Autopilot (Otherwise Untitled)
#114 of Short Stories
A banged-up space fighter strives to survive in an asteroid field.
~ With a crushing lack of contact with the remainder of the patrol flight, the light strike fighter banked sharply around another asteriod as the pursuers continued to hold their distance outside of the collection of rocks, wreckage, and ice. The nose of the fighter leveled for a moment, FTL engines sputtering to try and find purchase in the moments before another weapons lock was detected. The ghostly image of a cockatiel lingered over the main indicator panel, appearing increasingly panicked.
~ "I'm running out of options!", the cockatiel squawked, port thrusters cracking to abrupt life to roll the small craft out of the path of the plasma bursts that sprayed across an area where only the absence of foolhardy lingering remained. From the starboard side one of the remaining gallium flares arced out greet the missile threading its way through the patch of ice hunks scattered above the jagged stump of dorsal fin the craft currently flaunted. Coming out of the tumble, the craft asserted a positive weapons lock on two of the lingering stalkers.
~ "They've figured out I'm bluffing; I need your permission!", pleaded the cockatiel as the pilot rocked in his seat through the manuver that combined the grace of avoiding another wave of plasma blasts with the reality of slamming the ventral side of the craft into jagged rocks. A wave of new alert lights sprung to action across the cockpit displays, contrasting red to the AI's ghost blue form.
~ "I don't know what else to do! Please, wake up!", the cockatiel implored of the pilot's body, the remaining gallium flare igniting in the magazine.