He was in pain, his heart still pounding. But he was alive. And there was a battle raging. His people needed him. His eyes were focused on the display, and he gasped softly. Two-thirds of the enemy force had engaged, and a massive dogfight was underway. He was shocked at what he saw. His people were hard-pressed, ten fighters already destroyed. It looked like the enemy had suffered similar casualties, but that parity came to him as a terrible shock. He’d expected the Confeds to be better than the intelligence reports made them out to be, but even his most pessimistic projections had assumed a considerable advantage to his squadrons in losses inflicted versus losses sustained. He couldn’t afford a bloody stalemate…his force had to defeat the enemy fighters, especially since two more of his squadrons were fitted for anti-ship attacks, waiting. They would be sitting ducks if the interceptors failed to turn back the enemy.

But things were even worse than that. A third of the enemy force had moved off, and now they were maneuvering around his flank.

“Stupid fool,” he spat to himself. “You move too far forward and get yourself in trouble…then you take your eyes off the battle.” He flipped on his com unit. “Darkwind leader, this is Force Leader. Deploy your squadron to the right of the formation, intercept enemy forces moving against the flank.”

“Force Leader, this is Darkwind Leader. Acknowledged. We’re on our way. Out.”

Junus stared down at the display. The fight was raging, and his people were hard pressed in multiple areas. The fighters on both sides were moving at very low velocities, which allowed rapid course changes, placing an emphasis on pilot skill. That should have given Junus’s people the edge, but his eyes were telling him otherwise. It was a true dogfight, with both forces locked together, fighters slashing in and out of enemy formations, firing their missiles and then diving in for attack runs with lasers.

Junus had seen many battles, but he’d never encountered an enemy as effective as the Confeds were proving to be. Their fighters were better, faster, and he suspected longer-ranged as well. He’d discovered the superiority of their missiles firsthand. Alliance forces weren’t supposed to allow technical differences to interfere their tactics or their pursuit of victory. They were a warrior race, and no enemy gadgets could overcome their invincible fury. So went the mantra.

But these Confed pilots are good…

He stopped short of thinking, “as good as we are.” That would be a hard thing for an Alliance officer to accept, almost a sacrilege. But there was no arguing that his force had lost more birds than the enemy so far.

Except in the center…

The Confeds were pressing forward against his forces everywhere…everywhere except in the center of their formation. Their fighters there had suffered badly, and the survivors were being forced back.