Prologue: Compromise—Akantha Style
A crowd of two hundred Hold Mistresses, their Protectors or Guardians, and other dignitaries of the planet Tracto stood at the foot of the imposing mountain range which marked the northernmost boundary of inhabitable land on their main continent. The biting cold, swirling snow, and open mistrust between the various of the planet’s nation states made for a truly frigid environment as they surveyed the landscape.
Before them was a valley leading up into the mountains, with steep walls of razor-sharp rocks marking the outer boundaries of both the valley and the mountain range which held it. There were nearly a hundred fires burning along the sides of the valley, with each sending a plume of jet-black smoke into the frosty air. Those fires marked where guard towers and other defensive positions had been, but in a remarkable display they had been destroyed just minutes earlier by a pair of Starborn gunships.
That display, and the plumes of smoke rising into the biting cold, were but a prelude to the true reason for which each member of the assemblage had been summoned—a summoning which had been made by Lady Adonia Akantha Zosime: First Daughter of Argos, Hold Mistress of Messene and Sword Bearer to the Starborn Protector, Jason Montagne.
Akantha’s icy blue eyes surveyed the assemblage, like those of a hawk surveying a field for particularly foolish mice that dared to challenge the will of the heavens—in this case, a will made manifest in the person of Messene’s Hold Mistress.
Beyond the assembled Hold Mistresses and other dignitaries were the nearly three thousand former occupants of the valley. Akantha had brought only a handful of armored Lancers to serve as security detail; she knew that the last remnants of the Ice Raider fortress on the far end of the valley had been properly conquered, and they were unlikely to openly rebel against her—at least, not yet.
“Hold Mistresses,” she raised her voice, piercing the air with the commanding authority afforded her position as pre-eminent Hold Mistress of her world, “what you have seen thus far is but a tiny fraction of the power of the Starborn weapons. Now you will stand witness to the true might and fury of their mightiest war machines.”
For such a demonstration to be effective—meaning, for it to stir not only envy but also evoke abject fear among those who would challenge the new order of Tracto—Akantha had required a suitable target. But, as a gesture of deference to her Protector’s peculiar sensibilities, she had decided that such a target needed to not only serve as a powerful symbol, but that it also needed to be unoccupied during the demonstration.
And she had found the perfect place to demonstrate her authority: Blue Fang Pass. The mountain fortress, formerly commanded by Kratos and later held by his daughter, the Hold Mistress Valeria, was like a tumor in the body of her world—and Akantha wanted little more than to remove it as quickly and completely as possible.
The Ice Raider, Kratos, had once stood beside her as they had battled the ‘Sky Demons’ and their ‘god.’ He had fought with admittedly impressive savagery, standing fearlessly in the face of the monstrous creature which they had both thought to be a demon god come to consume their world. But she now knew it had merely been a glorified biomass sampler and processor which the ‘Sky Demons’—better known to the Starborn as ‘Bugs’—had brought to help survey her planet’s flora and fauna in preparation for a long-planned invasion.
But Kratos’ assistance during that battle had done nothing to erase the fact that his people were raiders whose rejection of Men’s will had constituted nothing less than outright heresy. They preyed upon the rightful Hold Mistresses of Tracto, whose people suffered and died after the Ice Raiders stole the fruits of their hard work. The winters this far north were unforgiving, and the larders of Blue Fang Pass had been well-stocked when Akantha’s people—using Starborn power armor—had easily conquered it several days earlier.
Valeria herself stood among the Hold Mistresses. She stood at the head of them, in fact, and at a far enough remove for the rest of the assemblage to see her clearly—and to show that she was not considered their peer.
Akantha reached down to her com-link and tapped out a series of commands. She quickly received a request for confirmation from the warships in low orbit directly over their heads, and she confirmed her request by tapping out another series of inputs. A countdown timer appeared on her link, showing fifteen seconds remaining until her demonstration would take place, and she savored the look of impotent fury in Valeria’s eyes before turning to face the formidable fortress.
It was, if she was being honest, a marvel of engineering. Built of dry-fitted, blue stone blocks which had been quarried from the valley itself, Blue Fang Pass spanned several hundred meters from one side of the valley to the other. It had a dozen strong, tall guard towers offering overlapping fields of fire on the few passable approaches which led to the fortress’s main gates. Its walls were tall and thick, and its arsenal of siege weapons had deterred any serious attempt at breaching the fortress until Akantha had sent in two dozen Lancers in power armor to neutralize the occupants with non-lethal gas.
