The fighter battle between the two dread naughts was fast becoming a one-sided affair. Although the Wyzenhymer losses were three times those of Space Fleet, the Wyzenhymers possessed
a far greater surplus of fighters and idiots willing to fly them.
"And...", Ghostrider thought to himself, "in a battle like this, it's all about numbers."
He reminded himself to beat the hell out of his helmeted brother upon their return to the Escort, but realized that this was not a very realistic probability given the current circumstances. He was torn from
his dark thoughts by the appearance of two Wyzenhymer Vulture-3 Lice Class Space Dagger fighters on his six. His pursuit opened fire with the renowned ferocity of the Wyzenhymer race, forcing Jennings to
snap into a 3.5 Gee, beer keg, multi-spiral in a desperate attempt to evade.
This yielded only partial success as one of the bogies cut too tightly, sending itself into a corkscrew, and a collision course with a Wyzenhymer EyeDrone*. Ghostrider didn't get
a chance to enjoy the fireworks as the other Dagger anticipated his move and brought his laser fire to bear on the Space Fleet fighter, scoring several hits on the spacecraft.
Ghostrider's Snog Hyper disappeared
in a brief but dazzling fireworks display, reappearing a split-second later spinning out of control on two different axis', and bearing a great resemblance to an incoming meteor.
Ghostrider smacked his helmet, trying to clear his head. Unfortunately, his brain was only able to focus on the painful burning in his eyes. He brought his hand up to wipe them and was surprised as
it came away covered with a warm, sticky wetness.
"This is not good.", he admitted to himself with a growing sense of dread. He continued to wipe at his face, and finally regained some of his vision, albeit blurry and painful. His entire cockpit
was laced and dripping with the dark liquid. His nostrils filled with a familiar stench, and he began to panic.
"Mayday! Mayday!", he rasped into his mike, "This is Ghostrider...Oh God, I'm hit!!!"
"This is the USS Escort, Ghostrider", came the nonplussed voice of Mr. Schultz, "Please state the nature of your emergency."
Jennings inhaled to repeat his message, but stopped short, as realization hit. The stench in the cockpit was a bodily fluid, but not his life's blood at he had previously surmised. The vile liquid was,
in fact, a mixture of Dr. Horkles Tobacco and the saliva he'd earlier deposited on the floor of his fighter. He hadn't realized the amount of liquid he generated during one of his flights, and felt a pang
of guilt as he thought of the ground crew, who's job it was to clean his fighter.
"The nature of your emergency, Ghostrider", Schultz asked again.
"Er...uh...disregard Escort", Ghostrider replied, now trying to regain control of his ship, "just a...uh...systems malfunction. Everything's just...fine."
Checking his six, he was relieved to see that the Dagger had broken off and returned to the main conflict. Performing a systems check, he was pleased to find that both he and his ship were still more or less
fully operational.
Triple J was not at all excited to see the ninth member of his flight disappear in an explosion of heat and flame, making the immediate transition from pilot to casualty. He'd also begun to think that his
previous "up the middle" idea wasn't exactly panning out. Though his head still ached, it was much clearer than it had been at the beginning of the battle. He'd lost the majority of the ships under
his command and noted that the Wyzenhymer's seemed to have and endless supply of ships. He was running out of options. He thought for a moment, and found a new determination hidden within the folds
of a hastily thought out plan. He jammed yet another stick of gum in his mouth.
"Semper Fi!", he exclaimed, though it sounded more like, "Fuffuh Fuh", through the great wad of gum in his mouth. He reached under his seat and extracted the ancient SKS from its resting place.
He'd inherited it from his father along with the responsibility for the safekeeping of the family heirloom. To his family, it was a symbolic representation of the warriors of olden days who fought with ancient
projectile engines and rode in vehicles with internal combustion engines. That it was actually a cheap, third-world copy of the original Soviet assault rifle was lost on Triple J, since this trivial fact
had long ago been forgotten by his ancestors. Just as noteworthy was that the 30 round magazine and its contents were every bit as old as the rifle, which had not spat a round in approximately nine hundred
years. It seemed the perfect foundation for a brilliant plan.
