The Shelter

The universe rotated slowly around the cramped cockpit of the “Shrike.” It was a very small universe, with a volume of just 600,000 cubic meters, but it was all the space Sheila Shelter had been able to take in over the past two weeks.

At first, during the early days of her shift, Sheila perceived the concave, shapeless surface surrounding the “Shrike S-64DE” for what it actually was - the “AnR Autonomous Camouflaged Reconnaissance Module - Ambush And Recon” - disguised as an asteroid near a hyperjump point in the Skadi system. But over time, she began to feel as if the rest of space simply didn’t exist. No war, no Vasskh, no Earth - and even Sheila’s home planet in the Cairo system was nothing more than a figment of her imagination. The brain adapts to the reality painted for it by the senses. Such is human nature...

Fortunately, Sheila did not suffer from claustrophobia, and her psychological and emotional profile was as stable as a concrete monolith. That is precisely why she was able to pass the selection process and was recommended for combat duty in the “Ghost” squadron. The squadron wasn’t considered elite. If anything, it was… unique. But that in no way diminished its role: to serve as yet another line of defense against the waves of invading Vasskh aliens.

The war had been raging for more than a decade, and the Cairo system had long since ceased to be considered a safe haven deep in the rear. Nobody could say any longer who had started it, and by now the question had stopped making sense. The two cultures had been condemned to war from the moment they met. To humans, the Vasskh were monsters — cruel, fanatical. The creatures that should not have existed in this universe. To the Vasskh, humans were a soft, degenerate, toothless tribe, put in the existence by Ssharu for one purpose: to sharpen claws on before the final battle with the Eternal Enemy. Neither side had ever needed a better reason. The small agricultural planet Ariadne was now separated from the territory captured by Vasskh forces by a couple of systems where fierce battles were raging, and several uninhabited systems where neither the Earthlings nor the Vasskh deemed it necessary to maintain a permanent Fleet presence. In general, the border worlds no longer counted on the Commonwealth Fleet - exhausted by years of retreat and resounding defeats - preferring to defend what they were still able to hold on their own. The Commonwealth was not losing on technology; ship for ship the two sides were close, with a slight edge to human hulls. It was losing on everything else. The Vasskh had more worlds, more warriors, and a faith that made dying easy. What kept the human side alive was the one thing the enemy despised: patience. Humans planned, waited, struck sideways, and refused honorable battle whenever refusing it was cheaper. Formally, Sheila’s squadron was under the command of the Commonwealth, but she could no longer recall the last time she had received any orders from Central Command. The entire mission of the two squadrons - staffed by local volunteer pilots - and the obsolete carrier cruiser boiled down to defending Ariadne and its drying-up trade routes from raids by Vasskh hunters, who carried out raids in search of “personal glory.” But neither Sheila nor her comrades had the slightest doubt that Ariadne could not be defended against a serious attack by the “Hissers.” The civilians who had not yet chosen to evacuate could only hope that the Vasskh would not deem it worthwhile to attack an insignificant little planet on the very outskirts of space.

Therefore, the “Ghosts” had to carry out a rather contradictory task: to weaken the Vasskh forces in the sector by raiding supply lines and dealing small but painful blows to the “Hissers’” convoys. But they had to do this without drawing the enemy’s close attention to their planet. That meant hiding in a system not too close to Ariadne, but not half a galaxy away either, and waiting. Waiting until a more or less “appealing” target passed through the jump point.

---

A three-week shift in complete solitude was conducive to reflection. Sometimes - though quite rarely - pilots couldn’t take it anymore and went mad. But command was adept at accounting for such slip-ups, and not only tried to select people suitable for the shift but also made an effort, whenever possible, to brighten up the long and agonizing wait. The living module - a four-meter-long cylinder with a tiny kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom - contained a fairly decent collection of a wide variety of books and audio-video recordings: ranging from fiction to textbooks on a wide range of subjects. Many pilots preferred to study and then take exams as external students, but Sheila loved to read. In the library, she found several very good books on history and military adventure literature and pored over them, trying to draw parallels with the present based on centuries of experience and to apply what she found to her own tactics and strategy.

In the books, Sheila found similarities both with snipers, who would lie in camouflage for hours waiting for the chance to land a single successful shot, and with the tactics of submarines from the First and Second World Wars of the 20th century. There was also something reminiscent of the “Night Witches” squadron, which silently attacked enemy convoys in antiquated biplanes with their engines turned off.

Sheila particularly liked that last analogy. First, the “Night Witches” were also made up mostly of women; second, her “Shrike” was not much different from those biplanes: it was just as antiquated, just as poorly armored, and just as lightly armed. A line fighter of the current generation carried four guns, a missile rack, layered deflectors and armor thick enough to take a hit and keep flying. The “Shrike” had two guns, no armor worth the name, and a hull light enough that anything it met in open space could kill it. What it had instead was speed and the smallest radar signature in the Fleet, which was why the design had survived three attempts to retire it. And on the “Shrike” - modified by local craftsmen - just like those ridiculous little planes, the weight of the bombs on board was almost greater than the weight of the aircraft itself. True, instead of bombs, Sheila’s “Shrike” carried three huge “Spear” torpedoes, mounted on pylons around the fuselage. The fourth spot on the pylon was occupied by a living module, where one could pass the time during long shifts. The final modification was a module equipped to create a 100-meter-long fake asteroid, inside which the “Shrike” was actually hidden. Upon arriving at its position, a bag was ejected from the module, taking on the shape of an irregular potato around the fighter; the bag’s fabric quickly hardened and became indistinguishable from a rocky surface to radar. Only small explosive charges and passive sensors capable of scanning space for other ships remained on the surface of the “asteroid.” If a target appeared from the jump point, the sensors immediately alerted the pilot to the “visitors.” According to command procedures, the plan was to let the unsuspecting enemy move away from the jump point, then jettison the living module, detonate the “asteroid,” fire up the ship’s engines and torpedoes, and race at tremendous speed toward the enemy’s rear, guiding the torpedoes onto the largest targets as they went. After locking onto targets, the pilot would jettison the torpedoes from the “Shrike” (or rather, jettison the “Shrike” from them, given its size and mass) and get the hell out through the jump point using the mounted hyperdrive.

In theory, the tactic was flawless. Spear torpedoes were a very powerful weapon, but they had a significant drawback: they were slow, unwieldy, lit up on radar like a Christmas tree, and lacked even a hint of armor. However, a surprise high-speed attack from astern left no chance for enemy transport ships, or even large cruisers and fighter carriers: the acceleration from four engines gave the torpedoes a speed at which they were practically impossible to intercept, and the fighter’s defensive fields shielded the torpedoes from countermeasures for a time. A single torpedo was enough to take out a transport, and even the largest warship could not withstand three simultaneous hits. Even under the most favorable circumstances, it would be put out of action for a long time. Under unfavorable circumstances, it would be turned into a cloud of superheated gas. As for the pilot, things were not so rosy: pilots often died. The reasons varied widely - either the fighter failed to fire the torpedo and shared its fate, or during an attack, the “Shrike” sustained such damage that it simply could not escape the retaliation of the escort fighters. Sometimes the pilots got drawn into a dogfight in which the antiquated and lightly armed “Shrike” stood almost no chance.

