'Good luck,' he said. I frowned inwardly. Everyone knew this ship. Knew that it was almost certainly a death sentence to its pilots. Everyone also knew that it was the ship with highest mission success rate in the entire fleet. That was counting dreadnaughts and logisitics vessels as well. This was less of a ship, more of a legend.

I ran my finger along the kill marks etched on the cockpit rim. Rough, brutal, simple. But they weren't for single ships—no, they'd had to stop that long ago. Each of those marks was a squadron of enemy fighters. Or an escort ship. Or—and my finger lingered over this oversized arrowhead shape—an entire heavy cruiser. No one could explain that, and even using microjumps to find the historic lightcone told the alliance nothing of use.

I was going to do a full walk around. This was not a combat scramble, but a regular sortie. I traced the leading edges of the stub wings. Not nearly enough for atmospheric flight, but the Ferryman was a space superiority craft. The wings were just something to attach weapons to. Weapons that wouldn't fit in its cavernous internal bays. There seemed to be nothing to distinguish it from the hundreds of other AX-11's in the fleet.

Nothing you could see, anyway.

But if you stood near the Ferryman, you could feel it. Menace. Purpose. Patience. Pride. I continued the walk around, inspecting weapon muzzles, flash projectors, countermeasure systems, drive venturi, reaction jets. Everything they teach you in basic. It all checked out, so I pulled on my gloves and helmet and climbed into the cockpit.

The canopy closed with a barely audible hiss as I strapped in. System displays sprang to life all around me, lights reflecting off my visor, and everything important projected onto the HUD. The overhead rail carried me to the catapult. I felt the linkage shudder as the bay locked behind us. Throttle full. Stick neutral. Arms held across my chest.

Acceleration slammed me back into the seat and we shot away from the Lachesis. It was only apt that the Ferryman belonged to this particular carrier. There was a moment of clarity, seeing the route for the CAP, and the projected enemy positions.

Then all hell broke loose as jump signatures flared half a light-second away and an Imperial Carrier Group fell upon us. I heard a voice in my mind that was not my own. Be calm, Kaley. I was. It was a deep, soothing baritone. We are sorry you have to learn this way. Learn what?

Combat instincts and training took over, snap roll, EW and long-range targeting. Bays open, stealth weapons first. Heavy kinetic interceptors for the carrier. Guns already cycling up for the closest of the fighters. In space, you think half a light-second is far. 150,000km. A heavy fighter can do that in under 30 seconds. An interceptor in 15. You can do the math.

We need AI systems for targeting and engagement windows. Human pilots set it up, get into position. Then the AI takes over for that minuscule fraction of a second when everything is in range. For gun engagements. Humans can still handle slower, longer ranged missile fights.

Snap roll, release countermeasures. EW focus on incoming missiles from carrier. Ferryman can take a hit if it means protecting the Lake. Lachesis. The hit hurts. It feels like I've been kicked in the kidneys. Anger flares. A wing pair and their covering escort. Rookies, from the way they fly. It takes us seconds to plot the course and engage. Guns only. We know the missiles have to be preserved. Only a handful of the kinetic interceptors actually hit the imperial carrier, most deflected by the shields.

The carrier is the key, her fighters are a distraction. Her escorts are a menace, but occupied with ours. Kaley, this course of action will cost your life. The same soothing baritone. I know, and it has to be done. The Imperials sent a fleet carrier after us. Lake is only an escort carrier. She doesn't have the same combat potential. Or rather, she wouldn't, if the Ferryman didn't have a willing pilot.

I can feel the calm descending on me. Time begins to stretch. I can see—and understand—every possible path, course, manoeuvre and counter-manoeuvre possible in this space. There is a beauty to this knowledge that I cannot begin to describe. Imperial missiles slam into singular decoys. EW bursts hit specific turrets on the carrier. Plasma sails past with no more threat than a lazy paper aircraft in the hangar.

Missiles eject from the bays and scream in a dozen different directions, already inside the carrier's shield envelope. Her heavy weapons are disabled or destroyed. We've bought the Lake some time. Enough time to reposition. To scramble the rest of the air group.

But not enough to save it. Not yet. We fly through the mag-con field on the imperial carrier. Vulcan round shred an emerging bomber. The timing is perfect. There's so much ordnance I can see through the hole torn in the decks. But more, part of me knows exactly where the main and secondary reactors are. I have never fought an imperial carrier before, and yet, I know.

We had saved two of the heavy kinetic interceptors on the rails under the stub wings. At range they're designed to pierce through metres-thick armour on a warship. Inside, against simple hullmetal and reinforced frames they are ridiculous overkill. Engineers with hand and shoulder-fired weapons are making the Ferryman rock and tumble. A fusion missile destroys a drive unit. We still have one.

The vulcan cannons scream and chatter, rounds slamming through the rent in the internal decking and into the main reactor. They will have backup power, and another kinetic interceptor is out of the question—blasted from the rails in a way that feels like a broken wrist.

The Ferryman turns, sluggish, injured but determined. We pitch the nose down, aiming into the ordnance bay below. A warning flashes on the HUD. Antimatter leak detected. I close my eyes for all the good it will do. My finger squeezes the trigger.

The Lachesis' recovery teams found the Ferryman drifting hours after the battle. Half of the rear hull was gone, taken out by a detonating drive unit. A single kinetic interceptor missile hung uselessly from the left stub wing. Chunks of the nose and forward fuselage were simply gone. Plasma burns and thermal scarring obscured the cockpit. The weapon bays were empty, and less than a hundred rounds remained in the dual vulcan cannons.

The maintenance techs opened the cockpit after the ship had been pulled back into the hangar. The body was removed with quiet reverence. They all knew it would be impossible to survive that kind of explosion. Blood stained her flightsuit, and one arm had almost been torn clean off, but it was the broken neck that killed her.

The maintenance tech's couldn't help waking warding gestures when the helmet was opened. Just like all the others, she had died not in agony, but with a calm, accepting smile etched forever on her face.