“Plotting something again?”
“N-no! The maintenance team had something to discuss, so I came to—”
Stella’s eyes darted around, pleading for backup.
“Fine. I’ll hear you out. But keep your voice down.”
“Sorry… Anyway, here’s the thing—”
After a quick bow to the others, Stella turned to Lillian and launched into her pitch.
“She’s way too carefree, isn’t she?”
Debonair watched, baffled.
“Always like this…”
Frim buried her face in her hands.
Ignoring them, Stella pressed on.
“So, the fighter corps and I had a meeting. We think we should start early-warning patrols. Tiberius has equipment for three recon craft. If we use them for regular sweeps, we might prevent surprise attacks. Plus, the fighter corps doesn’t have much to do right now—”
“True. They’re stuck running sims… Early-warning patrols, huh?”
Lillian considered the proposal—and remembered something.
Her own escape stunt. Ironically, it hadn’t been entirely pointless. By sheer luck (or a fluke of fate), it had revealed the enemy’s presence.
In fact, Lillian was chased and nearly killed.
(Is this the event replacing my little escapade?)
A stretch, perhaps—but the plan itself had merit.
“I’ll talk to the captain. After we eat.”
The future… seemed to be shifting.
Six Hours Later
The early-warning mission was greenlit.
Weltall authorized it immediately—on one condition: The fighter corps, tacticians, and CIC personnel were to hold thorough briefings and simulations. Maintenance was also ordered to rigorously inspect the three radar domes (radomes).
Given the prep required, six hours was remarkably short.
Additionally, Tiberius’s full complement of sixteen fighters couldn’t be deployed.
Some had to stay behind to guard the carrier. Only one radome-equipped craft and four escorts were cleared for sortie.
Leading the escorts was, naturally, the fighter corps’ leader—Albero. Alongside him were three pilots of his choosing.
The radome craft would be piloted by Delan. And, just in case, maintenance officer Stella tagged along.
The radome craft took point, flanked by its four escorts.
Though called “fighters,” these were technically space combat craft—distinct from atmospheric aircraft.
Think ultra-compact combat craft. Their design diverged from traditional fighters: tubular fuselages reminiscent of old-century rockets, with wings and tail fins tacked on.
Fixed guns lined the nose, while rotating turrets on the dorsal and ventral armor covered all angles.
The radome craft, however, leaned closer to a radar-specialized vessel than a fighter. It even had a rudimentary command system.
Given that, Delan—an ace in carrier operations—was the obvious choice to accompany it.
[I don’t get the acting captain’s logic. Or should I say, the main operator’s?]
Albero, at the head of the formation, grumbled about the slow radome craft trailing behind.
Delan made sense. The guy fancied himself a carrier commander, and they got along fine.
But the extra girl? No clue.
Sure, radomes were delicate. And yeah, maintenance had been triple-checking all electronic systems since the warp accident.
Still, Albero couldn’t wrap his head around it.
[We’ve reached the designated point. Are we really just waiting here?]
“Yeah. The plan’s to sync the radome with drones and extend our sensor range. No idea what Luzor’s thinking, but she’s throwing drones at this like they’re free. Maybe she’s onto something?”
The fighters loitered at the edge of Tiberius’s radar range. By syncing the radome with the ship’s systems, they could relay real-time data back.
Drones would stretch that coverage even further.
Since the drones had their own propulsion, it’d take time—but it was the safer approach.
“Man, I just don’t get it. It’s not like we’ve got drones to spare, right? Why’s the plan to burn through ’em like this?”
The observation drones aboard Tiberius were, of course, finite in number—thirty-six units total.
Within Imperial territory, resupply would be possible, but with their return date still uncertain, even forty or a hundred drones would be precious cargo.
Yet this time, they’d deployed five—with no intention of recovery.
“It’s simple,” Stella answered Delan’s question from the cockpit’s rear seat, monitoring the radome and drone feeds.
“Human lives come first. Captain Weltall and Lillian must’ve decided broken machines are better than dead people.”
“But still…”
“Huh? What’s up?”
“Nothing. Maybe I’m overthinking it, but… I think they’re testing a hypothesis.”
“A hypothesis? About what?”
Delan couldn’t follow Stella’s logic.
Prioritizing lives was fair. Cool-headed, he might’ve used drones too. His pushback stemmed partly from lingering resistance toward Lillian.
Yet that didn’t mean he’d reject everything she proposed.
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“Well, for example—why did the enemy charge straight at Tiberius?”
[Isn’t it standard to investigate an unidentified warship in your territory?]
Albero replied over the open comms.
“Normally, yes. But what’re we doing right now?”
[Recon.]
“Exactly. Even if Earth’s Imperial forces control this sector, do you think they monitor every inch of space? Radar isn’t infinite—gaps exist.”
“So that ship just happened to find us? We popped up on radar? Nah, that ain’t it…”
Delan was a command candidate, a future admiral. Piecing together the clues, a pattern emerged.
“Now that you mention it, that is weird.”
[Explain. We’re lost here.]
“Hey, Albero. We’re stranded here ’cause of an ‘accident,’ right?”
[So we’re told. The warp drive is busted.]
“Right. An ‘accident.’ So why’d that enemy ship find us so damn fast?”
[Their radar must’ve—]
“No clue what their radar range is, but c’mon. They’d need to know we’d be there to attack that quick, no hesitation.”
Even Albero could understand, once that was explained to him.
At the same time, his face paled at the implication.
[An ambush? But how? Why?]
“That’s what they wanna find out. Hence the drones.”
Delan finally understood.
Their position might’ve been compromised—
but that was still just a theory.
Another mystery: If the enemy knew their location, why no follow-up attacks?
Maybe they had their own reasons. If so, do they want to find out?
Either way, Delan could only tip his hat to the minds thinking ten steps ahead.
(What the hell’s goin’ on in their heads? And Stella too—what’s she seeing?)
It wasn’t fear he felt.
More like reliance.
Yet parts still eluded him.
“Obviously, nothing happening’d be ideal…”
“Yeah, but…”
Currently, the radome showed nothing.
The freshly launched drones would take time to yield intel. He was curious what the dispersed sensors might catch—though success meant trouble.
“Drones stick out like a sore thumb.”
Despite the name, they were fighter-sized. Bound to ping enemy radar.
And likely, that was part of the plan.
(Recon? Feels more like baiting an ambush.)
The intent was clear: lure the enemy out.
It reminded Delan of an old educational cartoon where a cat fished with its own tail. Wasn’t this the same?
(…Nah. No way.)
Probably overthinking.
(But once the idea’s there, it won’t leave. If the enemy knew we were here from the start…)
A moment later
A shrill alarm cut his thoughts.
“Drone #3’s down. No image or data feed.”
Stella’s report drew a sigh from Delan.
“Stealth or jamming. Either way, we’ve got company.”
His grip tightened on the control stick.
In the cramped cockpit, he’d spotted the enemy.
His non-combat craft carried civilians too.
“Albero.”
[Torpedoes are greenlit. I say we retreat.]
“Wish we could. But we wait.”
They hadn’t stepped on the tail yet.
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