The Ta’charin Tournament

Sonya sat in her quarters aboard the Avenger, the hum of the dreadnought’s core a faint backdrop. She opened a secure message and her mother’s voice filled the room, warm but edged with worry. “GNN’s been buzzing about the Avenger’s victory at the Ta’charin dry-docks. They don’t name you, but I’m sure your knowledge of the weak points saved lives. I hope one day they’ll see what you sacrificed. Dad says keep your head down and chin up—he’s proud. Love always, Mom.”

The words twisted in Sonya’s chest. She deleted the cascade of unread messages (“Traitor,” “Nathal Scum”) and let out a weary exhale. A flicker of Seti’s oily voice rose—his taunts while his men left her battered and violated—but she shoved it down, breath steadying.

The comm beeped. “Blade here.”

Striker’s smooth voice replied, “L-T, you’re wanted in the command briefing room.”

“Thanks, Striker. Tell the Cap I’ll be there shortly.”

Sonya shrugged on her uniform jacket and headed two levels up, steeling herself against the wary glances and hushed whispers that still followed her. Most of them still see a traitor.

She stepped into the briefing room and saluted. “Lt. Blade reporting as ordered.”

Greg looked up from the tactical table, cybernetic eye glinting. “Have a seat, L-T. We’ve got an unusual assignment.”

Sonya sat, forcing a wry grin. “If you’re calling it unusual, sir, it’s bound to be interesting.”

Greg leaned forward. “We’ve been invited to a formal party planetside on Ta’charin. Governor Vashar requested us by name to recognize our role at the dry-docks.”

Sonya raised an eyebrow. “A party?”

Greg shrugged. “The URF Ambassador says it’s non-negotiable—major negotiations riding on it.”

John, lounging against the wall, gaze flicked to Sonya. The scar on his cheek twitched. “So how does she rate, Cap?” His voice carried a quiet edge. “A former highly decorated traitor, given the Empire’s highest honor, playing hero again?”

Sonya’s hands balled into fists. The cell flashed hot in her mind. She met his gaze coldly. “You know how I earned that Crescent, sir? I survived being beaten and raped multiple times while chained in a resistance cell. Not one of their finer moments.”

John looked genuinely shocked. No one had told him that. For a split second sympathy crossed his face—then the old anger slammed back down. He caught Greg’s warning glare and swallowed his next words. “Just trying to understand why they want both of you down there.”

Greg sighed. “No clue, but if it gets us closer to an alliance…” He looked at Sonya. “We leave in six hours. Get ready.”

Sonya nodded, expression hardening as she stood. “Understood, sir. I’ll be prepared.” She turned, boots clicking on the deck as she headed back to her quarters.

Sonya returned to her quarters, the Avenger’s corridors still buzzing with post-battle repairs after two days in orbit around Ta’charin. She traded her comfortable duty uniform for a formal URF dress uniform, the stiff fabric chafing against her muscular frame—a stark contrast to the practical duty uniform with its short skirt and heels. She checked her reflection, her piercing sapphire eyes betraying a flicker of unease beneath her composed exterior. Her mind churned with the crew’s whispers and John’s scorn, the memory of the cell gnawing at her resolve, but she squared her shoulders, determined to face the diplomatic stage.

The shuttle descent to Ta’charin was smooth, the planet’s ringed horizon glowing under a violet sky. Sonya stepped onto the landing pad with Greg beside her, the humid air thick with the scent of alien flora. Governor Vashar awaited them, a tall figure in ornate robes, his smile polished but unreadable. “Captain Westner, Lieutenant Blade,” he greeted, extending a hand. “Your actions preserved our dry-docks. The people wish to honor you at tonight’s gala.”

Greg shook firmly. “An honor, Governor. We’re grateful for Ta’charin’s support.”

Sonya followed suit, grip steady. “Thank you, sir.”

Vashar gestured toward the waiting transport. “Please, join me.” His tone carried a subtle weight that set Sonya’s instincts prickling.

