Excelsior by Jasper T. Scott Page B

dazzling barrages of lasers. Then it was the missiles’ turn. Laser-armed ordnance fired back, specifically targeting the big ships’ lasers to decrease the firepower arrayed against them.
     
    Only a handful of missiles actually made it to their targets, but each of them was a one-hit-kill that painted a dramatic explosion on the map, leaving nothing but a drifting cloud of debris in its wake.
     
    Then the capital ships reached ELR and they began firing lasers at each other in a deadly light show—Alliance blue, Confederate red. Missiles and hypervelocity cannons went on firing, but lasers turned the battle into a simple point-and-shoot war of attrition. The side with the most guns and the strongest armor won.
     
    After all of just a few seconds, that side turned out to be the Alliance, but not by much. They had ten ships out of sixty still firing and maneuvering under active thrust by the time the Confederate fleet was derelict and drifting. It took a few extra seconds to mop up Confederate fighters and drones, and then the Alliance’s remaining starships launched repair ships and space marines, the former to aid repairs aboard their own derelict vessels, and the latter to board and capture derelict enemy ships.
     
    At the far end of the engagement a few squadrons of Confederate fighters were fleeing desperately toward Earth with Alliance drones in hot pursuit. Drones could pull higher Gs so they caught up fast. Lasers flashed between them, and explosions flared, bringing the engagement to a decisive end.
     
    It was over. Horror and disbelief settled in. From the simulated bird’s-eye view of the tactical map, everything looked like a holo game. It couldn’t be real.
     
    “Sir!” Williams called out from the comms. “Lewis Station is busy evacuating. We’ve been advised to withdraw to a safe distance so we don’t get caught by shrapnel when enemy ordnance hits.”
     
    Alexander looked up from the tactical map, mentally switching focus back to his side of the conflict. “Helm! Get us away!”
     
    “Already ahead of you, sir! Brace for maximum thrust!”
     
    There came a deafening roar, and then a train ran over him. The weight was unbearable. Alexander’s lips parted in a grimace, and his heart felt like it actually stopped. Maximum regulation thrust for short periods was ten Gs. Acceleration eased after just a few seconds, and Alexander’s head lolled. He blinked spots from his eyes and fought a sudden urge to vomit.
     
    “We’re out of the blast radius, sir!” Davorian reported from the helm.
     
    Alexander panned the tactical map over to his side of the conflict and watched the wave of enemy missiles drawing near to Lewis station. The fighter group was still in hot pursuit, firing at extreme range with bright golden streams of highly inaccurate projectiles.
     
    The number of ordnance incoming had dropped to less than 4,000 missiles. Alexander grimaced, hoping that between the Lincoln and Lewis Station they could intercept the rest.
     
    “Sensors! Are any of those missiles tracking us?”
     
    “It’s tough to tell at this range, sir.”
     
    They weren’t far enough from the station to distinguish incoming missile trajectories. “Davorian, put some more distance between us and the station. Four Gs thrust; keep that up until we identify incoming missiles.”
     
    “Aye-aye, sir.”
     
    Acceleration intensified once more, not nearly as bad as before, but still enough to make breathing labored and talking a chore.
     
    “Sensors… track missiles whose vectors shift with ours. Highlight them on the tactical. Gunnery—as soon as you spot those missiles, start firing.”
     
    “At this range, sir? Odds are—”
     
    “Still better than nothing, Lieutenant!” Alexander gritted out between gasps for air.
     
    “Yes, sir.”
     
    Finally, Williams reported from the sensors station. “Incoming missiles detected!”
     
    Davorian killed thrust and Alexander took a quick gulp of air. “How