Trajectory, Deck 11, SysCon

The ship shuddered again, as more missiles made their way through their tenuous defensive net. The entire Systems Control was stretched to, and slightly past the limit, managing damage control and power requisition demands, all over the ship. Annike Rand, still not having found a moment to get into her uniform, was having her hands full, managing it all.

"Lieutenant?! Could you come take a look at this... ?" - one of the enlisted engineers manning a surplus cargo inventory console on the lowest level, suddenly called out, frowning at the screen.

Annike Rand, currently engrossed with a pair of other engineers over a central terminal, dealing with point-defence target priority profiling, looked up, somewhat annoyed, before she shook her head to herself.

"Keep updating the profiles. We're aleady leaking missiles through the PDs like a damn sieve, so stay on top of it. This baby can only take so much, before we start losing structural integrity!" - she instructed the two, before she moved off, catching the eye of another engineer.

"You, get a line to Control Team 11! I don't like the readouts on our master coolant lines. They're to head down to reactor control and start rerouting through backup conduits! Last thing we need is to have to reduce power output. We're already losing ground to those bastards!" - getting a nod. Finally, she called back to the lowest level where the shout came from...

"Unless you're gonna tell me Santa Claus just delivered a bunch of countermeasure packages to our surplus bay, I'm writing you up. Because those are the only things we fucking need right now, from the surplus inventory!" - she hissed, eyes narrowing at the young woman, who looked barely out of her teens.

Wasting response time in the middle of a combat situation, when damage-control crews were already stretched to the limit, dealing with a multitude of hits the Trajectory already took, with non-critical tasks like cargo managment, was a serious breach of protocol.

"There's something happening to one of the chemical-release tanks... it's being accessed remotely, from somewhere on Deck Fifteen." - the woman replied, distractedly, the frown still on her face, but her tone conveying she thought this was important.

"What the hell..." - this got Rand's attention, as she picked up her pace, sliding down the stairwell to the lowest level by way of the armrests, and landing on her feet, not wasting time with steps, taking full advantage of her limberness and body coordination.

"Show me." - she ordered, coming to a stop over the young engineer's shoulder, peering down at the terminal screen. It displayed a readout for Chemical Tank 3A, currently used for Tythanine gas storage. The fact it was a part of surplus inventory meant it wasn't one of the required chemicals normally carried on ships of this class. Annike had to rack her brain for a moment. Tythanine... what was it used for, again... the woman couldn't remember. She just had a vague notion it had a medical application. Not being a member of MedOps, she had no specific knowlege on it, however.

"Rand to MedOps." - she moved over to a wall comm panel, keying for a link to the ship's medical bay, down on deck 17.

"Go ahead LT." - came a harried-sounding reply. The personnel down there were no doubt inendated with casualties.

"What's Tythanine used for? I got some anomalous activity with Tank 3A... the outtake valves are open. Looks like someone down on 15 is trying to route the content... somewhere. The air-con by the looks of it, but we can't get a good read, too much damage to the Interface scanners on that deck. Innies probably shot 'em up."

"WHAT?! Tyth is a piezogenetic reactant aerosol! It can affect the cardiovascular system through a combination of--" - the medic on the other side exclaimed in alarm, before the woman cut him off, "In English, doctor! What the hell does this stuff do and why are the air-recirculation conduits on 15 filling with it?!" - she snapped.

"It's a toxic agent! Normally used in microscopic amounts for specific bacterial treatments in patients, but in the amount that's in that tank--" - the medic clarified, before he was cut off again.

"Thanks doc!" - before she closed the line, opening another, to TacOps, and the Bridge.

"This is SysCon! We got a Class Three toxin release in progress on Deck 15! Request permission to flush the air-con on that deck, and recirculate. Immediately!" - she barked urgently.

***

TacOps, Bridge...

"Granted!" - Alzer replied before the XO could. Not exactly standard protocol, since a confirmation would normally be needed from the environmental deck officer on Deck 15. As the XO opened his mouth to protest, the captain's glare cut him off.

"We don't have time for formalities! If we lose 15, and hangar access, we won't be able to launch any more fighters. And we know the intruders are massing on 15. Can't be a coincidence." - before he turned his attention back to the comm panel.