There was an endless supply of melt water running through the fortress during all but the peak months of winter, and that water cascaded down the front of the fortress between two long, beautiful buttresses made of the same blue stone as the rest of the fortress. The pair of long buttresses, which tapered from the base of the fortress down to the valley floor, were what had given the fortress its name. Indeed, looking upon it from her present vantage point gave the distinctly serpentine impression. Such an impression would no doubt cause even the bravest warriors to acknowledge the impressive sight as they trudged up the valley in an attempt to besiege the place.
In short, it was the perfect fortress: it was functionally unassailable using classical siege techniques; it required little or no maintenance; and it had an endless supply of fresh water for sanitation. With enough provisions, the Ice Raiders could hold out indefinitely against attack.
For a fraction of a second, Akantha wished she could preserve the fortress. It was a remarkable structure, the likes of which her people would likely never reproduce now that they had access to the much faster building techniques of the Starborn. In a way, the fortress represented a piece of her people’s heritage which would now become little more than a memory.
But she dismissed those thoughts from her mind as the countdown reached five seconds. In their place were visions of bringing peace and order to her war-torn world, and she knew that in order for that to happen certain sacrifices needed to be made.
What better sacrifice than a den of iniquity, rebellion, and heresy against every ideal we hold dear? she thought silently as she drew a breath in preparation for the demonstration.
She pointed triumphantly at the doomed fortress as the moment approached. “Thus for all heretics!” she declared in a ringing voice, and an instant later the sky was pierced by a series of strobing, stabbing lights which seemed to connect heaven and earth more completely than even the most violent thunderbolt could hope to do.
The lights stabbed down in rapid succession as the warships in low orbit bombarded Blue Fang Pass, and the booming impacts sounded not long after the first impacts had blasted the stone walls into dust. Hit after hit landed against the fortress as the expert gunners of the MSP warships dismantled the bastion of heresy far more efficiently, completely, and precisely than an army of laborers could have done in a year of uninterrupted work.
Akantha knew that the fortress could be ruined with a single strike, but she had intentionally called for a dozen precise impacts after consulting with the finest engineers and determining the best way to achieve all of her goals for this particular demonstration.
After the twelfth strike landed, the stream of fire ceased and Akantha turned to survey the assembled dignitaries. The expressions on the faces of the Hold Mistresses were those of muted envy, while their Protectors appeared grim with the barest hints of disapproval flavoring their features—disapproval that the fortress had been emptied prior to the bombardment. Akantha knew their disapproval only too well, for she shared no small part of it. And while she savored the envy of her peers, she also knew that it was not truly her power which had just been demonstrated.
The valley was filled with a cloud of dust, and the echoing sounds of settling rubble persisted for nearly two minutes until finally abating. Akantha had been informed that it would take several minutes before the haze would lift, so she raised her hand imperiously and gestured for the fortress’s former Hold Mistress, Valeria, to approach. This next thing she did not for herself, but for Jason Montagne, her Protector. Three thousand public executions of the unrepentant heretics of Blue Fang Pass would have provided a more traditional display of authority—one which, in spite of its macabre nature, Akantha would have greatly preferred to her chosen course.
Her Protector, however, had made no attempt to hide his disdain for such practices. Coupled with his own personal family experience of having their Royal Palace bombarded from orbit in a fashion similar to that which she had just enacted on Blue Fang Pass, Akantha had grudgingly decided that a rare display of mercy might serve as a salve for their recently-frayed relationship—or, if not a salve, at least a peace offering of sorts.
“Valeria,” Akantha declared, looking down at the Hold Mistress—who, like every other member of the assemblage, likely thought that her execution was at hand—as she approached. “You have been found guilty, by a council of duly-appointed Hold Mistresses, of fomenting rebellion against our society, of perpetuating heresies against the Will of Men, and of committing unsanctioned acts of aggression against your neighbors. Do you wish to speak before judgment is passed?” she asked, and as she spoke the bloodthirst of the crowd became a nearly tangible thing which caused her heartbeats to quicken.
