First Lieutenant Lance Casey settled in the comfortable seat of his Panther fighter. He thrust the throttles forward and the engines spooled up to a faint whirring sound. They were smooth and quiet, unlike the old roar and vibration of older models. Everything around him was like that, modern and efficient--computer controlled. The TCS Cerberus, a Hades-class quick-strike assault cruiser, was the culmination of cruiser firepower, destroyer speed and carrier versatility evolved from the past 1000 years. The only downside was a fairly hefty price tag, but this was the Confederation and the Confederation could afford these things, couldn’t it?

He felt a powerful yet smooth acceleration as the fighter sped down Cerberus’ launch tube and out into the black vastness of space. He’d still not gotten used to that feeling, a feeling of immense size as a multitude of stars exploded into view, veiled by a faint green nebula --

"Lieutenant, all you need to do is fly along the preprogrammed nav route. That should give us enough data to calibrate the jump-detection software," crackled Casey’s short-wavelength radio system.

Wake, up Casey. "Roger, Cerberus. Setting course for Nav 1 now. Out." came his sharp and attentive reply. There wasn’t much to screw up on a short milk run such as this, but Casey knew he was Wing Commander, and had to set a noble example for the rest of his wing . . .

"Ya ready, Casey?" came the inevitable and light-mannered exclamation from Maestro. All the experiences on board the TCS Midway and staring down the gaping mouth of the alien wormhole had done little to quell his impetuous attitude. "Hey, what did they do to these Panthers? I don’t remember these weapon specs."
"Did you read the ‘Introduction to TCS Cerberus,’ Maestro? Everyone was supposed to get one after the transfer briefing," Stiletto’s unsurprising voice said to Maestro.

"Um, oops. Can I try out some of these new toys?" A bright bluish-white bolt flashed out from Maestro’s fighter.
Casey instinctively swung hard right to avoid the fire. His sudden maneuver threw the whole formation of six fighters into chaos, as everyone twisted to avoid collisions. "Break formation! Break formation!" he called out.

As he got clear, he said firmly, "Form on my wing. I want everyone to double-check weapons safe. Maestro, don’t do that again. We can’t afford to make mistakes -- back on the Midway, we each had our close-encounters with death. Only by skill, trust and damn luck did we survive! Sooner or later a slipup will kill one of us. Let’s make it later." Sweating, Casey thought I’m no good at giving speeches like that. Maybe Blair could, but I can’t.

In any case, the only response was a tense "Yessir" from Maestro. "Alpha One engaging autopilot. Bravo Wing, follow my lead." Casey punched the red Auto button and Alpha Wing cruised into the darkness, autopilots holding the craft in perfect formation. Casey checked to make sure Bravo Wing was slightly behind and below. Only then did he settle back and close his eyes. It was only a routine patrol, after all . . .

COURAGE SYSTEM

Casey stretched in the Panther’s roomy cockpit. On his HUD was a white cross, the visual representation of Nav 1 on the outskirts of the Courage System asteroid belt. As the autopilot computer recognized the proximity to Nav 1, both wings of fighters began a long and graceful turn towards Nav 2. Suddenly a flood of red contacts filled their radar screens.

"What the hell?" Casey targeted a contact. He squinted at the target VDU. No. It couldn’t be. What he was seeing was the sinister shape of an alien Moray fighter. Casey felt a deep sinking feeling in his gut, a horrible feeling that this was very, very wrong. "They’re back! Disengaging autopilot. My wing: Break and attack!" As his chain ion cannons cut through the hull of an enemy Moray, Casey yelled . . .

PROXIMA SYSTEM

. . . in feral glee as the Tiamat alien dreadnought exploded in brilliant hues of blue and green. His Devastator shuddered and creaked under the force of the shock wave. Rippling off the last of his Mosquito rockets at a passing alien Squid, he fired off one more plasma shot into the dying alien hulk. "How do ya like THAT, huh? Stupid bugs!"
As the last alien fighter vanished in a glowing fireball, Casey could almost see Blair's ghostly image in the flames . . . a single tear formed at the bottom of Casey's eye . . . and fell. At last, it was over.

SOL SYSTEM
SPACE STATION ACEARON

Admiral McCormack peered out of the window. Out there, were there should have been blackness, was a large conglomeration of ships. Warships. It gave McCormack a sense of power in commanding over this fleet. It was centered on the two existing Midway-class carriers, TCS Midway and TCS Mistral Sea. No less imposing were the vast number of smaller warships and support vessels. Protecting the carriers on all sides were Plunkett artillery cruisers and a few bizarre Hades strike cruisers. At the outer layers of the battle group lay fast Murphy destroyers, and in the middle were Pelican transports and various resupply vessels. All in all, the total assembly numbered to about 30 ships. It made him proud to be a part of the mighty Confederation, though he knew that soon this impressive show would likely be reduced to fragments or be destroyed altogether. . .