The transport glided through the capital’s streets, aglow with bioluminescent lanterns. They disembarked in the palace’s ornate courtyard and entered the grand hall, where crystal chandeliers refracted light across tapestries and the air hung heavy with exotic spices and murmured conversation. Sonya adjusted her formal URF dress uniform, the stiff fabric still chafing against her combat-honed frame. It was tight in all the wrong places, restricting movement and leaving no room to conceal a weapon. She leaned toward Greg, voice low. “This dress uniform is terrible. I feel like I’m going to rip it if I move too fast. Can we get the crew something more practical?”

Greg nodded, tugging at his own jacket in frustration. “No argument. I’ll authorize it—bring Blasius and Irena in on the design.”

Sonya gave a brief smile, but her piercing sapphire eyes kept scanning the crowd. Too many eyes on her. Too many polite smiles hiding unknown intent. A Ta’charin noble approached, voice smooth. “Lieutenant Blade, your actions at the dry-docks were near legendary. A true warrior.”

Sonya forced a tight smile. “Just doing my job. It was a group effort.” Her mind flashed briefly to the cell — Seti’s taunts — but she steadied herself and continued the polite conversation.

As the night wore on, laughter and clinking glasses filled the hall. Greg mingled easily with URF diplomats. Sonya stayed vigilant, declining drinks and watching the room. Her gaze caught the Raikara Temple’s silhouette through the windows — its spires unusually lit against the stormy horizon. Detua had said the temple only illuminated for special ceremonies. Too much is happening for this to be coincidence.

She nudged Greg during a lull in his conversation. “That temple shouldn’t be lit. Something feels off about all of this.”

Greg followed her line of sight, expression hardening. “I see it too. Let’s see if Vashar can shed some light on it.”

Sonya gave him a look and he gave her a small smirk. “Yes, that was intentional. Come on, let’s go talk to him.”

Before they could, High Priest Detua emerged from the crowd, robes swaying. “Lieutenant, a word. There’s a matter of honor to discuss.”

Sonya’s stomach tightened. “Honor?”

Detua’s smile was cryptic. “Follow me.”

The night air chilled Sonya’s skin as Detua led her and Greg away from the gala’s glow, the Raikara Temple looming on the mountain ahead. Its spires, aglow with an eerie golden light, cast long shadows across its stone courtyard, the distant rumble of thunderstorms adding a tense undercurrent. Sonya’s URF dress uniform felt even more restrictive under the temple’s ancient weight, her piercing sapphire eyes narrowing as she scanned for threats.

Detua paused at the path to the temple’s entrance, his robes swaying in the breeze. “The Raikara is lit for a rare rite,” he said, his voice low. “Ta’charin honors you both, Captain, Lieutenant. A tournament has been called in your names—to test your fighting skills and bind our alliance.”

Sonya’s stomach knotted, her instincts were now screaming, “A tournament? That wasn’t part of the request.”

Greg stepped closer, his tone cautious. “This has to be a mistake; I’m no hand-to-hand fighter.”

Detua’s smile remained cryptic. “There is no mistake, everything has been already arranged reflecting the Gods will. Your participation ensures our trust—and protects your diplomats. Refusal risks… misunderstanding.”

Sonya’s mind raced, a flash of Seti’s cell blending with the priest’s words, but she steadied herself. “You’re saying we’re hostages to this game?”

“Not hostages,” Detua replied smoothly. “Champions of the Light. The Governor and I believe your victory will unify us against the Empire. Your first match is at dawn.”

Greg frowned, exchanging a glance with Sonya as Detua bowed slightly, retreating into the shadows.

Sonya clenched her fists, the weight of the situation sinking in. “We can’t trust them.”

Greg nodded, his voice firm. “Agreed. Let’s get back, strategize with the team. We’ll play their game—but on our terms.” They turned, the temple’s glow fading behind them as they headed to the transport, the night pressing in with unspoken threats.