A handful of years younger than Akantha, Valeria’s frame was similar to Akantha’s—though the northerner stood a full hand shorter. She had serpentine eyes which met Akantha’s steadily as the younger woman spoke. “I do not recognize the legitimacy of your council,” she said defiantly, “nor do I confess to perpetuating heresies against Men.”
“A confession is not required,” Akantha said, fighting the urge to grit her teeth in anger at the girl’s defiance, “you have been found guilty by a council of your…peers.”
There was a rush of whispered disapproval at Akantha’s choice of that last word. A more traditional choice would have been ‘betters,’ but Akantha was committed to ‘mending fences,’ as Jason would say, with her Protector. Things between Jason and Akantha had become difficult following the nearly-disastrous Nikomedes challenge, which had ended with the Tracto-an warlord’s death—and Jason’s near-universal elevation in the eyes of her people, a factor which her Protector seemed entirely too eager to ignore as far as she was concerned.
Her world and its people, whether they liked it or not, needed Jason Montagne in order to survive. She knew it would be a difficult road to repairing her relationship with him, but she was committed to doing her utmost in that regard. And if she failed to succeed, she would nonetheless continue to perform her duties as his Sword Bearer.
“Then pass your judgment,” Valeria said, jutting her chin out. “I would rather die than be subjected to any more of this brand of ‘justice’.”
The woman’s gall and disrespect were nearly enough to make Akantha abandon her plan, but she drew a deep breath to steady herself. “Then it is time to pass judgment,” Akantha declared imperiously after recollecting her composure, after which she drew an executioner’s axe from the wooden executioner’s block. She had brought both items from Messene, as was customary for such a public affair, and again she could feel the swell of the crowd as they sensed—or perhaps the better word would be ‘hoped’—for a savage end to the young Hold Mistress and her heretical legacy.
To her credit, Valeria stepped forward and knelt before the block. There was no fear in her countenance, nor was there anything resembling the fanatical zeal of a true believer, and this both perturbed and impressed Akantha. Valeria met Akantha’s eyes once before laying her neck on the block, and Akantha desperately wanted to take her life with the axe she now gripped in her hands.
But she was committed to her chosen course, and after several long, agony-filled seconds she tossed the axe to the stony ground near the block.
Gasps filled the air, including indistinct cries calling for Valeria’s head—cries issuing from the throats of Hold Mistresses who had suffered at the hands of the Ice Raiders during recent years.
“Valeria,” Akantha intoned in a rising voice as she swept the crowd with a commanding gaze, her eyes briefly meeting those of the angry Hold Mistresses who had thought they were attending the execution of their enemy, “it is the learned judgment of the Hold Mistresses that you and your people be forever exiled from this planet and Star System, to be forever forgotten by the world which gave birth to you.”
Valeria froze with uncertainty before slowly lifting her head from the block and looking up with a briefly confused expression. That moment made up for no small amount of the angst Akantha had felt at sparing the heretic’s life, but she knew that this was far from the last sacrifice she would need to make on behalf of her people.
Without Jason’s efforts, Tracto would have already fallen—either to the Bugs or to Jean Luc Montagne, her Protector’s ‘uncle’ who had aimed to make her home world a vassal state to his piratical organization. She needed him…but of equal importance, though likely making little difference to her people was the fact that she wanted him. But she also had a duty as a Priestess of Men, and the conflict between her duty as Sword Bearer—or ‘wife,’ as Jason preferred to say—and her duty as a Priestess had caused her endless inner turmoil since Nikomedes had made his challenge.
Valeria rose slowly to her feet, and Akantha cleared her mind of those former thoughts before continuing, “Those of your followers who have not recanted their rebellious ways are to share your fate. You will be placed on the next available barge and sent to a distant bank in the River of Stars. If you,” Akantha said with dire warning in her voice, “or any of those who accompany you ever return to this world, you—and every other exile who receives our mercy this day—will be hunted to the last and shown no further mercy. Do you accept this mercy?”
Valeria cocked her head just enough that Akantha saw her do so, and the young Hold Mistress nodded slowly, “I do. I will not return…and neither will my people.”
Akantha nodded and pressed an icon on her com-link’s miniature screen, prompting a series of shuttles to descend almost instantly beneath the clouds above them. Those shuttles would need to make several trips to move all of them off the holy land they had defiled with their every step, but before the sun set Akantha knew that her world would be rid of them once and for all.
