Post by The Kortl Rheus on Apr 25, 2014 2:48:01 GMT
Ithkor was not a particularly bold Norak. He was certainly brave, but his superiors always said he lacked imagination and creativity, a prized ability among all ranks of Schism military operations. Instead, Itkor preferred sound strategy and straightforward attacks. He'd even recently been reading about the American Revolution, and daydreamed fondly about the orderly lines and disciplined battles. Perhaps that was an idealization of the truth. He didn't care.
The beginnings of this second war with the snakes were anything but ideal, he thought.
The engines of the Carver vessel screamed as Ithkor pulled tight on the yaw tethers, drawing it into a fast three second lateral orbit around his other wingmate. He felt the cold methane gel pull back in his throat, as gravity manipulators attempted to compensate for his change in direction. Luckily the gel, a disgusting and thick fluid, rich with all he needed to sustain his body for weeks at a time, also served to brace for rapid movement changes and flex intelligently around him.
The debris of the ninth kill of the day swept past them, leaking metal guts and fumes. It popped slightly, inaudible, but the force of it pushed the Carver slightly out of his orbit with his wing. Ithkor caught a glance then of the hundred vessels their four ships were engaging.
He was numb to the fear by now, but not to the awe of so much floating metal. It was a miracle they'd survived so long. What had started as a fleet of seventeen had dwindled steadily with each skirmish, but somehow, they had survived and chased the snakes back to Horgu.
The waiting fleet glared at them.
The comm buzzed in his dermal implant. "Ithkor, slave your orbit to Carver 7, we're going back in." The voice was less astringent now that he was used to this new commander. The other four were dead and now they were drawing straws for the role.
Ithkor glanced at his load-outs. 10.2%. This would be the last skirmish. Not a graceful way to die, soundless in space, but every ship destroyed meant one less to return to Verdantis. They'd all knew it was suicide when the orders came out for them to chase down the fleet of two hundred ships. They'd never expected the Hierarchy would be so underwhelmingly equipped. If only they'd had another fifty carvers.
Sadly, the slag rain from the shipyards at Verdantis told a tale of eventual doom.
Well, if his death bought a few more days of life for his phidlings, so be it, he thought.
He ripped tight on a few tethers which sent his ship into a larger six second orbit around the third of the four remaining carvers. They pushed the engines hard and dove back into the writhing armada of snakes.
The beginnings of this second war with the snakes were anything but ideal, he thought.
The engines of the Carver vessel screamed as Ithkor pulled tight on the yaw tethers, drawing it into a fast three second lateral orbit around his other wingmate. He felt the cold methane gel pull back in his throat, as gravity manipulators attempted to compensate for his change in direction. Luckily the gel, a disgusting and thick fluid, rich with all he needed to sustain his body for weeks at a time, also served to brace for rapid movement changes and flex intelligently around him.
The debris of the ninth kill of the day swept past them, leaking metal guts and fumes. It popped slightly, inaudible, but the force of it pushed the Carver slightly out of his orbit with his wing. Ithkor caught a glance then of the hundred vessels their four ships were engaging.
He was numb to the fear by now, but not to the awe of so much floating metal. It was a miracle they'd survived so long. What had started as a fleet of seventeen had dwindled steadily with each skirmish, but somehow, they had survived and chased the snakes back to Horgu.
The waiting fleet glared at them.
The comm buzzed in his dermal implant. "Ithkor, slave your orbit to Carver 7, we're going back in." The voice was less astringent now that he was used to this new commander. The other four were dead and now they were drawing straws for the role.
Ithkor glanced at his load-outs. 10.2%. This would be the last skirmish. Not a graceful way to die, soundless in space, but every ship destroyed meant one less to return to Verdantis. They'd all knew it was suicide when the orders came out for them to chase down the fleet of two hundred ships. They'd never expected the Hierarchy would be so underwhelmingly equipped. If only they'd had another fifty carvers.
Sadly, the slag rain from the shipyards at Verdantis told a tale of eventual doom.
Well, if his death bought a few more days of life for his phidlings, so be it, he thought.
He ripped tight on a few tethers which sent his ship into a larger six second orbit around the third of the four remaining carvers. They pushed the engines hard and dove back into the writhing armada of snakes.