"We've also lost contact with the Marine detachment heading for 15. See what your people can do about restoring our comms on that deck. And isolate all main computer access from 15! If someone there is routing toxins from our stocks, the Insurgents must have our secondary access codes. But how would they... nevermind. Get it done!" - he cut himself off, realising he was coming close to voicing an uncomfortable possibility.

A possibility he was sure Annike was considering, as well. And from the tightness in her tone as she replied, that only someone familiar with her would recognise... she was.

"Yes, sir. We-we'll get right on it. SysCon out."

"Captain, you were right... the pursuing force is beginning to split up. The three gunships are going the opposite way - probably for a pincer!" - the flight officer reported.

"If we can't launch the rest of our fighters, it won't matter, sir. We'll be overwhelmed before we can punch a hole through the flanking force." - the XO commented, quietly.

"I know. What the hell is going on down on 15... ?" - Alzer growled, more to himself then anyone else, biting his lip. Then his attention refocused on the master Tac display.

"Helm, take us fifteen degrees to starboard. That port-most gunship behind us has a good chance of cutting us off if we keep this trajectory, and get a good volley of antimatter bursts at our portside." - he input a string of commands, and a set of holo-reticles appeared around said gunship.

"Port fire control, prepare a dispersion pattern of particle blasts, as it sidles-in close. With luck, we'll catch them with a broadside before they can vector off in time." - the XO added, his own brow furrowed at the Tac display. Alzer nodded... from the way that Gunship was pushing past it's flank speed, he guessed the Insurgent captain was planning to cut across the Trajectory's vector, and take a shot at the battlecruiser's port engines.

Even at the cost of overheating his own, from the way the thrust-exhaust behind the Insurgent vessel was glowing red. If the gambit worked, the Trajectory would lose about a quarter of it's top sublight speed, allowing the two remaining pursuing Gunships to catch up and double-team the less maneuverable capital vessel. Tie the battlecruiser up long enough for the flanking force to sligshot around the planet, and complete the pincer.

If it worked. If not - that Gunship would lose it's own engine power, and be a sitting duck for the Trajectory, as it undershoots the intercept point, and it's own engines fail due to overheating.

"They're shifting their approach pattern - matching our maneuvre." - the helm officer reported crisply... "...and increasing power. Well past redline. Whoever they are, they're dead-set on intercepting us. Even if they blow a gasket doing it!" - the woman smirked.

"Another five degrees shift to starboard, please. Let's elongate their trajectory some more... see how far are they prepared to gamble on their engines not giving out." - Alzer murmured, eyes intent on the Tac display, before his eyes widened slightly. The Gunship's weapons weren't even active. From the looks of it, all power was routed to the engines. And that could only mean...

"Belay that! Cut power to 2/3rds. NOW! Emergency jaw-angle, ninety degreees to starboard! Make them overshoot!" - he barked.

"Sir... ?" - the woman glanced back, in shock, as the XO threw him a glare, growling, "That'll kill our momentum in no ti--"

"NOW!!!" - Alzer barked, loud enough to make the helm officer jump, a sinking feeling in his gut getting stronger, as the TacScan computer identified the class of the approaching vessel. He'd seen this tactic before, from the Insurgents. If he was right...

As his order was executed, and a horrible scream of tortured bulkheads echoed through the vessel, straining it's structural integrity to the limit, he found himself clutching the amrests of his chair tightly enough for his knuckles to go white, eyes glued to the Tac display. The Gunship attempted to tighten it's own turn to match, but it wasn't reducing speed. Alzer nodded to himself.

Exactly as he thought.

"What the hell are they... sir, they aren't trying to adjust speed to match their new vector!" - the helm officer sounded confused.

"They can't, Ensign. There's nobody aboard that gunship to do it. It's a suicide-craft, on AI control. Probably some cheap vector-mode-only program, that doesn't know how to adapt on the fly. Typical Insurgent sloppiness. And packed to the brim with antimatter charges, on proximity-trigger hooked to the short range sensor array." - he stated grimly, crossing his arms.

His XO visibly sagged, in realisation, as the helm officer's eyes looked like dinner plates, realising how close they came to being rammed by a massive, spaceborne suicide-drone.