But Sheila was almost always lucky. She had an intuitive knack for finding the perfect moment to attack and was smart enough to distinguish hopeless battles from merely dubious ones. And she certainly didn’t have the habit of lunging at every “hisser” that flew by without first weighing whether it was worth the trouble. She always personally checked the status of all the ship’s systems while on duty, and her “Shrike” rewarded her care by ensuring that not a single system failed at the wrong moment. That’s why Sheila was able to survive 12 combat shifts and add kill marks to her hull: one cruiser, seven transports, two fighters. Not the highest tally among the “Ghosts,” but far from average either. True, this shift hadn’t gone like the others from the very start…

During the first week, Sheila still noticed activity near the jump point. But the targets were either “friendly,” insignificant, or beyond her capabilities: a couple of privateers, a merchant, a few lone Vasskh - freelancers - and two squadrons of slightly outdated but deadly heavy “Vast’h” assault ships. And not a single enemy ship of any significant size. Sheila, who at first had cheerfully left her living module and plopped down into the pilot’s seat, ready to launch an attack, had relaxed by the end of the first week and even started taking off her spacesuit when she went to bed. During the second week, there was only one Vasskh ship. A light transport that, judging by its paint scheme, belonged to some low-ranking clan engaged in trade or transportation. Which meant Sheila had nothing left to do but sleep, read, and watch the slowly rotating inner surface of the fake asteroid. And from time to time, check and test the ship’s systems and torpedoes.

Day after day dragged on, and Sheila found it increasingly difficult to push aside thoughts of the unreality of the world lying beyond the camouflage cocoon. She tried to exercise as much as possible within the cramped confines of the living module, read, practiced evacuating the module in case of an alarm, and pondered, pondered, pondered…

Sheila didn’t know why the once-bustling hub had become so deserted. Maybe the war was over, or had moved away from Skadi. Maybe there were no surviving systems left in the vicinity, and her home planet had been burned to the ground by orbital bombardment. Or maybe the Commonwealth was advancing, and the Vasskh had redeployed all their ships elsewhere. Sheila knew she wouldn’t find out until she returned home.

---

Sheila’s sleep was interrupted by the annoying beep of the radar. After several days of silence, a ship had entered the system. Sheila opened her eyes and tried to focus on the small backup screen. The passive sensors didn’t provide much information, but it was clear that it was a light or medium fighter. After reviewing the data, Sheila suddenly realized that the fighter wasn’t just a random passerby. Its speed and course changes indicated that the “guest” was clearly conducting reconnaissance of the area around the jump point. In theory, this meant she should expect “visitors” who were clearly more significant than a lone fighter. Sheila quickly pulled on her spacesuit and slipped out of the living module through the connecting tunnel leading directly into the “Shrike’s” cockpit.

In the tunnel, the module’s artificial gravity ceased to function, and she had to spend a few moments allowing her senses to readjust. Then she pulled herself up, floated into the cramped cockpit, flipped over, and “landed” in the pilot’s seat. With practiced movements, Sheila fastened her seatbelts and connected her spacesuit to the onboard life support systems. The cockpit canopy closed, and Sheila found herself cut off from the transfer tunnel. She decided not to issue the command to undock the living module just yet. It could still turn out to be a false alarm. Meanwhile, the visitor - which turned out to be a “Sshakt’h” fighter - methodically scanned the area with its active radar. The beam glided over the camouflage cocoon a couple of times but, without lingering on it, moved on.

For some reason, Sheila found herself thinking of her squadron mates, who had always teased her about her last name, “Shelter”, and said that with a name like that, she was perfectly suited to fly missions like this. Her thoughts drifted smoothly to Selim Gorzu, to the way he used to hug her and affectionately call her “little shield.” She thought of her small village, which was now basking in the gentle midday sun, and remembered the children running off to their classes. She thought of her father, tinkering with the robot cultivator, and her mother, picking ripe fruit in the garden behind the house. She thought of her younger sister, diligently typing something on her school tablet. This unexpected appearance of the Vasskh - after such a long hiatus - stirred in Sheila a fear for her family and loved ones, a fear for her native, almost defenseless planet.

Meanwhile, the “Sshakt’h” efficiently completed its reconnaissance of the area around the jump point and vanished into it. Literally a second later, three translucent, shimmering hyperdrive spheres swelled in space; visible stars danced at the boundaries of the spheres; a bright flash blinded the external cameras; and three new fighters entered the system. Three more followed, immediately scattering to the sides and assuming a standard cover formation. Sheila activated her gravity sensors and involuntarily held her breath. A minute later - which felt like an eternity - the system’s vicinity was lit up with flashes of hyperspace jumps: one after another, transit transports entered the system. The computer whispered repetitive data softly into the suit’s speaker: “Ss’hak’z-class transport. Course… speed… space disturbance index during jump… gravidensity…,” while Sheila counted under her breath: “First, second… sixth… ninth.”

Twelve transit transports entered the system. Huge multipurpose container trains capable of carrying anything at all in their divisible “cars” - from minerals to manpower or equipment. Sheila activated the reactor warm-up, booted up the onboard guidance computer, and reached for the control panel to detach the living module and begin full combat preparation of the fighter’s systems. But her hand froze an inch from the switches: a quiet voice of intuition told her that there was something strange and wrong about this convoy. First of all - and this was completely unthinkable - the convoy was escorted by fewer fighters than would normally be assigned to such a large number of transports: only six “Sshakt’h” emerged from the jump point ahead of the convoy, and another twelve were covering it from behind. The Vasskh were obsessed with numbers and traditions. And tradition unequivocally stated: “Every transport must be covered by a small Claw!” Forty-eight craft for the entire convoy. The front lines were sucking up all the combat vehicles from the warring sides, and the Vasskh were no longer clinging so fanatically to their habits, but such weak cover was out of the ordinary.

Second, the transit transports, having begun their post-jump acceleration, were speeding up far too much! Which meant one thing: the convoy was either traveling empty or carrying some kind of light cargo - and, judging by the weak escort, cargo of little value. Cargo of little value, for example, could be civilian Vasskh, or… prisoners from one of the captured planets!

Sheila tried to figure out where the transports might be coming from and what they might be carrying, but she quickly realized that guessing was pointless: the system on the other side of the hyperjump was a transit system, and the ships could have come from either Vasskh-occupied territory or the front lines. No one knew where the second hyperjump led at all. Its existence had only been discovered after the front line had reached Skadi, and not a single reconnaissance probe sent through it had returned. It almost certainly led either deep into the Empire’s rear or to a well-guarded transit system with a permanent garrison. That meant the cargo could have been anything not too bulky: soldiers, civilians, or prisoners. Launching an attack with such information was… unwise, unless, of course, the attacker wanted to go down in history as the mass murderer of fifteen thousand of his own countrymen: the Commonwealth was retreating, the Vasskh were occupying one colony after another, and convoys carrying prisoners were becoming more and more frequent.

