The enemy Rattler fell apart; a chain of explosions cascaded through its hull. Marshall's heart pounded, his hands soaked in his gloves, his eyes darted between his radar and the space beyond his ship. He confirmed that no threats flew in his vicinity, then released his control stick and slumped in his seat. Despite the ongoing battle, his mind lost all focus and wandered back to his prior skirmish. His flight destroying the first Rattler, their avoiding a chain of missile attacks, and Vince's kamikaze strike all ran through his head on repeat.

His wingman broke the silence of his cockpit. you?>

“Shut up, Vince,” Marshall groaned. “The dead don't talk.”

Marshall looked toward Vince's fighter and snorted. “And?”

still alive enough to save your ass.>

It was true. Marshall could barely recognize the fighter after it rammed an enemy Rattler, but had Vince not distracted the enemy flight leader with a random missile lock, Marshall's shields would have been drained long before his auto-turret could shoot down his opponent. Instead, Vince's assistance allowed him to turn the tables on the Wraith. Marshall sighed. “Yeah… thanks.”

was that guy?>

That had to be one of their best pilots. While he often dueled against better pilots in sim battles, Marshall's skills placed him in the top ten percent of fighter pilots. With his rating approaching twenty-three hundred, he had long forgotten the sense of helplessness when facing an opponent far stronger than himself, and the enormity of their achievement dawned on him. “Twenty-four hundred… at least…”

Forest interrupted.

Back to work then. Marshall glanced at the radar. Though the melee left the Suns in disarray, it also inflicted major damage against the Wraiths, and their remaining forces now retreated with haste. By his estimate, the Suns had reduced the enemy support fleet to half strength. Had the battle not been one long string of surprises, the Suns would have been rushing in for the kill.

“It's just me, by the way. I need an add,” Marshall said. He searched his radar for a friendly flight to join with. Ace pilot or not, the Duvi fighter operated best in groups of four, and a lone Duvi was easy prey on any battlefield.

Forest said.

Ugh… More chaff jamming. Marshall grumbled as he flew toward his new flight assignment, watching as the plasma trails approach. The torpedoes detonated, one at a time, creating another screen to cover the Wraith's retreat. “That's twice as many shots as before, they must be getting desperate.”

Rico's image appeared on Marshall's display along with that of all the fleet's ships.

Against a tepid Suns counterattack, six remaining torpedoes turned about. Their engines erupted with light. Before Marshall realized what happened, three of their frigates burst into flame. The shock punched him in the gut.

“Wait…but… the chaff– SERIOUSLY!?” Realization dawned on him. After they used chaff torpedoes twice to cover their retreat, the Wraiths mixed high-explosive torpedoes in with their third barrage. Convinced that the oncoming projectiles were harmless, Marshall and many of his comrades didn't even try fending off the attack.

Potter groaned.

Rico sighed.

Minor? Only Rico would think losing three frigates at once to be minor.

Marshall found his new flightmates, a pair of experienced and longstanding Suns members. Though neither Lotus nor Patches could follow his lead, the two were well respected among their ranks. Having little choice, Marshall positioned himself on Lotus's wing next to Patches.

Lotus chuckled, implying he was the better pilot.

“You should be honored,” Marshall snorted.

Patches said.

“Lotus calls the targets,” Marshall said. “Patches and I'll watch for reds.”

Both the others agreed on the basic strategy, and they moved to the fleet's head as the jamming chaff dissipated. Once their sensors cleared, the remaining enemy ships and their defense station entered visual range.

Potter asked. A strange construct loomed over the enemy fleet. Their systems designated it as the Wraiths' station, but it looked nothing like the other in-game stations. Rather than the typical column with habitation wheels, this one possessed a small central core orbited by six independent modules, only half of which even appeared habitable.

“How are we supposed to attack that?” Marshall asked.

Rico said. While battered and bruised, this fleet still possessed ample strength. Against the Wraith's dwindling forces, Rico had little reason to worry.

Potter replied.

That's not bad. Marshall sighed in relief; the threat of the unknown vanished from his mind. With the scan results announced, every Suns pilot understood what needed to be done.

A rare smile appeared on Rico's face, one which emerged only when he held absolute confidence in victory.