The transport ride back to the Avenger was silent, the hum of its engines underscoring the weight of Detua’s words. Sonya and Greg reconvened in the CIC dressed in their duty uniforms, the tactical display casting a cool blue glow across the room as the crew gathered—John, Irena, and Blasius. The Raikara Temple’s eerie glow lingered in Sonya’s mind, her piercing sapphire eyes narrowing as she recounted the encounter. “They’re forcing us into a tournament. It’s a setup to test us—or break us.”

Greg leaned against the console, his cybernetic eye scanning the data. “It doesn’t make sense—my hand-to-hand training’s basic at best. Unfortunately, Ta’charin’s holding our alliance and the diplomats hostage so we have to fight. Ideas?”

Irena crossed her arms, her voice steady. “Sonya’s got the skill, and her strengths unreal. Rigged or not, we try to stack the odds. Greg, you’ll need a crash course—basic moves, at least.”

Blasius nodded, adjusting his gear. “I’ll put together a special security detail, make sure they don’t try to do something underhanded to make you lose.”

John smirked, his tone grudging. “No pressure, hope you don’t fold under a fair fight Blade.” He turned to Greg, “We should contact Thrawn or Admiral Bannon—get guidance before we stumble further into this trap.”

Sonya’s hands tightened, a flicker of Seti’s cell—his taunts, the chains—flaring before she steadied herself. “I won’t fold. This feels personal for some reason.” Her voice hardened. “I’ll need a melee weapon—something to level the field.”

Greg nodded. “We’ll both need melee weapons. Irena, let’s meet up in the officer’s training room. Blasius, get that detail together, make sure they have concealed backup weapons as well. John, reach out to Thrawn—see what she advises.  Let’s get to it, both Sonya and I need to try to at least get some rest before our first fight.”

John quickly returned to his office.  Taking a moment, he picked up the small holo projector disk on his desk and activated it.  He watched the recording of the last time he was with his wife for a minute before he could feel the welling of tears in his eyes, “It’s so unfair.”  He quickly shut it down and walked over to his small holo table, activating a secure comm link to Grand Admiral Thrawn aboard her URF flagship, the Inquisitor. The hologram flickered, revealing her blue-skinned figure, red eyes sharp with focus. “Commander Wilson,” she greeted, her voice cool. “You have something to report?”

John straightened, his tone measured but edged with frustration. “Ma’am, we’ve been forced into some sort of tournament and they’re holding our diplomats hostage—The Captain’s call to attend that gala set this up. He’s green, and this could’ve been avoided if he’d pushed harder for details first. Now we’re stuck playing their game. Honestly, from what I’ve seen so far, I’m not sure he’s ready for command.”

Thrawn’s gaze didn’t waver. “The gala was a strategic necessity and was not his call—Ta’charin’s support seemed to hang on it according to the diplomatic core. Captain Westner’s inexperience is noted, his misstep was underestimating Vashar’s intent, yet his adaptability and level head prevented any escalation.” She raised an eyebrow, “Why the concern?”

John rubbed his jaw, choosing his words. “His first battle he was hesitant and didn’t command effectively. He didn’t direct stations and let them fend for themselves.” He hesitated, “If I may ask, why did you back him for command of this ship?”

Thrawn’s lips thinned. “I know you tried to pull his evaluations and scores, but I sealed them. Allow me to enlighten you. Westner scored middle to low in most of his classes. The instructors failed him in three of his four final command simulation tests, saying he lacked aggression and didn’t follow procedure. However, I was intrigued with his style, adaptability, and willingness to learn.  I proctored Captain Westner’s final command simulation test allowing him to pick his own command staff.  He passed it to my satisfaction.”  It was clear by her tone and expression that he shouldn’t dig any further.

John’s jaw dropped slightly; Thrawn had never proctored a final exam before, Thrawn’s red eyes studded him.  “Monitor him but learn from him as he will learn from you—his growth is our strength.”

John nodded reluctantly. “I’ll keep an eye on him and Blade. If I may, I recommend a backup plan to extract them if the tournament turns sour.”

“Agreed, create the plan to have ready to execute on a moment’s notice.  Keep me updated,” Thrawn said, the hologram fading.

Meanwhile Sonya and Greg had retreated to the training bay, the clang of metal echoing as she sparred with Irena. Her movements were fluid and precise, while Greg struggled through basic blocks, sweat beading on his brow as he faced off with another instructor. Sonya’s mind wrestled with the rush while she spared—raw, unsettling. Why does it feel so good? She pushed harder, determined to master it. Irena called a brake, her tone firm as she felt the bruises forming despite all the padding. “You’re strong, Sonya, but don’t rely on it solely, you’ve got an excellent grasp of hand-to-hand combat use it. Greg, you need to keep your guard up at all times—form’s sloppy.”

Sonya wiped her face with a towel, nodding. “I will. This isn’t just about winning—it’s about proving we’re not their pawns.” She glanced at the clock—hours until dawn—and steeled herself for the fight ahead.

Dawn broke over Ta’charin, the Raikara Temple’s courtyard transformed into a circular arena, its stone floor worn smooth by centuries of combat. Sonya and Greg stood at the center, her blade strapped to her thigh beneath a modified URF combat tunic, his tonfas gripped tightly. The crowd murmured, a sea of Ta’charin faces beneath the temple’s golden spires, as Governor Vashar raised a hand to signal the start. Sonya’s piercing sapphire eyes locked on their opponents: a burly Nathal defector with a vibro-axe and a lean Ta’charin warrior with plasma daggers, their sneers promising coordinated lethality.

The match erupted. The defector swung his vibro-axe in a wide, humming arc. Sonya dodged, her muscular frame twisting with practiced grace, then drew her dagger. Greg stepped in to block the Ta’charin warrior’s plasma strikes, sparks flying. The defector pressed, embedding his axe in the stone with a crack. While he struggled to free it, Sonya lifted a loose chunk of stone with her exceptional strength and hurled it, staggering him. Greg deflected a rapid series of dagger strikes, but one grazed his arm, drawing blood.

Sonya’s vision narrowed. A surge of fury overtook her — primal, protective. She spun on the Ta’charin warrior, grabbed his wrist, and twisted with savage force. Bone snapped. Her blade flashed to his throat, drawing a trickle of blood before she stopped herself. The warrior dropped his remaining dagger, eyes wide with fear. The crowd gasped.

Sonya turned back to the defector as he wrenched his axe free and charged. She moved like a predator, ducking under the wild swing, disarming him with a precise strike, then pressing the flat of her blade to his chest. “Yield.” The intoxicating rush pulsed through her, but she held it in check. He lowered his weapon. Victory.

Vashar stepped forward, voice amplified. “A fine showing, Lieutenant, Captain. Your teamwork prevails despite the odds.” His tone carried an edge. Sonya’s instincts flared — the bracket had clearly been rigged against them.

Greg quickly tore part of his tunic to bandage his grazed arm, wincing. “Someone wanted us tested early.”

Sonya wiped sweat from her brow, still reeling from the surge. “This isn’t just a test. It’s a gauntlet.”

The second match followed quickly. A hulking Nathal brute with a crackling shock maul stepped forward, dwarfing the arena. The fight ignited with a thunderous swing that sent a shockwave through the stone. Sonya darted left, evading as the maul splintered the floor. Greg flanked, but the brute pivoted and knocked him down with a glancing blow. Sonya hurled a shattered slab from the previous fight, staggering the brute. The maul grazed her shoulder with searing energy. The rush flared hotter. Why does it pull me in?

She countered, blade flashing. Greg recovered and drove a tonfa into the brute’s knee, buckling it. Sonya lunged, pressing her blade to his throat. “Yield.” The brute dropped his maul. The crowd erupted in a mix of awe and unease.

Vashar’s smile masked deeper intent. “A formidable display. Rest now — clothing for the finals awaits in your prep area.”

 Sonya briefly felt strange, unbidden awareness.  There was a flux of energy in the air that she could feel.

Greg rubbed his jolted arms, breathing heavily. “That thug nearly took us…well me.”

Sonya wiped sweat from her brow, her pulse still racing from the rush. “This building to something bigger than just the finals, I can feel it.”

The Raikara Temple’s courtyard fell silent as attendants finished clearing the arena, the golden spires dimming in the afternoon light. Sonya and Greg retreated to their assigned prep chamber, the air heavy with incense and ancient stone, Sonya turned her back to Greg and changed into a lightweight reinforced combat suit. Greg donned a similar outfit, movements stiff. She caught his gaze, a flicker of warmth breaking through. “You held your own out there. Glad you weren’t seriously hurt.”

Greg managed a wry smile, rubbing his arm. “Barely. You’re the fighter — I’m just trying to keep up.” Their eyes met. His hand brushed her shoulder, lingering. A quiet jolt passed between them — admiration deepening into something more. Sonya felt it too, a rare vulnerability cracking her guard. The chamber’s low rumble interrupted the moment.

A crack of thunder split the air. A figure in storm-gray robes and a tilted coolie hat materialized, lightning crackling at his fingertips. “I am Lord Raiden, Eldar God of Thunder. You have proven yourselves my Champions of Light.”

Sonya stepped protectively in front of Greg, “A god? You look more like a costume reject.”

Greg tensed, “Got anything other than parlor tricks?”

Raiden sighed, “I miss when we were feared and worshiped.” His eyes flared. Lightning arced. Greg dropped, twitching. Sonya stood firm, the energy dissipating harmlessly around her. She charged and punched him square in the jaw, knocking him down. His hat slipped and Sonya’s eyes went wide. “Uncle Jim?”

Raiden chuckled, rubbing his chin. “Sonya? Well I’ll be — you decked me! Wait till I tell your mother.” He looked at her curiously. “Interesting… you shouldn’t have been able to do that.”

“She would ask me to show her the punch so she could critique my form.” Sonya crossed her arms, still wary. “So, her stories were true. Why are you here?”

Raiden’s tone sobered. “This is bigger than you realize. Gods like me gain power from followers and nexus points. Earth is the most powerful nexus, but this planet is one of the stronger ones. Emperor Carthain is an Ancient — one of the first. If his champions win here, he gains control of this nexus and becomes far harder to stop.”

Greg blinked. “Carthain’s a god?”

Raiden nodded. “Very old. Very powerful. Your family line has risen to challenges like this before. I have no doubt you will again. Rest well.” He vanished in a clap of thunder that echoed through the chamber.

Sonya stared at the empty space, fists clenched. She wasn’t sure she believed any of it, but right now belief didn’t matter. She looked at Greg. “The Ta’charin people are deeply religious. They’ll throw their support to whoever wins this. If what he said is true… the stakes just got a lot higher.”

The Raikara Temple’s courtyard blazed with torchlight as night fell, the arena encircled by a roaring crowd beneath the golden spires. Sonya and Greg entered, reinforced combat suits gleaming faintly, her blade ready, his tonfas steady despite his nerves. Across the stone floor stood Ja’rad and Packner — Ja’rad, the Relentless’ cybernetic weapons officer, metallic limbs glinting as he flexed, and Packner, the captain of the Relentless, his posture rusty from years out of direct combat. Sonya’s piercing sapphire eyes narrowed on Ja’rad, the greater threat, a flicker of warmth for Greg stirring beneath her focus.

Vashar raised his hand. The fight erupted.

Ja’rad charged, hurling a shock lance with terrifying force. Sonya dove aside as it embedded deep in the stone, the impact sending tremors that loosened sand and debris across the arena. Greg moved to intercept Packner, tonfas clashing with his vibro-sword. Ja’rad pressed, his cybernetic-enhanced punch cracking Sonya’s ribs as she slipped on the unstable ground, knocking the breath from her. He pinned her arms, squeezing. “I’ll pop you like a grape!”