Meanwhile, the convoy formed up in marching order and headed toward the hyperjump point at the far end of the system. And deep inside the fake asteroid, in the cramped cockpit of the “Shrike”, strapped to the three most powerful bombs in the universe, a lone young girl still didn’t know if she was doing the right thing. Logic told her that the right thing to do would be to simply ignore the strange convoy. Officially, no one would reproach her for inaction, but she was sure to face the sidelong glances of her colleagues (“She chickened out!!!”). And somewhere deep down, Sheila knew that she really had chickened out. Sheila could have performed an active scan of the transport ships, but that would have meant the end of her cloaking, jettisoning the module, and possibly fleeing if the transports didn’t contain what needed to be destroyed. For the first time in her life, she found herself facing a major target and was afraid to figure out whether it was a target or not!

With these gloomy thoughts, Sheila began the procedure to deactivate the ship’s systems and set about shutting down the propulsion reactor, which was already nearly warmed up, when the computer’s cold voice informed her of electromagnetic activity in space sector 4-11. The signals were coming in on the standard channel for secure radio communications. There was a third party in the system. It wasn’t entirely clear where this contact had come from; perhaps some objects had arrived via a distant hyperjump point inaccessible to her ship’s passive sensors. Her hands swept across the communications panel and activated the transmission. The signal was a multiplexed one, coming from several sources; it was encoded, but the code was clearly human. Somewhere nearby, but beyond the range of the “Shrike’s” antennas, a fairly large fleet of ships had just broken radio silence. Sheila zoomed the external view cameras to maximum magnification and trained them toward the signal sources. At that distance, the type of ships was still indistinguishable, but at the far end of the asteroid field around the hyperspace jump point, several dozen ships could be clearly seen warming up their engines. By this time, the Vasskh had already left the asteroid belt and moved far enough away that Sheila, the convoy, and the unidentified ships seemed to be positioned at the corners of a giant equilateral triangle.

“Well, it’s all come down to this,” Sheila thought. “Someone else was hiding out here besides me. Either they arrived before me, or they came from somewhere on the far edge of the system. In any case, there are more of them, and they can easily deal with the escort fighters. The transport ships won’t have time to either escape or turn around and pass through the asteroid belt back to the hyperjump point anyway. The nimble and agile fighters will catch up to them without even having to slow down much to navigate the asteroid field. Checkmate. Finita la commedia… I won’t even need to reveal myself.”

Meanwhile, the Earthlings’ ships split into two groups. One set out to intercept the convoy, while the other ventured deeper into the asteroid field, cutting off the Vasskh’s retreat route. The convoy commander also noticed these maneuvers: the transport ships abruptly changed course, exposing the smallest vulnerable area - their sterns - to the attackers, while the “Sshakt’h” took up a “claws out” formation, positioning their fighters between the transport ships and the rapidly approaching enemy.

“Yeah, cubs,” Sheila said aloud, “you don’t have much of a chance, to put it mildly.”

As the Earthlings’ ships drew closer, the “Shrike” computer was able to identify their signatures: 18 “Sshakt’h,” with three full Claws facing off against a rather motley but formidable fleet. Some twenty “Marauders,” several unidentified fighters - clearly assembled from standard parts, yet no less imposing than the “Marauders.” Two more “Wildboars” were slightly behind. The pylons on the “Wildboars” were packed to the brim with missile pods. Rounding out the picture were the “Spike” fighters, cutting off the convoy’s retreat, and an old escort carrier of indeterminate class. The attackers’ every move indicated considerable experience serving in the Commonwealth fleet - whoever they were, they had set up the ambush on the convoy like it was straight out of a textbook. The light and maneuverable “Spike” ships were in the asteroid field, the powerful “Marauder” ships formed the rearguard, and the fast but heavily loaded “Wildboar” ships were preparing to break through and attack the transports. And clearly, some reserves had been left on the carrier - just in case of unforeseen circumstances.

In the shoes of those Vasskh captains, anyone would have started thinking about surrendering the ship to boarding parties. If not for one small “but”: the phrase “surrender” did not exist in the Vasskh lexicon.

But to her surprise, a broadcast signal suddenly came in on an open frequency, and the screen displayed the cockpit of the “Sshakt’h” with the “hisser” seated inside. On a screen, without scale, a Vasskh looked almost harmless, just like some kind of strange panda in the zoo. It lasted right up until the teeth showed. And then there was the stare — level, unblinking, going on and on. They had no eyelids. They could not close their eyes if they wanted to, and they did not sleep so much as let half the brain go dark while the other half kept watching. The Vasskh in the cockpit wasn’t just old - he was very old! Sheila had never seen such an old Vasskh, not even in pictures. His fur was completely gray, his muzzle covered with numerous scars; he was missing one ear, one eye socket was covered with a bony plate, and in the other, a single eye burned with a gloomy yellow fire. Sitting before Sheila was a Warrior whose days of glory were long past, but whose spirit remained as strong as ever.

“My God, it’s a Vasskh reservist!” she thought. “Of course! Who else would they send to escort a non-military cargo?!”

The Vasskh waited a few seconds, apparently giving his opponents a chance to tune in to the transmission frequency, and spoke in Pinglish - a mixture of English, Slavic, and Spanish, in which only those words that the Vasskh’s larynx could manage had been retained.

“Th’nat Shak’hat shai Varakh calls upon th’ leader of th’ humans! Identify yourselves and state your objectives! If you seek glory, then I and my warriors are at your service! A convoy of transport ships…” - the Vasskh stumbled, trying to find the right phrase - “...not Ssi’akh! It brings no glory. You will find no honor in attacking it. If you are dishonorable and are lured not by glory but by spoils - then you will find no spoils on these ships! There’s nothing of interest on board for… humans. Let the transport ships go and fight us instead. And then, by the will of Ssharu, either our claws will be stained with your blood, or we ourselves will die fighting and grant you the honor of victory.”

The old man looked sometimes directly into the camera, sometimes somewhere beyond the screen. It was clear that Shak’hat was reading a prepared text from the translator’s screen and was struggling to contain his anger, but he was trying to remain calm and polite, as if he were careful not to inadvertently provoke the people into aggression.

The image on the screen changed to that of a bald man in an army-issue spacesuit.

“So, so, so…” the man said mockingly, “what do we have here? Did the hisser decide to spit? And why did the hisser decide that we’d be interested in playing a game of chase and shoot-’em-up with him? Maybe this old ball of fur is just being sneaky, trying to distract us and deprive us of our rightful prey riding in those vehicles?”

The old Vasskh twitched noticeably and bared his sparse, sharp teeth slightly.

- “Transports… bring no honor… to your hessh!… Name yourself and fight th’ warriors!” Shak’hat said slowly and clearly.

- “Honor, hisser, you can keep that for yourself. You’ll take it back to your ancestors while we’re taking their cargo from the transports! I, Victor Xavier, Captain of the Kingdom of Segonia, don’t need your honor. Booty is enough for me!”

Xavier turned to the side and said to someone: - “Barkash. Run the sausages — the ones the hisser’s crying over. Let’s see what these walking breeding grounds of faded fur are hauling.”

---

Sheila listened spellbound to this brief exchange and suddenly realized who was sitting in the cockpits of the Earth ships right now. They were deserters! Sheila had never heard of this Kingdom of Segonia, but she suspected that the war with the Vasskh had cut off one of the Commonwealth’s minor planets - a planet that had previously been home to either a small Fleet garrison or a strike force that had been cut off and taken refuge there. Sometimes, military personnel would stage a mutiny, seize ships and garrisons, and proclaim themselves kings and emperors on planets forgotten by God.

During their years of isolation, such groups routinely engaged in piracy and established fairly well-fortified outposts with a fleet that was respectable by the standards of the Outer Worlds. Such “kingdoms” operated with impunity for years, growing so rich and brazen that they carried out raids not only on Vasskh convoys but also on individual planets and poorly defended Commonwealth bases. As a rule, they left no witnesses to their “exploits.” The War will blame it all on the “wool sacks” anyway.

Sheila’s joy at the appearance of her compatriots fizzled out with a quiet hiss: the little “Shrike,” hiding among the asteroids, now faced not one enemy - the Vasskh - but two. And the second was no less dangerous and far more treacherous and cunning. Sheila didn’t hear the slightest hint of their main base’s location in Xavier’s words, but there was something she could do. Switching the external camera to record mode at maximum zoom, she began capturing images of the deserters’ ships, hoping that at least some detail would later help them figure out which lair these “royal warriors” were hiding in.

Out of the corner of her ear, Sheila heard another voice interrupt the radio exchange between Xavier and Shak’hat.

“Captain, this is Barkash. I got — hold on. I’ve never seen this. Twelve boxes, all of ’em packed with cubs. Fifteen hundred, maybe two thousand a hull. Rest of the readings say second-wave colonists. Correction: colonist spawn. Off to daddy and mommy in the new nests.”

Shak’hat growled at the screen and said something in Sskhai. A faint shadow flitted across Xavier’s face. Apparently, he’d been hoping the transport ships would carry either minerals or some kind of weapons. But he didn’t let on, and laughed cheerfully into the intercom.

- “Boys, we got a dry hole. Nobody’s getting paid today.” Xavier scratched the bridge of his nose and said mockingly to Shak’hat, “Tell you what, hisser. Take your boys and clear out. We’ll allow it.”

Shak’hat started to say something about the convoy turning around, but the pirate cut him off.

“You’re not listening, Ss’ha Zhak. You can go. The boxes stay. No payday, fine — my boys can use the gunnery practice. Nothing shoots back like a fat hull that can’t shoot back. And they’ll pick up some hisser fur while they’re at it. That true, what they say — nits run soft? Nice and fluffy? Gets cold nights where we’re from.”

Shak’hat lost his composure and roared at the top of his lungs, interspersing his words with Pinglish and Sskhai:

- “… not Ssi’akh! No glory! Damned hairless monkeys! Ssharu will devour your bones! Ss’thakh mann pathass’vi. There’s no honor in fighting the young! Ss’hazz, come with me - I’ll sharpen my claws on your skull; I’ve got them!...”

Suddenly, Shak’hat fell silent, apparently realizing that speaking was useless; he lowered his head, raised it again, and stared intently with his single eye into the camera lens, as if looking directly at Sheila. And then, in a very human way, with a hint of despair in his voice and almost without an accent, he quietly said: - “Why? They’re just ss’ithi, young ones…” The old man reached for something off-screen, and the image changed to a shot of a dimly lit hold. In the frame, dozens of young “cubs” of all ages sat and lay in multi-tiered berths and cradles. They looked like something you would want to pick up. Sheila had sat through the same training reels as everyone else and knew exactly what she was looking at. In eleven years each of those bundles would stand a head above her, weigh better than a hundred and eighty kilos with nothing on it that wasn’t muscle, and carry hard scale under the fur that a sidearm would not go through. The long clever fingers would still be long and clever. The claws only came out when they were needed.

And Sheila heard Xavier’s indifferent reply:

“Don’t care. Small shit grows into big shit. New target profile, all elements. Engines and hull. Stay off the reactor sections — I want those boxes floating. Let the spawn breathe vacuum. No jackpot today, but hulls, parts and fuel never hurt anybody. Execute.” - and he cut off the communication.

A moment after Xavier finished his sentence, the “Sshakt’h,” positioned at the front of the formation, at the tip of the “claws out” — the Vasskh screening pattern, fighters spread into a fan between the convoy and whatever was coming at it — fired up its afterburner and charged at the deserters’ ships. The rest followed suit.

Someone shouted live on air, “Gut the hissers and wipe with the nits!” and the Earthlings’ rearguard fighters rushed toward them, firing all their weapons, even though the Vasskh ships hadn’t yet entered the range of their weapons. The Vasskh fighters were few in number, but the pilots were clearly well-trained. The pirates had counted on the “Hissers” to engage in one-on-one skirmishes, as was their custom - as had happened hundreds of times during space “dogfights” - in the hope of earning Ssi’akh, personal glory. But this time, things went differently. The pirates had been fighting the young. The young chased Ssi’akh, broke formation for it, and died for it. The old ones had chased it too, forty years earlier, and had buried enough of their kin to learn what it cost. The veterans (and Sheila had no doubt that it was veteran reservists at the controls of the “Sshakt’h”) split into three coordinated groups right at the edge of the blast zone, each of which entangled its “Marauder” in a web of laser trails. The pirates hadn’t expected a coordinated attack, and even the “Marauder’s” powerful deflectors couldn’t withstand simultaneous hits from 12 rapid-fire twin lasers. Three small suns flared up in the blackness of space, scattering the “Marauder’s” wreckage, while the “Sshakt’h” groups scattered in different directions, like the petals of a blossoming bud, without sustaining even a scratch. The Vasskh pilots realized that this trick wouldn’t work a second time and each focused on their own target.

At that moment, the pirates’ “Wildboar” changed course, heading toward the slowly retreating transport ships. One of the “Sshakt’h” attempted to follow them and attack, but three Earth fighter craft pounced on it like piranhas. The “Sshakt’h” tried to evade their heavy fire by sending the fighter into a steep spiral and even fired several salvos at the “Wildboar.” But the heavy fighters’ deflectors swallowed the shots without so much as a flicker, while the “Sshakt’h” itself took several direct hits, lost speed, spun like a top, and exploded. The same fate befell the second “hisser” that had rushed to the transports’ aid.

Sheila, frozen in shock, still hoped that Xavier’s pilots would not attack the defenseless and poorly armed transports, but the “Boars” lined up behind the last transport, as if at a shooting range, and opened fire. The pilots didn’t even bother wasting missiles: the proton emitters pierced the deflector field, which quickly turned red, then purple, flickered several times, and vanished. The transport sustained several holes, began losing oxygen, tipped onto its side, and came to a stop. Spinning pieces of hull plating flew off its body, and fountains of oxygen gushed from the holes. The “Wildboar” pilot waited a few seconds, as if giving the transport’s passengers ample time to savor the sensation of impending death squeezing the last molecules of oxygen from their lungs, fired another burst at the hull, and turned toward the next target.

