Vaslow's grip on the metal bars tightened as the display kept swirling about with hundreds of thousands of dots moving constantly, far too many of them red. The Triglavs had and still were performing their role as a super-heavy duty fighter superbly and were constantly disrupting enemy formations, but the raw exertion that the craft demanded were taking their toll on the pilots. Over and over again new enemies rushed into the fray and went toe to toe with his frontline squadrons, only to be thrown back by sheer skill, unmatched agility and raw firepower, but casualties began mounting. From the five thousand fighters that had gone in, nearly a tenth had been lost and that hurt him more than he'd care to admit. On a purely rational level it was a great success. Even with the incredibly high manufacturing cost they were still costing the enemy so much more. The only thing not factored in was that these men and women were the absolute elite of the Empire. There simply were no finer pilots. Every loss wasn't just a number. It was a name he was personally familiar with. A friendly face. A colleague. Each of them had been under his wing for years and he had personally contacted each and every one of them to offer them the chance to transfer to the Triglav units, and had greeted them all when they had arrived at the academy.

He supposed he could say the same of the enemy. They were human too, all names, faces, people with hopes and dreams and folks who would be missed upon their death. Such were the cruel realities of war. You exchanged one life for another. Not a single Imperial who donned the uniform who wasn't aware of that cruel truth. It made up the baseline of their creed and it was their reason to fight. The Empire, militaristic as they were, hated war, for they knew the brutal cost that it demanded.

The second wave of Imperial fighters hit the disrupted Novican lines and began cutting through the disorganised formations with surgical precision and entire wings disintegrated into rogue pixels on the display as they were blasted into scrap. He looked over to a single blue dot and let out a small sigh in relief at the reports that accompanied it. His grandson had been in the thick of the fighting, but was now pulling back, injured, but alive. Several broken ribs, a minor concussion and his heart rate was ridiculously high, but alive. Most of his squadron were in similar condition and they were struggling to reform and reach Imperial lines, with Novican heavy fighter wings hot on their tails, once again discovering that the Triglav was an omnidirectional fighter who could fly in one direction and fire in another. He did not blame them. Fighter pilots studied formation tactics extensively and even in space the rules of dogfighting held true to an extent. You simply did not discard years of training and adapt to a completely new foe in the blink of an eye. Given the choice between anarchy and advancing in a less than optimal formation, no sane commander would go for the former.

It simply wasn't enough.

Moments before:

Battered and bruised but not broken, the Nightprowlers forced the enemy to break off the attack with heavy losses, before rolling themselves around and hitting their engines once again. Omnidirectional they may be, but they could not accelerate much if they were firing towards the rear. Steph shouted commands as another squadron moved to intercept them and the Nightprowlers split up in teams, Janice close behind him, expertly covering him as always. He called out targets as he divided up the enemies and between the two of them they scored another six kills before they got through the enemy squadron. More shots whisked past him and yet another group of fighters raced down on him. He couldn't even contact his own squadron anymore, he needed all his attention to dodge incoming shots as the Novicans used their vastly superior numbers to swarm the Triglav pilots. It was a solid tactic, he had to admit between gritted teeth. He and his men were good, but they were only human and even with their advanced suits and cockpits the sheer G-forces they had to sustain were taking their toll. He had begun blacking out in sharper turns and knew that even the slightest fuck up would be fatal. The less said about his ribs, the better.