"This is a time of crisis," transmitted the somber voice of Admiral McCormack to all the ships. "This group of ships and their crews have been selected to defend not only the Confederation, but human life as we know it. The Nephilim have penetrated Confederation space once again. We must stop them at all costs. Remember what you’re fighting for. I know you won’t let us down."

TCS MIDWAY

Lance Casey sat trembling in his chair, too stressed to consume his drink. Aliens. Again. He rubbed his hands in his face. Sweating, he thought, Damn! I killed a million of those bugs, and here I am, back on the Midway. Where it all began.

"All pilots to the briefing room at once!"

TCS MIDWAY
BRIEFING ROOM

CAG Drake took her familiar place at the podium. As her eyes scanned the seated pilots, she noted new faces. Replacements for the losses they had suffered. Wolfpack and Diamondback squadrons were relatively intact, but she didn’t recognize half those seated with the Black Widows. She noted the usually talkative pilots were now seated at attention with grim looks on their faces. They exchanged occasional hushed whispers, but the entire room was strikingly silent. Drake cleared her throat.

"All right. The Nephilim aliens have opened another wormhole gate in the Proxima System. A large fleet has already passed through the gate. They recaptured the former gate, and seem to be accreting more stellar matter to form a permanent connection into Confed space."

Drake paused, her hands clenched tight on the podium. "We’ve abandoned efforts to contain the alien attacks, and most of our remaining vessels have assembled here for a last-ditch attempt to halt the advance and prevent the Nephilim from reaching Sol. In short, this is a suicide mission."

Throughout the briefing room, a noticeable ripple of shock passed through the pilots. The CAG felt it too. Why did this have to happen? Can’t we live in peace?

"We will jump and rendezvous with the remains of the Kilrathi fleet. That will add an appreciable amount of firepower -- we need every edge we can get." Some of the pilots nodded, some frowned. Maniac muttered something to Casey.

"I want you all to go to your quarters. Write last-minute letters home, get some sleep, whatever. Get rested up; when we fight, I want you all at your best. The fleet jumps at 0400. Dismissed."

H’REKKAH SYSTEM
BRIDGE, TCS MIDWAY

Space shimmered, bent, and finally gave way to the fleet of ships emerging from jumpspace in a dazzling burst of electromagnetic radiation. Farther off, a battered warship and a few fighters changed course to meet the new arrivals. Kilrathi vessels.

"The Kilrathi are pleased to assist their bald comrades!"

Lt. Shapra winced at the hairy creature’s growls. "Captain! Recieving transmissions from Kilrathi Vaktoth!"
Captain Wilford walked over to the console and examined the screen. "A Fralthi II and some Vaktoths? That’s it?"

"Yes sir, that’s it."

"Open a voice/video link to the cruiser."

A pause. "Done, sir!"

Wilford cleared his throat in preparation to communicate with the Kilrathi. Odd, he thought, we’ve been trying to kill each other for all these years, and now in this time of crisis we unite. "XO! Report to transmission room at once!" Wiford waited for the Midway’s Executive Officer to join him. Wilford took his place in front of a video camera and the XO slightly behind and to the left. "Lieutenant, begin transmit on my mark. Three . . . two . . . one . . . mark!"

There was a brief click as Lt. Shapra flipped a switch. Wilford began slowly "Greetings, Kilrathi vessels. I am Captain Wilford and this is Executive Officer Morgan. I hope we can set aside any previous aggression, for we will need the support of each other to overcome the Nephilim. I welcome your fighters to land in the Midway’s hangar bay, and your cruiser to form up alongside. I will enjoy meeting you in a more formal --"

"Silence human!"

Wilford blinked at the Kilrathi’s jarring interruption. A screen flared to life: it displayed a hideous grinning face with glittering beady eyes: a Kilrathi face. The cat’s hot breath fogged the screen as it continued, "We land now!" With that, the transmission ceased as abruptly as it began.

Wilford, shocked, stood looking at the blank screen for a moment. "So much for formalities."

LANDING BAY, TCS MIDWAY

"They’re comin’ in fast and hard!" shouted the deck officer. "Three Vaktoth, get that Vamp out of the way!" Struggling with a headset for a moment, he punched a button and opened a comm channel to the errant fighter. "Gamma Two, Gamma Two! We’ve got multiple ships on unauthorized landing pattern, clear the deck immediately!" The deck officer swung his arms ugently, as if he could force the ship to move any faster. "Goose ‘em, Gamma Two you are authorized to engage afterburners at your discretion!"