If Sinn could describe the Crimson Suns in one word, that word would be 'textbook'. Textbook ship configurations, textbook formations, textbook maneuvers… even their tactics and strategies could be considered textbook. Aside from a few aces, every player of the org played by the books. Sinn found everything the Suns did to be predictable, but that was the very reason for the org's success. With the average skills of their pilots ranking at just above the average in Parallax, these practices allowed their teamwork to approach that of the Temple Wraiths in an org with far greater membership.

Mayto said.

Unlike most orgs, where fleets moved akin to a swarm of bees, the entirety of the Crimson Suns fleet moved in formation. The perfect pattern in which they flew served to impress any onlookers or intimidate any enemies with the group's near perfect organization.

April asked.

“Makes their numbers feel bigger,” Sinn chuckled. “Works quite well, don't you think?”

Aero said.

April said.

“Roger that,” Sinn replied. He and the other flight leaders quickly arranged themselves around the destroyer as it pulled away from their defense station. In response, the Suns fleet reoriented its formation toward the destroyer.

“Yup, they're after the Phantasm,” Sinn said.

Aero commanded.

The fleet shifted positions once again, maneuvering to put their defense station into the enemy's path. The Suns' fighters gave the station a wide berth, avoiding its defenses while the Wu-Jian frigates pushed their way past it, taking heavy fire along the way. As the first enemy frigates sank, two groups of Suns fighters approached Sinn's flight, one from above and another from below.

Stevie said.

“Go left,” Sinn said. Their four Rattlers rolled away. Two dozen streams of plasma crossed his previous trajectory. “They're targeting leaders.”

Aero said.

“You got it,” Sinn grinned. Flights of four fighters split into elements of two. Element leaders traded positions with their wingmen. Sinn put his own fighter on Stevie's wing, and the pair joined with Mayto's element. In the apparent disarray, the Wraiths regrouped and formed new flights. The tactic served as the Wraith's first counter against opponents which targeted leaders, creating new fighter groups which flew unchecked should the enemy stick with their original targets.

Stevie said.

Then someone broke free, Sinn mused. On his radar, their reformed flight carried twice the attention as before. A missile lock warning shrieked in his ears. To his left, two glowing trails streaked toward his ship. “Missiles Stevie, going down.”

The two Rattlers flipped in space and pulled away. Mayto's element pulled up. At the last moment possible, Sinn released his flares, sparing his ship from destruction.

“Warning. Out of decoy,” his console announced.

Oh. Shit. Despite starting the battle with a full complement, Sinn had expended all his Rattler's countermeasures in their efforts for survival. The missile lock warning sounded again. This time, four approached.

With neither decoy nor cover, Sinn had no choice.

“Sorry Stevie, gotta bail.”

Sinn reached under his seat and pulled seat's handle. His canopy blew open, venting its gasses to the void. With a jolt, his seat launched him out the ship. Then, light overwhelmed his eyes as the Rattler disintegrated in a ball of flame below him.

He watched as Stevie's Rattler shrank into the distance. Then, Sinn activated his suit's radio to check on the battle's progress and announce his status. “Hey Aero, do you read me?”

Static filled his ears.

Huh? What happened? Sinn tapped at his suit's transceiver. His fingers encountered an unfamiliar shape. He glanced at the unit and found a shard of steel embedded within the device.

Okay. Great. No comms. Anything else not working? Still strapped into his ejection seat and drifting away from the battlefield, Sinn checked over his equipment. Luckily, his maneuvering pack and life support systems remained functional.

So, what do I do now? The light of battle flashed in his eyes. Waves of plasma splashed against shields. Missile trails crossed the stars. The occasional fireball informed him of a ship's demise. But without any means of communication, Sinn floated in open space without aim and unaware of his org's circumstances.

Can I float my way to Libra? He glanced at the space station far in the distance. While he could technically maneuver his way to the defense station, Sinn knew the battle would be long over by the time he arrived.

Maybe the Phantasm? Sinn glanced to his left. While closer, the destroyer maintained its course back toward Libra. His tiny maneuver pack couldn't hope to catch up.

Wait, what's that?

One light behind the Phantasm in the grew in intensity – a small ship, a fighter considering its size, approached him at great speed.

Shit. All this empty space in the system to fly in and I'm going to get hit by a ship?

Few players in Parallax Gate had the misfortune of death by ship collision in space. While the great majority of these players died on impact, the small fraction who survived impact ranked their slow subsequent deaths among the most painful possible in game.

