its port side pockmarked by sections of warped hull, an effect seen across all of the ships. None are heavily damaged, but all are mauled, not by much, but enough they should reconsider starting their attack now, especially with their defensive screen gutted.

The engines of my Bident shift, attempting to shift its trajectory to one that will intercept the cruisers in Baikonur orbit for pickup. It may be a bit crowded onboard with all the additional fighters, but going back to the Outpost isn't going to work with us setting up charges even now.

I look at my display, showing the rapidly shrinking forms of the alien fleet, sensors showing them slowing down through their eezo core. 'Seems like the plan worked.' The thought brings with it mixed emotions: so many lost, some many other pilots consigned to the void just to gain that most valuable thing in war.

Time.