He rolled around, saw a pair of light fighters dance in between the debris of their heavier brethren in an attempt to line up a shot at Janice. Acting purely on instinct, honed over countless skirmishes and thousands of hours in the simulator, he launched a quick burst at the tumbling wreckage of a gunship, shifting it just enough to force the enemy fighter to roll around it. Janice, who had spent nearly the same amount of hours flying as he did, let out a salvo of her own and just as the lighter fighters dodged the wreckage, they flew into her shots and were torn apart. There was no time for thanks, or for anything for that matter. They were surrounded on every side and it took al their considerable skill to stay alive. They danced, turned and weaved in between debris and fire, returning fire and claiming more kills that they couldn't possibly count, occupied as they were. Alarms blared constantly as the sheer volume of fire thrown their way began draining their slightly recharged shields at a dangerous pace. They tried to outrun their foes, attempted to hide behind wrecked vessels, destroyed foes them whenever they had the chance, but for every downed fighter two more seemed to appear. He occasionally spotted explosions nearby and knew that his squadron was close beside him, fighting similar, insurmountable odds. He reverted his fighter in a dangerous half turn, blackened out for a blissfully brief moment, regained consciousness, redlined his engines and was awarded for his insanity as three fighters raced past him, one of them flying into a stray piece of wreckage, while he shot a second out of the sky. Janice saved his life by risking hers as she rolled in between a lead fighter and his wingman and tore both apart in a spectacular manoeuvre that shattered another one of her ribs and he repaid her a short while later as he strafed over another fighter, coming close enough to see the sweat on his opponent's brow, before his engine exhaust overloaded the Novican's shields and melted through his canopy before the bastard could finish locking on.

One of the names in his squadron started beeping red and he didn't have the luxury to look at the name, but a second one followed shortly thereafter as either the lead pilot or his wingman joined the fate of the other. He would have cursed in anger at their loss if he had the breath to spare, but he could barely afford to even register the fact that he had just lost two close friends. His higher consciousness zoned out as he began abandoning every thought in favour of focusing purely on his instincts and deeply ingrained skills. He pushed his Triglav to its limits, rolled around and weaved in between shots, pulled manoeuvres that saw him briefly black out, destroyed missiles and let all his weapons speak again and again, claiming dozens of kills and wounding many more as the pair of Imperial pilots tried to stay afloat in a sea of enemies. Caught in the midst of an endless wave his shields dropped rapidly and this time he did not manage to pull out of combat to let them recharge. He subconsciously redirected the power going to his pulsar cannons into his shield projectors, keeping them intact for a few moments longer. Then they were gone, his generators forcing them on again the moment the bare minimum threshold was crossed. It didn't save him from the enemy. Pulsar fire slammed into his heavy fighter as he sacrificed more ribs to turn a killing shot into a glancing blow. Lasers ran over the tough alloys, leaving long black scars. A sensor array took a hit and turned into scrap. He saw Janice's fighter destroy a missile far too late and the shockwave slammed into her engine, disabling one of the three exhausts, significantly limiting her mobility. He flew to her side, determined to push the fates back just a bit longer. He didn't even register the three lighter fighters that he blew apart in order to get to her. All he saw was another two missiles homing in on her damaged side as she struggled to adjust to her limited mobility. His point defences blindly opened fire, hoping to intercept the missiles through raw firepower rather than an acquire target lock. Lasers lit up the void and a moment later a fierce explosion forced his polarising visor to activate itself, but the second missile was still on course and neither him nor Janice had any way to deal with it. His point defences were venting heat and she couldn't even fly straight at the moment with her damaged engine, which ironically was also keeping her alive as the Novicans failed to predict her path, but it wouldn't throw off the missile. Howling in anger and hate, he redlined his engines. It might be determination, loyalty, the stubborn refusal to let an ace pilot, nevermind his closest friend, die to something as stupid as a missile, or some other emotion that drove him to try it, but in the end that mattered little. He had made his decision in the spur of the moment and he stuck with it and charged the missile with the only weapon left at his disposal; his own fighter.

