The familiar thrum of the spinal mount came through the deck plating as the immense capacitors discharged, flinging a trio of ferrous slugs downrange at fractional c. The comm link established with the escorting cruisers crackled in response. “Conn, Gunnery, aye,” came the reply as the helm obliged by slightly adjusting heading. “Gunnery control, retask to Target 1149 and fire main battery.” Captain Grrashrakar snarled briefly, but no matter. Sir Isaac Newton is the deadliest son of a bitch in space!Ĭourageous hove clear of Tyche to have the Yrch mothership go up in spectacular fashion just as the firing solution was plotted.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |