Jorgen was left with the image of Becca Nightshade settling down into the captain’s chair of the Defiant. Confident. Smiling. That was the last transmission from the bridge as the ship went up.
He saluted the blank wall as, beside him in the hologram, the Defiant died. Somber kitsen hovered up around him on platforms, over a dozen of them, and they offered a salute that he’d never seen before. A knife out, held up to the side, heads bowed. A final farewell to a warrior who died in glory.
Personally, he’d never fully subscribed to the Defiant attitude of sacrifice among his people. He found it uncomfortable sometimes how they celebrated death—and he knew for a fact it had led to the untimely demise of people he’d loved. But today, he thought he understood it. Rebecca Nightshade hadn’t thrown her life away.
No ship was allowed, by galactic law and deep internal programming, to fly itself. No AI could be allowed to give commands or perform maneuvers without someone on the bridge.
So she’d remained defiant in the face of overwhelming odds. In so doing, she’d given them all something amazing.
A chance.
The entire complement of the anti-planetary-bombardment platforms around Detritus vanished. Hyperjumping, as the captive slugs gave them the opportunity, into the tiny column of open space behind the dying flagship. Gun emplacements that now hung in space, exposed.
But they didn’t need protection. Because the enemy had committed all of its ships—carriers, destroyers, gunships, and fighters—to attack. They were lined up. Completely distracted by taking their prize.
“All guns,” Jorgen announced, lowering his arm from the salute, “FIRE.”
Enormous beams of destructor fire blasted from the gathered gun platforms of Detritus, cutting through the remnants of the Defiant—piercing the very dust, debris, and burning light of its pyre.
It had been Gran-Gran’s plan. To send her fighters away. To leave herself defenseless. To limp back, knowing that the enemy would follow. That they’d be reckless in their determination to bring her down, and would ignore what the fighters were doing.
Jorgen’s shots passed through the corpse of the Defiant and slammed into the enemy fleet. Warping shields, overloading them with blast after blast. The enemy, of course, tried to hyperjump away. But per Gran-Gran’s instructions, the half of the Defiant fighters that had scattered chaotically swung back around toward the enemy. And if there was one thing that Jorgen’s forces had, it was superior fighters. They converged on the enemy capital ships, bearing kitsen cytonics and slugs. Inhibitors.
In that moment, the battle reversed. The enemy, overconfident, had sent its fighters to bring down the Defiant’s shields—and in so doing, left their fleet undefended. They’d assumed that Jorgen’s fighters were too few in number to do any damage, or bring down their own shields. They were right, but Jorgen didn’t need to worry about that. Not when he had Detritus’s gun platforms and their powerful beam weapons.
All he needed was the enemy lined up, unable to jump away.
And so, within moments of her passing, the hero Rebecca Nightshade got her revenge. The entire enemy fleet went up in blasts of light. Like stars being born.