"Enhance view. And bring us back up to flank speed. Previous parabolic vector around the planet. Let's not lose any more of our lead, we've got little enough of it left as it is." - Reventon Alzer ordered, calmly, even as the Trajectory shuddered, from a couple more AM23's impacting somewhere on it's lower aft quarter.

Those Insurgent fighters continued to pump out everything they had at his ship, while keeping distance. But that suited him fine, even if damage-control reports contineud to queuve up on his terminal's screen. None of them were flagged in red, mostly greens and an occassional yellow, which was what mattered. The Trajectory's own fighter screen would keep those fighters at bay, forcing them to launch their ordnance from long range, while the PD's minimise the amount of missiles getting through. As long as they didn't have to contend with anything bigger then AM23's... the ship would hold up under the occassional pinprick. But when those other two gunships got in range...

That would change.

The Tac display shifted its view, to a close-up of the ageing gunship. From the looks of it, some modified knockoff of an Aurelius-class patrol craft, that the Earth forces, Conglomerate or otherwise, hadn't used in close to sixty years now. Too old, even for Insurgent usage. Probably why it was relegated to a suicide drone. Everyone watched, as the vessel suddenly blew up, in a massive, devastating antimatter detonation, far exceeding the reactor output of a ship that size, and easily with enough yield to destroy three ships the size of the Trajectory, if it detonated close enough. The edge of the distant blast actually managed to reach the Trajectory, giving the massive battlecruiser a good shake.

"Whew... good call, sir. Shaved about a minute off our lead, but... we're still breathing, at least. That... was a big fucking boom." - the XO murmured in Alzer's ear.

Alzer nodded.

"Now we need to get the rest of our fighters in space. Posthaste. And that means clearing out deck 15 from those bastards. What the HELL are our Marines doing... ? Let me know the moment comms are restored to MOC or the hangar bay!" - he ordered.

"Yes, sir."

***

Meanwhile, back in SysCon...

As the technicians got busy on trying to flush the Tythanine from the air recirculation system on Deck 15, with so-far limited success, given the damage done to remote computer circuits on that deck, possibly due to intruders' sabotage, Lieutenant Rand was by herself, scowling at a terminal screen. For the time being, the outside situation was under control, and her subordinates could coordinate damage control efforts. She had a different problem... and a cold hunch to play on, given the inside situation. Those Insurgent intruders on 15... how did they access the computer, to route toxins? How did they have the access codes? Or more to the point - whose codes? Each ship in the Conglomerate fleet had it's own set of access codes, for it's crew, separated by rank. For them to have been able to access the surplus chemical storage tanks, they needed codes of at least Ensign rank or above.

"Interface: Backcheck the log for all computer access on deck 15. Sort by most recent ones, first." - the woman growled. Very much not liking where her hunch was pointing her. She argued on Skitt's behalf, with Revvie... was she wrong about her ex-boyfriend? Big time?

-Interface confirm: Six access requests logged in the past twenty minutes.- - the monotone computer voice replied, scrolling a list of encrypted data across the terminal screen.

"Interface: Authorisation Rand-22-Delta, decrypt the personal signatures on each of those six access requests. And sort by rank access." - Annike bit her lip. Hoping against hope she was wrong...

-Interface confirm: Decryption in progress, four ranks Enlisted, two ranks Ensign.-

Rand's fists clenched, as the list of names appeared. Five of them disappeared from her attention threshold immediately, as she read the most recent one. Ron Skitt. The woman's face darkened, as she had to support herself on the terminal's edge, to remain calm. That son of a bitch.

And to think, she had actually defended him in front of the captain. Now he gave the enemy access to their main computer, and possibly got a whole detachment of Marines killed by whatever that stuff was. She swallowed, hard, trying to keep herself from slamming a fist into the terminal's screen. She took a deep breath.

"Get me MOC. Now." - she turned, to one of the techs, voice tight.

"Impossible, ma'am. Comms are still down to the lower decks." - that technician shook his head.

Rand grabbed him by the uniform's collar, getting in his face. To say that the discovery she just made had got her angry, would be an understatement.

"GET ME THE DAMN LINE TO THE MARINE CONTROL! NOW!" - she yelled. Admirably, the enlisted man remained calm, meeting her gaze and locking his grip around her hands at his collar, but not attempting to showe his superior officer away.