PTSD flashed — chained, helpless. Never again. The rush surged, raw and powerful. She strained, breaking his hold with a surge of strength that shocked even her. She punched his gut, lifting him slightly, ribs cracking under the blow. A roundhouse kick shattered his jaw, sending teeth scattering. Ja’rad rose, bloodied and raging, charging with a howl.

Instinct took over. Sonya flipped onto her hands, hooked her legs around his neck, and used his momentum to flip him over her slamming him down with everything she had. The impact shook the arena like a thunderclap, cracking the stone and sending a shockwave of dust across the crowd. Some cheered, knowing Ja’rad’s brutal reputation; others gasped in shock. Ja’rad’s back shattered. He twitched once and lay still.

Greg, meanwhile, pressed Packner hard. His rusty technique faltered, allowing Greg to drive a tonfa into his throat and force surrender. The crowd’s roar peaked.

Vashar stepped forward, voice booming over the roaring crowd. “Victory to the URF! The alliance is sealed.”

The arena erupted in cheers. Greg caught his breath, meeting Sonya’s gaze, his hand brushing her arm. “We did it — together.”

Sonya nodded, pulse steadying. “Yeah. But I don’t think this is the end.”

A crack of thunder split the air above the courtyard. Every head turned as a figure in storm-gray robes and a tilted coolie hat materialized at the center of the arena, lightning crackling at his fingertips. The crowd fell silent, then dropped to one knee in a wave of reverence, bowing their heads low.

Packner leaned toward Greg, whispering, “Should we be genuflecting too?”

Greg shrugged. “Last time he hit me with lightning, so… yeah.” They knelt. Sonya shifted into a defensive yet defiant stance, refusing to bow. Raiden raised an eyebrow and subtly pointed at the ground. She glared back and shook her head. He sighed.

“Arise, people of Ta’charin, and embrace a new day,” Raiden intoned, his voice resonant. “My champions have prevailed, but celebration must be brief. The Nathal Empire has amassed a fleet on your border.”

Greg glanced at Packner as they stood. Packner shook his head in disgust. “The Emperor doesn’t accept defeat well. I moved the Relentless out of system as requested.” Greg nodded. “Lord Raiden, Lt. Blade and I request leave to return to the Avenger and defend Ta’charin.”

Raiden nodded. “Granted, go with the gods.”

James waved them over. “Lad, Nightowl’s firing up the dropship, and Scott’s grabbing your gear. Hurry!”

They sprinted for the transport, the dropship’s engines whining as they climbed aboard. Inside, the cramped space offered a brief reprieve, the hum of machinery filling the silence. Sonya leaned against the bulkhead, her ribs aching from Ja’rad’s grip, while Greg settled beside her, his cybernetic eye flickering as it recalibrated. She caught his glance and smirked faintly.

“You’re lucky I didn’t break your arm hauling you out of that mess.”

Greg chuckled, a dad-joke forming. “Yeah, but I’d still be the arm-y of one holding the line—get it?” His grin faded as he studied her. “Seriously, though… seeing you take on Ja’rad like that—it shook me. You okay?”

Sonya’s smirk softened, the rush starting to fade, leaving the familiar quiet in its place. “Ribs hurt, but I’ll live. Just… didn’t want you in his crosshairs. Guess I’m getting used to having you watch my back.” She hesitated, then added, “Trust’s a rare thing for me.”

Greg’s hand brushed hers, a gentle squeeze. “Same here. After today, I know I can count on you—more than I thought.” The warmth in his voice deepened. “We’re a team now, Sonya.”

She met his gaze, a rare vulnerability in her eyes. “Yeah. We are.”

 The moment held, their trust solidifying, before the dropship jolted toward the Avenger.

Greg and Sonya raced onto the Avenger’s CIC. “Status report!” Greg barked as he reached the tactical holo table.

John was already there. “Captain has the CIC!  Two Nathal task forces — the 45th and 16th — on station. Our reinforcements are ten minutes out, minimum.”

Sonya slid into the tactical station, fingers flying across the controls. “Their ECM is sloppy — they’re trying to look bigger than they are. Well within main gun range.”

Greg studied the holomap. “Visual confirmation?”

“No, but we should strike while we’re outside of their effective range,” John pressed.

Greg raised a hand. “We have time. They’re putting out too much ECM noise — I think they’re baiting us. Hammerly, sweep grid four with full ECCM. Flight, launch a recon squadron on the 45th and 16th. Sonya, plot blind fire for grid four.”

“Contacts in grid four,” Hammerly called. “Bearing four-five, mark eight-seven, two klicks out. Running low power to avoid detection. Shadows look like capital ship classes.”

“Helm, adjust course 45 positive 87 for possible main gun engagement,” Greg ordered.

Sonya adjusted controls. “Firing solutions plotted for missiles and main gun on grid four.”

John leaned in. “Sir, unknowns could be friendlies — regs say hit confirmed targets.”

“Trust me on this. Flight, recon update?”

Jan’s voice came back tight. “Two frigates, a cruiser, four destroyers, and fighter squadrons.”

Greg gave John a look. “Definitely not main gun worthy. Sonya, probe grid four.”

“Firing missiles, light spread.”

The displays lit up as missiles streaked away. Suddenly new icons bloomed — battleships, cruisers, and a dreadnought, all rapidly powering defenses. Sonya worked fast. “Striker, new solution — target the dreadnought!”

“Establishing… navigation slaved to fire control.”

“Inbound five — no, ten plus vampires!” Hammerly called out.

“Setting tertiary batteries to defensive fire and activating CWIS,” Sonya reported.

Greg grimaced, remembering the fluctuations from the dry-docks battle. “We have to chance it. Use full power and full spread to take them out quickly. Fire when ready.”

Sonya flipped the activation switches and the protective cover. “Firing!” She pressed the button. The main gun discharged. Lights dimmed, then failed across the CIC as emergency lighting kicked in. Alarms blared.

“Primary power lost!” someone called.

Sonya added quickly, “Shields holding for now, but main gun and secondaries are offline. Hammerly, can you get a read on the targets in grid four?”

“All targets destroyed!” Hammerly confirmed.

John spun toward her. “I bet you knew this would happen after all the fluctuations!”

Sonya frowned as she rerouted weapons power. “No, I didn’t! It shouldn’t have taken everything offline — there are safeties!”

Greg’s voice stayed calm but firm. “John, damage control. Sonya, restore weapons. Helm, evasive alpha five.”

“Multiple ships coming out of hyperspace!” Hammerly warned. “Closest bearing three-two-zero, mark one-six-five. Five thousand klicks and closing.” She glanced at another display. “Gravity well detected — four interdictors. We’re bubbled.”

The ship shuddered under a fresh barrage. “Shields at forty percent and dropping!” Sonya reported. “We’ve got maybe one to two minutes before they collapse. We don’t have the power to drive all the incoming attack craft off before they get inside our shields and start hitting components.”

Greg made the call. “Reroute auxiliary power to the fold drive. Nav, plot a fold outside the system. Jan, recall all fighters — combat landings authorized!”

“Sir?” John questioned.

“We can’t break the bubble in time. Do it!”

“Multiple carriers just came out of hyperspace.  Bearing two-one-seven, mark one-two. Range five clicks.  They are launching attack craft!” Hammerly called. “Tracking twenty-plus vampires inbound from them!”

“Gunners, switch to defensive fire!” Sonya said sharply. “Frack — we need to target the nearest interdictor, but cruisers are running interference. We can’t get a clear shot.”

Jan quickly reported, “All fighters in or accounted for!”

The CIC lights flickered as another hit rocked the ship. “Shields at twenty percent!” Sonya called. “Ablative hull failing on multiple sections!”

“Fold ready!” the Navigation officer shouted.

“Execute!” Greg ordered.

As the deck hummed violently, John yelled, “Power spike!”

Greg’s last command cut through the chaos. “Abor—”

In a brilliant flash of light, the Avenger vanished.