Spacemaster: Races & Cultures - Privateers

Sci-fi Power³

Alarion looked around him, confirming with his eyes what his instruments told him. 600 Light Horse, moving in a wave through the fire of the guns. 600 Tulgaran Knights of the Horse. Dying for the cause. He turned his attention back to the field of death. The guns were blasting, but they hadn't been prepared for the charge. They were still scrambling to battle stations. If they have been ready, the entire charge would have been cut into pieces in seconds. But they were lazy, undisciplined, and slow. The guns guarding the ground were only partially manned. Maybe ten percent. Almost enough to stop them. But not quite. 600 knights became 550, 550 became 500. Explosions warped the air with their heat distortions and blew Alarion about like a leaf.

One kilometer to go.

He leaned forward, growling with pleasure. Guns to the right of him. Guns to the left of him. He blew through them, jigging and dodging like a beast possessed.

500 meters.

The sound of the dying poured through his helmet com.

300 meters.

The guns became more accurate as soldiers manned their stations.

100 meters.

Alarion thumbed the arming mechanism next to his throttle and aimed for the base of the wall, below the nearest concentration of guns. Then came the impact. After that, nothing.