---

Sound does not travel in a vacuum, but Sheila felt as if she could hear the final scream of thousands of tiny Vasskh huddled together in the transport’s compartments. As if from a real, loud scream, her ears rang, and Sheila suddenly realized she was crying, clutching the steering wheel so tightly it hurt. The image from the transport’s hold had long since vanished, but for Sheila, that image did not disappear instantly: before her inner eye, the young ones would shift into a line of adult Vasskh in armor and with weapons, then back into teenagers and children, faster and faster, until everything merged into a single background against which, for a moment, a photograph of her sister appeared, drawing something on her tablet. And everything vanished somewhere. Leaving only a cold, echoing void in her mind.

Sheila pressed the intercom button and spoke in a clear, cold voice over the general channel: “Captain Xavier! This is Lieutenant Sheila Shelter, Commonwealth Space Force! I order you immediately - I repeat, IMMEDIATELY - to cease the attack on civilian humanitarian ships! You are violating the Commonwealth’s Regulations on the Classification and Treatment of Hostile Targets! Immediately withdraw all ships not engaged in combat with enemy fighters!”

After a brief pause, Xavier’s mocking voice came through the headset:

- “Well now. Getting crowded out here. Who else is hiding out there? Madame Shelter, if I heard right? Shelter, is it? Then stay in your hole, sweetheart, and let the grown-ups work.”

- “Xavier, I’m not joking!” Sheila said through clenched teeth. “Call off ‘Boar’ immediately, or else…”

- “Or else WHAT? Throw your tampons at me? Slap my face? Where are you hiding anyway, ma chérie? Come out on stage — we all want to applaud that passionate performance!”

The computer helpfully informed Sheila that the transmission signal was coming from one of the “Wildboars” - the very one that had been firing on the damaged transport.

“Now you listen, bitch,” Xavier continued. “You shouldn’t have opened that mouth of yours. Go dark and pray my boys don’t find you when they’re done with the hissers — because if they do, you’ll want to be dead first. We’ve got a way with Commies. Especially the ones with nothing between their legs.”

Sheila took one last look around. The battle between the “Sshakt’h” and the “Marauder” was still raging, with casualties on both sides. The Vasskh were holding on as best they could, but they were losing their ships one after another. The transit transports were slowly moving away from the battlefield in different directions. The transport pilots understood that they were only delaying the inevitable outcome - that they would be caught up with and shot down one by one anyway - but they clearly had no intention of making the pirates’ task any easier. The “Wildboars” temporarily ceased their pursuit and headed toward the asteroid belt, clearly intending to join the “Spike” ships, which were already scouring the area in search of Sheila. The carrier ship moved unhurriedly toward the scene of the skirmish, taking in damaged pirate fighters as it went, reloading the surviving ones, and launching fresh ones. The carrier left Shak’hat and his Claws not a single chance - neither for escape nor for the possibility of saving even a single transport. Detached, as if in a simulator, Sheila committed this scene to memory, activated her combat systems, and pressed the button to deactivate her cloaking.

The explosives went off, and the pseudo-asteroid’s shell shattered into several pieces as Sheila fired up the engines and pushed the afterburners to full thrust, jettisoning the now-unnecessary living module. Biting her lip until it bled, she steered the “Shrike” toward the carrier. The “Spike” ships immediately rushed after her, like hounds that had caught the scent of prey. Flying at that speed through a dense asteroid field was pure suicide, as the pilot of one of the “Spike” fighters immediately demonstrated when his pylon snagged on a small rock. His fighter lurched, he abruptly changed course, and at full speed crashed into one of the boulders.

But the pilots of the “Ghost” squadron had been specially trained to maneuver through an asteroid field at high speed. Such piloting was part of their job. Sheila seemed to feel the “Shrike” as an extension of her own body. Her ship darted from side to side, nearly grazing the spinning asteroids, skimming so close to their surface that the deflector field almost scraped against the jagged edges of the rocky debris.

Xavier quickly realized that Sheila’s “Shrike” was heading toward the carrier.

“Hey, bitch.” His voice boomed over the intercom. “Either you took my advice, or you’re asking my crew for landing clearance. Don’t. Solana’s already got you.”

Sheila didn’t respond, continuing to plow through the rocky debris.

- “Okay, okay… to the right, even further to the right…” she whispered. “Now sharply up, down, up again… The pirates clearly have no idea what you and I are really like, old man…” Oops… We’re not going to fly around that chunk on the right; I don’t like the way it’s spinning… The pirates are mistaken, and that’s fine… We’re not going to set them straight… RIGHT! Phew… that was close… just a little more… just a tiny bit… down… THAT’S IT!!!”

The “Shrike” shot out of the asteroid field like a cork from a bottle. The enemy “Spike” ships were flying far behind, preferring not to play tag with death. And up ahead, the rounded contours of the carrier - which the pirates called “Solana” - were already clearly visible. For a split second, the thought flashed through Sheila’s mind that there were people - her own kind - inside, but the sight of the Ss’ithi “cubs” trembling in the transport’s holds, then slowly suffocating to death, gradually dispelled her last doubts. Sheila directed maximum deflector power to the ship’s bow, took a deep breath, and activated the engines of the two torpedoes.

Vibrations filled the entire small interior of the “Shrike”, and a terrifying g-force crashed down on Sheila. The tiny ship seemed to be swept up by a hurricane and hurled toward the “Solana”.

Xavier’s surprised exclamation rang out in her headphones: “What the - ”

- “…the fuck?” - Sheila finished his sentence - “You’ll find out what the fuck it is in a second!” - and began programming the torpedo guidance systems. She decided it wasn’t worth destroying the carrier; it would be enough just to take it out of action. So one torpedo was headed for the flight deck, while the second was aimed at the stern and the engines. On the guidance screen, the timer began counting down the seconds remaining until the targets were securely locked on. The counter was already practically at zero when the “Shrike”, propelled by three engines at once, entered the carrier’s firing zone. The deflector shield immediately began to fill rapidly with crimson light, but Sheila knew she would have time to launch the torpedoes before the guns began to shred her ship’s armor. The target lock signal sounded just as the “Solana”’s hull blocked a significant portion of her field of view. Sheila activated the torpedo launch in that very instant. The “Shrike”’s speed dropped immediately, and the acceleration compensators screeched, taking Sheila’s breath away for a second. Yanking the control stick toward her, she executed a sharp turn, climbing upward, while the torpedoes, trailing plumes of white smoke, split to the left and right, as if clamping the carrier in a giant vice. Deflecting the torpedoes at that distance would have taken a miracle.

No miracle occurred. One torpedo slammed straight into the center of the flight deck, turning the carrier’s hangar into a fiery hell, while the second exploded right at the stern, next to the engines. The “Solana” shuddered and listed to one side. The torn-off engine nozzles tumbled away from the mangled carrier. The situation in the bow looked far worse. A torpedo had exploded in a sealed hangar compartment, warping the flight deck and buckling the armor plates at the ship’s bow. In addition, some other ship systems were clearly damaged, because it was now unable not only to launch fighters and move, but had also stopped firing. As she moved away from the “Solana”, Sheila noticed out of the corner of her eye the half-open, frozen hatches of the “Ram” torpedo launchers.

