"KILL!" Gargoyle's voice shouted its agreement. No Marek, he thought, remember, it's not Gargoyle. It's the Eye. "ye-Yesssss!", the voice hissed, but it was no longer Gargoyle's voice. Did it hear me? The voice shivered as it spoke, seeming to vibrate and skip through the air. It was as if there were two voices coming from in front and behind him, overlapping by milliseconds. The one behind would start to speak in whispers, only to be interrupted by the other, shrill and loud. The effect was decidedly inhuman. "k-Kill th-them! b-But ha-how d-do y-you b-believe y-you sh-should pr-proceed?"
Marek returned his attention to the numbers. They had done these sorts of problems hundreds of times, both as practical exercises in class and on their own, under Linden's watchful eye. He had insisted they practice incessantly. And now I'm glad he did. When I get out of here, I'll tell you that, Linden. The trick here, he remembered, was the algorithm. It was essentially a primitive A.I. The fighters in orbit would be far more accurate in their firing; they could precisely time and place their shots within millimeters of one another, allowing them to penetrate even a heavy cruiser's shields, at least partially. And in a fighter fight, with the algorithm in control, one of the enemy's was at least as good as two of the League's. The key was to send in just enough fighters, firing continuously, and hope that your shots would hit their mark. Because you could be certain that theirs would hit you.
As he thought this, movement in the simulation caught his eye. Marek looked up. A group of ships had detached from the main fleet, and drove towards the planet. His eyes launched forward, strafing across the surface of a giant spearhead, bristling with fighters, and then turned to meet the planet. The enemy fighters had formed a swirling whirlpool, and as he stared, he was suddenly sure that each ship was extending its spiral horn to meet the charge. An intense wave of light flashed past his view, and his eyes rushed forward, following behind a wall of rippling red arrows, driving to meet the enemy.
Bright white light flashed from the planet and pulsed outwards, cutting across space like overlapping blades of knives. The light rushed towards the enemy formation, threatening to consume them. But the whirlpool of ships appeared to shift, and the light passed between them harmlessly. As it passed, the ships birthed miniature red dwarves, which joined together into a torrent of energy, ripping forward through space. As it drew nearer, the intensity of the light caused Marek to clench his eyes shut. When he opened them, he was above the scene, watching the opposing waves of energy pass one another, and descend upon each cluster of ships. With twin flashes of fire and light, it was over.
His eyes descended to drift amidst the aftermath. A wing, severed in an explosion, spiraled past his view. Directly ahead, grey material rotated in place, its function no longer decipherable. A white blur emerged from his right, collided with the debris, and slowed to a near stop. The white object, a space suit, waved at him with a vigor no longer shared by its legs, now lost and forgotten. Marek shifted his eyes away, and met the vacant gaze of a scorched helmet. He shuddered, closing his eyes and bringing his hand to cover his mouth. He exhaled into his hand and opened his eyes. He was back in space, examining the situation from afar.
Marek rubbed his eyes. Just a simulation, he told himself. Get back to work, Marek. He looked back to the console screen. The image had changed to reflect the outcome of the battle. In place of fighters, twin fields of debris now rimmed the planet. All that remained were the planetary defenses. The fighter wave hadn't even scratched them. This problem was simple. It was just a matter of sending in the rest of the fleet of heavy cruisers, with fighter cover to soften the blow. He looked up from the console to the simulation. As before, the ships had begun to move. But how did it know what I was thinking? I didn't say anything. His hands drifted up to explore the helmet.
A flash of light caught his attention. Hundreds of thousands of fighters formed a wall shielding the larger heavy cruisers. His eyes were drawn within a section of the wall. He could sense that the heavies were about to fire. His hands, now forgotten, drifted to his sides. He watched from within the barrier, observing the glowing blue embers of the fighters' interstellar engines weave back and forth. Occasional purple pulses raced past him, and stitched through holes between the fighters blanketing the charge. One of the fighters dropped out of formation and banked hard to the left, only to collide with a beam of energy and burst into short-lived flames. As the memory of the destroyed fighter faded from space, laser and plasma fire ignited all around him. He could almost feel the heat of their fire. A bead of sweat trickled down his nose, stinging his eye. He blinked, and found himself at a vantage point above the battle.
Knives of photon energy from the planet, futile in light of the surge of energy approaching it, soldiered onwards to the approaching fleet. Marek emerged behind it, watching white hot energy burn itself out in swathes upon the wall, with lone snaking daggers of energy continuing onwards, igniting green walls around dozens of heavy cruisers before cutting them to pieces. And in the next second he was at the planet, watching the silver discs of the rings ignite in purple and green fire before spiraling off, colliding, and falling away into the atmosphere, itself burning with color.
In a matter of seconds, it was over. Marek turned his head to the right and found himself above the fleet, which rested motionless. He turned his eyes to the console. A tally of the battle was displayed: 54691 fighters lost; 153 heavy cruisers lost; 349,955 credits lost; 452,400 credits debris created. I'm sure this is right, he thought. Linden would be pleased.
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