He aimed carefully as he approached it at high velocity and he knew that he'd be cutting it close. The warhead quickly grew in size as he neared it, the damned thing racing towards his wingman as he raced towards it. He felt his fighter shake as the engine strained its tolerance. He was nailed to his seat as the world tore at him and he fought to stay conscious, demanding more and more speed from his craft. Sweat dripped from his bow as alarm after alarm faded from his awareness and darkness began devouring the corners of his consciousness, but he kept her steady. The proximity alert began its shrieking wails, but he ignored it and crossed the final distance. With an impact that demolished his world view he slammed into the rear of the missile just as it began its final approach. The railings bent and pushed against his canopy, armour dented and he rolled past the damned thing, having incurred major damage. System after system began shutting down, coating the inside of his cockpit in darkness as all but a handful of status lights winked out. He floated in space, his inertia carrying him further into space. As he looked behind him he saw the missile spiral out of control, missing his wingman completely, and detonate painfully close to her. Then she managed to stabilise her craft and she hurled herself towards him alongside dozens of enemies. He grinned at that and it grew into a short, mad laugh before he began to violently cough up blood. He had bought her precious seconds at the expense of his own fighter. A rookie mistake. Still, he felt satisfied. He had done well. His overworked mind calmed down as he willed his eyes to stay open, even as he grew aware of the blood slowly oozing into his lungs. No doubt the consequence of one of his many shattered ribs. It didn't hurt, which spoke volumes over just how messed up he really was. He trailed the vastness of space for Janice and nodded at her, even though she could not see him. They'd die together amidst countless enemies, having claimed more than their fair share. In that moment, he could not ask for more.

As the meticulous planning of his grandfather would have it, he did get far more. Far away Admiral Vaslow was shouting a perplexing amount of expletives and swears in a dozen languages as the second wave of Imperials finally joined the fray and with them they carried all the firepower they could muster. A minor, overlooked branch of the Imperial Navy they may be, but even so they were still Imperials and that translated in both equipment and training. The Novican forces who had been planning on overrunning the wave of Triglavs in a singular charge had instead been sucked into a massive dogfight and a bloody toll had been extracted on both sides. Over a third of the Triglav fighters had been destroyed, but the Novicans had paid an extraordinarily high price in turn and hadn't managed to disengage and reform in time. Now, with the Novican formations in utter disarray, they were easy pray for the heavy Imperial units swooping down on them. Gunships led the counterattack as a massive missile barrage bloomed into existence, their exhaust trails crystallising in the void of space and creating a spectacle that was as bewitching as it was murderous. The wave washed over the Novican defenders, overwhelming their point defences and greedily abusing their lack of mutual coverage to claim as many kills as possible.

Even as hundreds of fighters were turned into wrecks, the Imperial heavy fighters flew into the melee. Tight formations of attack craft crudely smashed their way into the Novican lines, relieving their battered brethren of the first wave. Missiles were locked and launched by the hundreds, pulsars spun aggressively in their mounts, unleashing constant barrages as computers searched for more targets. Lasers dotted the black as the two armies crashed in full fury. Despite numerical superiority still being on their side, the Triglavs had done their duty and crushed all cohesion in the enemy ranks. Now it was time for the rest of the Strike Force to earn their pay. From within his damaged fighter, Steph looked on incredulously as the enemies abandoned their attack on him and reoriented themselves, desperately rushing themselves back into something resembling a formation before the wedge that the Imperials were driving into their ranks reached them. A few pilots ignored their orders and went after him, but Janice shot them down with impunity. He started laughing, then cringed as the pain finally made itself known and he nearly blackened out from the sudden shock. Shaking his head slowly to clear his head, he became aware of several external wounds. Minor things compared to how banged up his insides were, but they concerned him still. It meant some things in his cockpit had gotten loose and had hit him. That meant structural damage. That was a bad sign.

He pushed the thought away and tried to call up his squadron, only to discover that his systems were quite thoroughly demolished. He glared angrily at it and was fully occupied with that when a loud thunk pulled him back to the here and now. His hands went back to his controls, ready to pull the trigger, when he spotted Janice in front of him, a tow cable connecting their crafts. From this close he could peer into her cockpit and she looked exactly how he felt. She gave him a tired thumbs up and he returned it, confirming that he was still kicking. He could tell she was smiling underneath her helmet, just as he knew that she could tell he was too. Then she started off her engine and slowly began the long trek back to the Tatyana. As the remnants of the Nightprowlers fell in line around him he did a quick head count, easily discerning each fighter by their little unique markings. Fourteen fighters, him being the fifteenth. Ten men left behind. Hundreds of enemies. It was a glorious victory! Yet, as he silently whispered the names of the fallen and tears ran down his face, he somehow couldn't bring himself to believe it.