Loud screams rang out in her headphones from the pirates, who realized they had not only lost their carrier but also, since their “Marauder” ships weren’t equipped with hyperdrives, had lost their ticket home. The pirate captain was screaming and cursing the loudest of all. Xavier was flying the “Wildboar”; he could make hyperjumps and could even pick up the hapless “Marauder” pilots, but the thought of losing the carrier - apparently the only one in his Royal Fleet - literally drove him mad. On top of that, his flagship had been reduced to scrap by some pathetic “Shrike” with a bitch at the helm. There was no point in listening to these screams, so Sheila cut the reception from the pirates’ frequency.

During the few minutes Sheila spent dealing with the carrier, the situation around her had changed drastically. The epicenter of the battle had shifted away from the asteroid field, trailing a wake of debris and clouds of cooling gas that had once been fighters. All of the pirates’ “homemade” fighters had been destroyed; they’d lost four “Marauders,” and a fifth was limping away with a malfunctioning engine. But the Vasskh had also lost more than half of their “Sshakt’h,” and the remaining ones had already fired off their entire supply of missiles. On top of that, three “Spike” fighters were hot on Sheila’s tail, having finally emerged from the asteroid field, and two “Boar” led by Xavier were approaching from the direction of the transport ships. The enemy outnumbered them nearly four to one, even counting the “Shrike.”

“Talk about irony,” Sheila thought. “To spend over two weeks lying in wait for the ‘hissers’ and then die protecting them from humans.”

The distance to the battlefield was rapidly closing. Sheila realized that the “Shrike’s” weapons were clearly insufficient to fight the “Marauder” on equal terms, let alone the “Wildboar,” so she tweaked the radar settings a bit, prioritizing targets whose deflector fields were damaged or hadn’t had time to regenerate.

A “Sshakt’h” broke away from the general melee and fired a volley at the “Shrike.” Sheila dodged out of the line of fire and didn’t return fire. The “Sshakt’h” hit her again. This time, the Vasskh pilot fired more cunningly, anticipating her maneuver. The warning system beeped, indicating that the deflector field level had dropped to a critical threshold. Sheila initiated a maneuver to evade a possible follow-up shot and fired at random at the first pirate “Marauder” that came within range.

Strange as it may seem, Sheila got lucky. A second before her shot, two “Sshakt’h” had depleted the pirate fighter’s defenses; it had lost its shields, and Sheila’s shots struck directly into the lightly armored section of the hull behind the pilot’s cockpit. Sheila’s wild shot, fired almost from the edge of the effective range, pierced the armor and vaporized the reactor’s fuel supply system. The “Marauder” somersaulted and vanished in a cloud of explosion.

The Vasskh pursuing Sheila understood her signal very clearly: the call light on the intercom panel lit up.

Sheila pressed the receive button. It was Shak’hat. He didn’t look well. Blood was streaming down the old Vasskh’s face, and smoke and traces of short circuits were visible in the fighter’s cockpit.

“Ss’ark man ta preshh’tr…” Shak’hat began, and stopped. His single eye moved over her face, over the cockpit behind her, and came back. “…Terran ka vasshn th’ronsh.”

The Vasskh had never had the slightest trouble telling human males from human females — the difference was as plain to them as a change of season. Among his own kind, females commanded, or served in SpecOps units that did not go looking for a fight, and they were the better half of his people for it: they did not spend warriors to buy glory. And they had never flown fighters. For a Vasskh it was like seeing a creature out of the tales told to cubs sitting at the controls. But he had just watched one take a carrier apart with two torpedoes and come back for more, and the word he wanted for her did not exist in Sskhai.

Whether in the heat of battle or for some other reason, he had stopped speaking Pinglish. Most likely, the old warrior didn’t have the vocabulary to conduct combat negotiations.

- “This is no time for courtesies!” Sheila replied. She didn’t understand a word of Sskhai and knew practically none of the language. – “The ‘bandits’ are approaching at 12 o’clock! Xavier! He kills ss’ithi! Over there! FOLLOW ME!!!” - and she waved her hand behind her back.

The old Vasskh understood, judging by the low growl he let out. After briefly issuing some order to the other fighters, he fell in behind the “Shrike,” which turned and flew toward their former pursuers.

The “Wildboar” and the “Spike” squadron were rapidly approaching. Sheila, using gestures to help her, tried to explain the tactics to Shak’hat: “The big ones, the ‘Wildboar,’ Xavier - later! First the small ones, the ‘Spike.’ The big ones are fast and powerful, but they turn slowly. The small ones are nimble. They’ll wear us down. First - the small ones!”

“Undrstan’! Big ones later. Small ones first — t’gether,” replied Shak’hat, struggling to find the right words.

The “Shrike” and “Sshakt’h,” flying wing-to-wing, entered the firing zone of the combined “Boar” and “Spike,” made a sharp turn, bypassing the ships of Xavier and his wingman, and immediately opened fire on the lead “Spike.” A barrage of laser fire ripped the deflectors off the light fighter and tore through its armor. Something inside the fighter flared up - apparently in the force field generator system - and it lost speed and fell out of formation even before the “Wildboars” began to turn. Its average maneuverability was the price they paid for good defense and high cruising speed. Sheila and Shak’hat concentrated their fire on the second “Spike,” which, as if scalded, darted to the side.

“Let’s go after the second one!” Sheila shouted, seeing that the pirate’s shields were about to give out. For some reason, it didn’t even occur to her that the old Vasskh might not understand her.

But Shak’hat understood. He fired once more and banked sharply, chasing after the “Spike” as it flew for cover behind Xavier’s heavy fighter. The two “Boars” completed their turn and began firing at the enemy with all their weapons. The warning system beeped, and Sheila threw the “Shrike” into a turn, trying to shake off the missiles. For a split second, the “Spike” flashed in her crosshairs, and Sheila managed to land a couple more bursts on the pirate’s weakening shields. The fighter was jolted violently, and its shields dropped by 50% in an instant. Something exploded quite close to the ship’s side. A second missile was stubbornly trying to approach from astern, homing in on the engine’s heat signature. The pirate in the “Spike” had flown off 4,000 clicks away and was now closing in on the “Shrike” directly from astern, firing all its weapons at the crumbling stern shield. Sheila yanked the control stick to the right, turning to face the pirate and the missile, and immediately engaged afterburner. The missile lost lock-on and began tracing wide circles, trying to reacquire the engine’s heat signature. This gave Sheila a few seconds. She put the “Shrike” into a slide, brought the approaching pirate into her sights, fired a rocket, and pulled the trigger, trying to keep the “Spike” in her sights. The rocket exploded on a collision course with the pirate, who was too late to perform an evasive maneuver. This completely stripped his fighter of its deflector shield and tore off several armor plates. The pirate flew past Sheila, who continued to shower him with laser bursts. The shots ripped through the fighter’s side, and one of them struck the cockpit blister. Pieces of transplast and shreds of what had been the pilot just a moment ago flew in all directions.

In the heat of battle, Sheila lost sight of Shak’hat and, more importantly, the “Wildboar”. They made their presence known with direct hits from proton charges. The shields on the starboard side vanished instantly; smoke filled the cockpit, and the ship shook. The computer cheerfully reported damage to the stabilization system, malfunctions in the fuel system, and a switch to backup circuits. Sheila went into a turn, moving out of the line of fire. The “Shrike” responded sluggishly to the controls, veering erratically, but was still maneuverable. On the flickering, barely functioning radar screen, it was clear that the last “Spike” had vanished. Shak’hat had once again proven that age is easily offset by experience.