Gamma Two, with landing skids extended, swung around towards the interior of the hangar. The pilot underestimated the momentum of the turn and had to swing back a few degrees.The engines spooled up to a deafening whine, but still the Vampire was not clear. In a move of desperation, the pilot touched the afterburners. A quartet of huge flaming tongues extended from the engine nacelles, scorching the bay walls. The Vampire leaped forward, nearly out of control, into the hangar. After a near collision with a parked Panther, the pilot in one final move, thrust the control stick straight down. Gamma Two’s nose dipped hard, utterly destroying the frontal landing skid. Momentum kept the fighter going, until it flipped completely on its back in a shower of sparks.

The deck officer cursed. "I want a crew on that fighter right now! Get the pilot out first! Medic!" Flight deck personnel scurried to comply with his orders. "Where are those Vaktoths?" Seemingly in response to his question, a trio of the sharp, angular ships streaked overhead. Flying full speed in the hangar bay? What kind of stunt are they trying to pull? Before the deck officer could complete his thought, there was a bright flash and everything in the hangar bay was obliterated.

ALPHA LEADER

Casey felt always felt a release from tension whenever he was flying. He felt free, able to whatever he wished without consequence. In fact, it was almost --

The Midway, four kilometers away from Casey’s fighter, disappeared in a tremendous white flash. It was astoundingly bright and Casey grunted in pain and shut his eyes. A circular red afterimage was burned into his vision. As the electronics in his cockpit fizzled and crackled into millions of credits worth of dead hardware, he thought Why didn’t the automatic filters block that light! Oh, the light!

Everything was peaceful. Abstract, surreal . . . relaxing. Comforting. Where are am I? Casey tried to open his eyes. He felt resistance - something was covering his eyes. Casey tried to move, but he gasped as throbs of pain washed through his body. My head! The discomfort served to help jolt him back to reality, and Casey relaxed for a moment to try to figure out his situation. He seemed to be lying down on a bed of some sort. Listening carefully, he could not hear anything.

He felt the firm touch of a hand on his shoulder. The grip was not forceful, nor was it weak. Something about it reminded Casey of Blair. What little Casey knew of Blair was --

"Lieutenant . . ." spoke an authoritative voice.

Casey mustered up the strength to speak, though his parched throat felt as dry and rough as burlap. Unsure of what to say, he said simply, "What?" Surprised at the hoarse sound from his lips, Casey wondered if he was understandable.

"Lieutenant . . ." the voice repeated, wavering a little. "Casey," it regained its strength again, "the TCS Midway has been destroyed."

What?! Casey wanted to shout, but in his present state that was impossible.

"The Cats. They . . . they set off a nuke inside the Midway’s hangars. The . . . oh God. The ship broke up. We lost the Midway. We lost them all." The voice seemed to have lost all composure now, "The EMP fried our electronics and shield systems, and we lost several ships from the flying debris of the Midway . . ." The voice trailed off completely.

Casey was overwhelmed. He simply relaxed and let the news bury him, smother him . . . it has a horrible feeling, much worse than any mere physical pain. After an agonizing moment of silence, he ventured in a trembling voice "Who are you?" He also wondered why his eyes were covered, but that seemed secondary to finding out the identity of this anonymous speaker.

"I am Captain Norman Methoras. Welcome to the Mistral Sea . . . your new home." Captain Methoras snapped his fingers. "Doc!"

A new pair of hands pulled at the coverings on Casey’s eyes. He winced and shielded his vision as light flooded in. After taking a moment to adjust, he saw he was in one of the Mistral Sea’s cavernous hangar bays. In between parked fighters and bombers were rows and rows of cots, each holding a bandaged patient. Medical officers walked around tending to the hundreds of wounded. Noticing the medical officer’s curious expression, Casey snapped his mouth shut.

"Congratulations, Lieutenant. You’ve got your eyes back."

Casey turned to see Captain Methoras kneeling beside the bed. Captain Ethan studied him with a pair of dark, serious eyes. His tousled black hair and haggard expression suggested he hadn’t had much sleep in a while. Casey was surprised at how young he appeared.

"Sir, how long has it been since the . . . incident?"

Methoras gave a wry smile. "Three days." Noting Casey’s expression, he continued, "Come on, Casey. Let’s get away from all of this." He gestured toward the grim spectacle of hundreds of helpless wounded.