"As I've said LT, comms are still down. Regretfully. I think Team 6 are on it." - he intoned in a resonant, neutral tone, not shifting gaze.

She vacillated for a long moment, eyes narrowing to slits, before she suddenly shook her head and let go. "Sorry... carry on. Crewman - ??" - she looked at him quizically.

"Crewman 2nd class Elric Kosinski. Ma'am."

"Get on the active roster for SysCon. How many people do we have available right now?" - she asked, more calmly.

"Available for another damage control team, ma'am?" - the man asked, tilting his head.

"That's one way to put it. If we can't reach the MOC and get them to send another squad up, we need to get down to 15 ourselves and deal with the security breach. Our access codes have been compromised. I want you to gather whoever we have that's not busy, and open up the main sidearms locker in SysCon. I'll be joining you at the maintenance tunnel access. We'll use them to get down there. And make sure everyone's issued a filtration mask. There could still be residual Tyth in the atmosphere down there." - she explained, grimly.

Kosinski bit the inside of his cheek, but nodded. "Yes, ma'am." - getting up from his chair and trotting off.

He was aware of the situation on deck 15, of course, through automated reports, as well as a ship-wide intruder alert announcement. Intruder containment was decidedly NOT a part of his job description... that's what the ship had a sizable Marine complement for, after all - but they were out of options. He knew what would happen, as well as Rand did, if they couldn't get more fighter squadrons out. Deck 15 had to be secured. One way or another.

Rand stirred, glancing after him.

"Yeah. Not what I signed up either, Kosinski. We'll manage, though!" - she called after him, putting as much reassurance as she could muster, in her voice.

He paused briefly, but didn't look back, before he kept walking. She thought she saw a tiny nod of his head, however.

"We have to. Or we're all dead." - she added a thought, to herself, as she reached down to her belt, and a sidearm holster there, pulling out her Needler pistol, and checking the power charge on it.

Like all officers on ships of the line, she was proficient with small arms, having undergone basic training during her Academy days. Shooting never really held much appeal for her, though, so she didn't keep up with practice on the ship's range, aside from what amount of it was required by regulations. When it came to a fight, she either preferred to avoid one entirely, or just get up close and personal. Behind her in-shape physique, and accomplished dancing ability, lay a Karateka of close to six years of casual - and semi-professional practice of the art, before she joined the Corps. She never advanced past red belt, but she certainly could hold her own in a brawl - as she proved, several times during her Academy time.

But dealing with armed Insurgents... was a bit out of her comfort zone.

"Hell. At least I've been through the Academy, I probably received more firearms training then he did. And at least know the basics of small-unit-tactics. These enlistees are just plucked from civilian life with a promise of a fat paycheck and better benefits. No matter which division they end up in. Some never even see a needler in their life, before being dumped out here into space." - she thought.

And it made sense on some level - most Conglomerate ships of the line, never actually see action.

The last major war was half a century ago, against the Keirians. Ever since Earth made peace with those xenos, there was precious little for the navy to do, but patrol Earth space, and occassionally put down interstellar pirates and smugglers. Only recently did this whole Insurgent threat become a major issue. The Insurgents have been around for a while, ever since the Conglomerate came to power, two and a half decades ago, but they didn't start making this much noise, until relatively recently.

All well and good. But that didn't change the fact that she was about to try and lead a fire team of... glorified civilians, mostly, with no synthweave armuor suits, with maybe a couple who could shoot straight... against an armed, trained, and likely armoured Insurgent boarding party occupying an entire deck, and presumably hard at work, trying to breach into the hangar bay. And she herself was hardly an authority on the matter. She could maybe shoot a little straighter then most, and know when to duck and take cover better then most, but that was about it.

"Lovely. I may as well run a prediction through the Interface, so I can have my chances of survival reduced to a single-digit percentage! In case I felt morbid. Just how I planned to spend the night... but I hope I get a shot at you Ron, before I eat one. I really fuckin' do. Bastard!" - she glared darkly, as she shoved the needler back into it's holster, and headed for the sublevel, and tunnel access where she instructed her impromptu team, to meet.

They had to do something. Even if it meant getting killed, it would at least buy time for more Marines to get up there and deal with the threat. They simply couldn't let a traitor and an Insurgent contingent, both in posession of secondary access codes, run amok on their hangar deck, unopposed.

THE END

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