But his ship was damaged as well. A section of armor was missing, and one of the twin lasers had failed. Meanwhile, the two “Boar” were still spitting plasma, without so much as a scratch. The battle in the distance was still raging, but the Vasskh had only a handful of battered “Sshakt’h” left to face a dozen “Marauder” ships.

Sheila called out to Shak’hat: “We can’t beat them here! We need to head into the asteroid field! They’ll lose speed there - they’ll get scared! We’ll at least chip away at their advantage a little!”

“Tssark… guns too weak. Th’ won’t damage ’em. Hull too thick,” replied the old “hisser,” but he followed the “Shrike” toward the asteroid field.

-“We have a chance!” - and Sheila began explaining her plan to Shak’hat, gesturing wildly and slurring her words without even realizing it.

They managed to gain a few thousand clicks before Xavier’s “Boar” and his partner (obviously also his bodyguard) turned around and gave chase, rapidly closing the gap. They fired continuously and launched rockets, but fortunately, the “Wildboar’s” afterburner was powered by the same generator as its weapons, so the shots were few and far between.

The “Shrike” and the “Sshakt’h” flew in intersecting, wide sinusoidal patterns, dispensing heat decoys. Several missiles could not be thrown off course, and their explosions - though weakened by glancing blows - nearly tore off the aft deflectors on both fighters. There was only one piece of good news - the asteroid field was very close by. When Sheila and Shak’hat flew into it, the old Vasskh didn’t slow down. The girl couldn’t help but feel even greater respect for her “friend-enemy-hisser.”

The time had come to carry out her plan. After waiting for Xavier to plunge deeper into the jumble of rocks, Sheila made a sharp turn to the side, thinking with satisfaction that her enemy’s reaction had turned out to be remarkably predictable: Xavier gave chase after her, while his partner went after Shak’hat’s “Sshakt’h.” Accustomed to piloting among asteroids, Sheila relaxed a little and slowed down, teasing Xavier by letting him get close and then pulling away. All the while, she kept an eye on the screen, waiting for the right moment. The basis of Sheila’s plan was to cross paths with Shak’hat so that the ships would line up in a nearly straight line: “Shak’hat - Xavier’s partner’s ‘Wildboar’ - Sheila’s ‘Shrike’ - and, finally, Xavier himself.”

Finally, sensing instinctively that the time had come, Sheila called the old Vasskh and said one word: “Time.” Shak’hat growled and, with full afterburners, began to pull away from the pursuit, heading toward the center of the asteroid field, where the density of the flying mountains was at its highest. Sheila steered her ship, gradually moving into the wake of the pirate, who was flying at “the speed of fear.” The ship was shaken once again by a proton charge hit, and the status lights of several of the fighter’s systems flashed an alarming red. But Sheila paid no attention. She had only one chance, and she was preparing to use it. Finally, the ships’ positions fell into the desired formation. Sheila bit her lip until it bled and activated the engine of her last torpedo - the one she’d been so desperately saving all along, trying to shield it from enemy fire. The acceleration compensator had long since failed, and the G-force pressed her into her seat with an iron fist. After making sure that Xavier, who was right on her tail, had also accelerated, Sheila steered the “Shrike” toward an asteroid that the second “Boar” was flying past at that very moment.

Xavier apparently figured out the purpose of this maneuver. He and his partner, a split second later, began to veer off to the side. But it was too late: the “Wildboar’s” mass, speed, and maneuverability had played a cruel trick on them. At the last moment, Sheila fired the torpedo and veered sharply to the right, grazing the asteroid with her deflector field, darting toward another rock, and miraculously avoiding a collision with it. The torpedo struck the asteroid at full speed and exploded, splitting it into three uneven pieces. A huge number of rock fragments flew in all directions; the shockwave caught Xavier’s partner’s fighter and hurled it away. The “Wildboar’s” shields glowed purple as it slammed into one of the rock fragments at tremendous speed and exploded, adding granite shrapnel to the already dense mass of rock debris. Xavier managed to avoid colliding with the large rocks, but he took a beating from the flying shrapnel: virtually the entire right side of his ship was stripped of its weapons and armor. The deflector field generator was still operational, and Sheila could see on the scanner screen that the shielding was gradually regenerating. But one of the “Boar’s” four engines was beyond repair.

Sheila tapped the general frequency key.

“How’s the shooting range now, you piece of shit? You blew it.”

The pirate laughed hoarsely in response, though this time his laughter didn’t sound confident:

“You blew it, you stupid cow. Look at your board. No torpedoes. No lasers. No armor. Nothing. Yeah, I lost half my guns and an engine. Even if that tub catches me, what are you going to do? Couple of rockets left? That’s birdshot. Now I’m going to go pop those flying nests one at a time. Then I’ll come back for you.”

With that, Xavier turned the “Wildboar” around and, using three engines, headed out of the asteroid field toward the nearest transport. Sheila desperately squeezed the trigger, but the lasers spat out only a couple of short beams before shutting down from overheating.

---

Xavier was right. Although the “Shrike” was still moving, the condition of nearly all its systems was dire. The rocket pod, the engine, and the navigation system were barely functioning. Everything else had either been destroyed in combat or by the collision with an asteroid, or was operating in such a way that these systems could not be relied upon.

Then Sheila remembered Shak’hat. The Vasskh was still alive, but he, too, was badly damaged. On the intercom screen, she could see that the cockpit had been punctured, and half of the Vasskh’s face was covered in a crust of caked fur and blood. His single open eye flashed furiously.

“Terran,” Shak’hat hissed and coughed, “Ss’lar zhatt… th’ ship — b’reached…”

Severe interference made the Vasskh’s already slurred speech nearly unintelligible

“…can’t fly fast… you can… don’t let that son of Sszhan… reach th’ transports. Can’t save all… hold him back… ss’ithi…” - Shak’hat coughed again - “...I fly t’ my hessh... die with my kin...” - for a second, the screen cleared of static, and Sheila clearly heard Shak’hat’s words - “Buy time... for th’ ss’ithi. Need a little more.”

“All right, Shakhat shai Varakh,” Sheila replied quietly, “I’ll do everything I can… and my name is Sheila. Lieutenant Sheila Shelter.”

- “Terran Sheila, yr second name — sound like Sh’altri. Dragon’s Fang. Good luck t’ you, Dragon’s Fang. Ni’ssh Ssharu Ssi’akh Sh’altri s’mansh!”

Sheila suddenly understood the old alien’s last phrase and replied, “It was an honor for me, too, to fight alongside you, Shakhat”…

By the time the “Shrike” had moved away from the asteroids, Xavier’s ship had already picked up speed and had a decent lead in distance. Its speed had dropped due to the loss of an engine, and the “Shrike,” at full throttle, managed to reach the intercept point somewhere near the closest transit transport. A little to the side, Shak’hat’s fighter limped along on a faltering engine to aid the last two remaining “Sshakt’h,” which were still fending off attacks from five “Marauders.” Sheila no longer had any doubt that both she and the Vasskh were as good as dead. The only question was whether she would at least manage to delay Xavier. Whether or not that was Shak’hat’s final plan - it didn’t matter. If she could distract him for even a few minutes, the pair of transports would have a small, almost ghostly chance of slipping out of the “Wildboar” radars’ range. And that meant several thousand little ones would be saved. Sheila no longer thought of them as “cubs.” To her, these furry little bundles had become simply children. Not like human children, but children nonetheless. And these children could all perish if Xavier managed to shake off the pursuit.