Sinn had no desire to test this fact. He unstrapped his body from the seat and jumped off, pushing himself to the right. This motion, perpendicular to the oncoming ship's trajectory, would slide him out of harms way.

For some reason, the fighter altered its course to follow.

What the heck? Sinn released a puff of air from his maneuver pack, pushing himself upwards.

The ship chased him yet again, its light grew ever brighter.

“Are you trying to hit me!?” Sinn screamed in his helmet. He picked one last direction, then let off his propellant in a continuous stream.

The unknown ship fired off its reverse thrusters and parked itself in front of Sinn's eyes. It was a Jackknife, not a fighter.

Leguis' voice crackled through his earpiece.

“Better than having a fighter crash into me I guess,” Sinn sighed. He guided his suit toward the boarding craft's airlock. “How'd you manage to find me in the middle of battle?”

Don't you have bigger things be worried about April? Sinn forced a smile. Once aboard the Jackknife, he made his way past the empty passenger area to its cockpit. There, he found Legs and an empty copilot's seat. After he strapped in, Sinn removed his helmet and checked the holomap for the battle's progression. Well, that isn't good.

“So, where to?” Legs asked. “We can dock at either Phantasm or Libra.”

“The Phantasm. And hurry.”

Aero's holomap presented him with certain defeat. The Fortune Divers' more than pulled their weight, but they were long gone at this stage. The alliance's combined efforts had destroyed half of the Suns' fleet, but Aero's forces teetered on the brink of collapse and the enemy's onslaught continued without pause.

April asked.

“Save them April,” Aero said. Likewise, most his fighters and frigates had expended all their secondary armaments of missiles and torpedoes. Though the Suns liberally utilized theirs, they still possessed many thanks to their large fleet. It pained Aero to admit, but the enemy commander had forced him into a losing battle of attrition. We need to turn this, fast.

Half the enemy frigates bombarded his station with their plasma cannons while the remainder engaged in an elaborate dance with the Phantasm. Their guns sank the enemy frigates one by one, but his station's shields fell faster.

Nova reported. Two flights of fighters chased hers through space.

“Alright,” Aero said, “Mayto, get those fighters off their tails. Nova, pull your flight back.”

The Wraith's strategy cycled their forces in and out of the station's shield radius, allowing their ships time to restore their shields. However, this came at the expense of station defenses and merely bought time. Aero's mind scrambled for a way to shift the tide.

Think Mark, THINK!

On the Suns side, twenty-one frigates, fifty-seven fighters, and twelve bombers remained. On his side, two frigates and eleven fighters remained alongside their destroyer and defense station. Between the Phantasm and Libra station, only two dozen high-explosive torpedoes remained. While each warhead had enough power to sink a frigate, three in four would be thwarted by the Suns' fighters. If there are too many fighters in the way, what can we…

“Sir! Enemy bomber squadron's approaching with fighter escort,” the radar operator announced.

The last group of bombers finally made their advance. Their path aimed at the Phantasm once again. Aero issued his command. “All fighters, splash the bombers. Repeat, splash the bombers. Use any missiles you have left. April, move back under the station shields.”

Nova replied.

April said.

On the holomap, fifteen green markers met the force of thirty red. A dozen missiles launched from the Wraith's fighters, knocking out five bombers. The two sides exchanged plasma fire, and another five friendly fighters disappeared from his holomap. Aero cringed as he watched the Suns force rush past his own.

“Myles! Ducks! Seven bombers left! April, watch for any leftovers.”

The two frigates moved ahead of the destroyer, firing off their remaining missiles. Bombers gone, the escort fighters converged on Ducks. To Aero's dismay, his ship crumbled under a barrage of missiles before the Phantasm could save it.

Aero now had twenty-one frigates and forty-nine fighters to deal with.

No more missiles to use. Too many fighters to deal with. Now what? He looked to the Phantasm. Streams of anti-aircraft fire sprayed from its guns. Thanks to that, none of the remaining Suns' fighters approached it. Flying the destroyer through the enemy fleet could decimate much of the enemy interceptor fleet and likely destroy several frigates. However, the remaining enemy frigates would soon overwhelm its shields. Can I sacrifice the Phantasm to clear off their fighters? But that'd set us up for failure the next attack.

Sinn appeared on the screen, surrounded by a familiar bridge.

You're still alive? How did you end up on the Phantasm? Aero shook away the thought. “Not now Sinn, I'm trying to think.”

Sinn said.

“Huh!?”