The fighter was catching up to the pirate ship, but far, far too slowly. Suddenly, the computer announced that the afterburner chamber was in critical condition and recommended reducing speed to avoid an explosion. In her desperation, Sheila almost burst into tears, but she pulled herself together and, after a moment’s thought, called out to Xavier:

“Hey, you bastard! I’m catching up to you!” she said, trying to make her voice sound mocking and taunting. “Maybe my lasers can only fire a couple of shots a minute, but I’ve already contacted the transport ships,” she lied without a second thought, “and they’re preparing a warm welcome for you! EVERY transport will shoot at you, try to ram you, throw pots and pans at you, and scratch you with their claws if they have to! Even if they’ve got just one measly Gauss cannon, together with my rockets and cannons, every transport will kick you in the gut! Even if you blow up a transport, I’ll fly after you to the next one, and there we’ll keep picking at you. And we’ll pick at you UNTIL YOU DIE, you scum! And then I’ll find your corpse in the wreckage and feed it to the surviving “cubs,” you hear me? And then I’ll find the coordinates of your fucking Kingdom in the wreckage of your “Boar” and report them straight to Vasskhaan! And one more thing, Xavier, you know what I want…?”

The pirate finally snapped. “Shut the hell up, bitch!!!” he bellowed, “I’ll rip your guts out…, I’ll...!”

- “No, YOU shut the hell up! I’m not done yet!” Sheila spat into the microphone. “Then, when the Vasskh are done with your filthy kingdom, I’ll find the rock your mama dropped you on. I’ll dig up every grandfather you’ve got and piss in their toothless skulls!”

Xavier abruptly banked the “Wildboar” and turned toward Sheila.

“You’re finished!” he rasped, opening fire with his remaining cannons.

“Well, that’s exactly the response I was counting on,” Sheila said to herself, engaged the afterburner - ignoring the computer’s desperate warnings - and raced toward the pirate. Pitching and yawing, spiraling her course, she maneuvered to evade the plasma balls spewed by the “Wildboar’s” cannons. The distance between the ships was closing so rapidly that the numbers on the radar screen blurred into a single indecipherable symbol. A few hundred clicks away from the pirate fighter, a sharp yank on the control stick sent the “Shrike” straight into the “Boar’s” bow just as every rocket she had left fired at once. The small rockets surged forward, overtaking Sheila’s fighter by just a few dozen meters, and, like enraged wasps, plunged into Xavier’s forward deflector fields. The field glowed with a deep violet glow just as Sheila spun her ship around, exposing her starboard side directly to the oncoming “Wildboar.” For a split second, time stood still, and through the cockpit glass, the girl saw a short, bald man in a spacesuit desperately stretching his arms forward, as if hoping to push the “Shrike” away with his hands.

The “Wildboar’s” sharp nose ripped into the fighter’s side, splitting it in half. Air rushed out of the cockpit with a loud bang, and then, in the severed tail section of the “Shrike”, the reactor and engine chambers exploded. The heavy “Wildboar” raced on, shedding fragments of armor, but its entire nose section, along with the cockpit, was no longer there…

---

Not a single instrument was functioning in the remains of the “Shrike.” The universe was spinning around Sheila once more, but this time it was not the inner surface of a camouflage cocoon, but the real, infinite universe, where humans and non-humans were born, lived, fought, and died. Somewhere out there, on one side of the universe, long, clumsy transit transporters were flying away, carrying off their squeaking and hissing living cargo. Sheila tried to count these little stars, but they doubled and blurred. On the other side of the universe, two battered “Sshakt’h” were attacking a single battered “Marauder,” while they themselves were under attack from four other “Marauders.” And right at the center of the universe sat a black-haired girl in a spacesuit. The girl held on with both hands to a curved steel stringer that pierced her body just below her right breast and watched the purple droplets of blood that spurted from the wound along with a stream of oxygen, immediately freezing and becoming covered in pale pink needles.

The girl looked up and gazed at the blue flashes where the hyperjump point had been. The Vasskh corvette “Kessek’h” was entering the system, escorted by a dozen and a half fighters. The fighters’ points rushed in pursuit of the “Marauders,” which immediately fled.

“Strange…” the girl thought, “who would have thought that I’d ever be glad to see a Vasskh patrol show up…”

Then the girl closed her eyes. From the outside, it looked as if she were asleep.

And then her universe stopped spinning…

Epilogue

The tide of war swept through the outlying worlds. Before the Cairo system found itself in the Vasskh rear, a strange event occurred - one that the inhabitants of the planet Ariadne could not comprehend. A large Vasskh fleet entered through one of the hypergate points. Commonwealth forces attempted to attack it but were brushed aside as easily as one would flick a bug off one’s nose with a fingertip. And what could the local defenses possibly offer against two “Sshal’ss” cruisers, the dreadnought Ssharu, two fighter carriers, and countless escort ships? Attacking such a force would have been pure suicide, so the battered Commonwealth task force simply withdrew to the “dark” side of the planet, while the planet’s inhabitants took shelter in bunkers. To everyone’s surprise, no one pursued them; they were simply ignored.

The Vasskh took up a position near Ariadne in a sun-synchronous orbit and remained there for some time, taking no action. Then a small transport ship broke away from the fleet, accompanied by an unimaginable escort of eighty heavy fighters.

The flight group landed near one of the deserted cities and returned to their carriers four hours later. The Vasskh immediately broke orbit and left the system. Nothing else happened. When the ground garrison ventured out of their shelters to visit the ships’ landing site, they discovered something completely baffling.

On the ground, on a stone pedestal, lay the shattered cockpit canopy of the “Shrike,” and inside it, as if in a cradle, the body of a young woman rested on the pelt of some animal. The young woman was clad in embossed leather armor, and around her neck hung an amulet made from the claw of a massive beast.

The girl was quickly identified. She turned out to be a local resident, pilot Sheila Shelter, who had been reported missing during a combat mission a month ago. No one understood why the Vasskh had returned the body of the fallen pilot, and with such fanfare and a monstrous escort, no less.

But what sparked the most speculation was the expression on Sheila’s face: she lay there with her eyes closed, smiling.

---

The tide of war had rolled in. Many years would pass before this wave began to recede and finally subsided, leaving behind many incomprehensible and inexplicable phenomena.

For example, xenologists will never be able to explain why many male Vasskh are given the female Earth name Sheila - a name so difficult for the “hissers” to pronounce with their throats.

Nor will there ever be an explanation for why, during the ten years that the Cairo system was occupied by the Vasskh and lay directly in the path of their troops’ advance, not a single “hisser” ship - not even the smallest one - ever fired a single shot at the planet Ariadne and its meager defenders, nor did any of them even come close to the planet.

✦ The End ✦