“Remember this day,” Akantha said, turning slowly to encompass the assembled dignitaries with her piercing gaze, “for it marks the dawn of a new age for our people. As an additional display of solidarity and…mercy,” she said, the last word tasting bitter as she spoke it, “I encourage each and every one of my fellow Hold Mistresses to offer her current prisoners the option to take the path of exile, so that our world’s purity might be renewed without needless bloodshed. But any future heresies or transgressions of this magnitude,” she added, casting a long, hard look in the direction of Valeria’s people, “will be punished swiftly, severely, and without any such lenience. Our world can no longer afford to bear the stain of weakness which the likes of these Ice Raiders and night bandits represent,” she said condescendingly, taking no small amount of pleasure seeing Valeria bristle at her words and their delivery. But the former Hold Mistress willingly went to the first shuttle after it touched down just a few meters from Akantha’s position amid the roar of its engines. “If we are to take our rightful place in Men’s plan,” she continued as Valeria’s Ice Raiders began to board the shuttles, “then we must remove such impurities from the body and soul of our people, and we must do so with all haste.”
She could already tell that this ‘gesture’ had earned her a handful of new enemies, while also stoking the embers of old grudges with adversaries she would have rather worked alongside than opposite. But it was a sacrifice she made on behalf of those very people, on behalf of Messene, on behalf of their way of life—and on behalf of her children.
Besides, none of the Hold Mistresses which made their displeasure clear in the ensuing hours while the heretics were removed from Tracto were powerful enough to cause her people any significant difficulty. Those who were powerful enough to create significant trouble remained dispassionate and impossible to read, just as leaders of their station were wise to do in such times.
Akantha only hoped that Jason would appreciate this sacrifice she made on his behalf…but if history was any indicator, she gave herself even odds that he would even recognize it for the gesture it was.
As the assemblage finally returned to the large lander which Akantha had used to bring them to the site of Blue Fang Pass’s destruction, the last rays of the setting sun began to retreat from the mountain valley. As the crowd of people left, each member of it took a moment to gaze upon the long, fang-shaped buttresses for which the demolished fortress had been named. Akantha had worked extensively with the engineers during the planned demolition-via-orbital-bombardment to ensure that those portions of the structure—and those portions alone—would remain. She hoped they would serve as an effective warning to would-be heretics and other rebels.
It was time for her people to unite under a common cause, and she was determined to do her part in that unification in accordance with the will of Men.
Even if it meant occasionally subordinating her preferences to those of her Protector.
MSP Coalition Fleet Breakdown (119/21)
Total Ship Breakdown
4 Battleships
2 Gunboat Carriers w/ 350 combined Gunboat carrying capacity
11 Cruisers
37 Destroyers
51 Corvettes
14 Cutters
MSP Main Fleet = Total Warships (40/5)
4 Battleships (Royal Rage, Messene’s Shield, Metal Titan and Armor Prince)
2 ‘Jumble Carriers’ w/ 350 attached Gunboats
3 Destroyers (1 MSP, 2 Border Alliance)
17 Corvettes (4-Tracto SDF, 8 Border Alliance, 3 MSP former Druid-Sector Guard, 2 MSP captures)
14 Cutters (2 Tracto SDF, 11 Border Alliance, 1 MSP—formerly attached to Parliamentary Power)
1 Dungeon Ship (Durance Vile—assigned to recruitment drive)
2 Converted Colliers (former freighters)
2 Armed Freighters (shuttling repair supplies)
Allied Forces - Sundered Warships (5)
2 Destroyers (1 Commanded by Primarch Glue) with 24 attached Gunships
3 Corvettes (Commanded by Primarch Glue) with18 attached Gunships
Allied Forces - Promethean Survivors = (5) Warships
1 Medium Cruiser (Prometheus Fire)
4 Corvettes
Allied Forces - Wolf-9 Reserve Confederation Squadron (29/6)
1 Heavy Cruiser
2 Light Cruisers
14 Destroyers
12 Corvettes
2 Mine Layers
4 Medium Freighters
Allied Forces - New Sector Guard (23/8)
3 Heavy Cruisers (1 New Pacifica)
12 Destroyers (4 New Pacifica, 8 Capria)
8 Corvettes (Mixed Sector Worlds)
3 Marine Transport Ships (10,000 Marines)
5 Freighters (Fleet Train)
Allied Forces - United Sentient Assembly Expeditionary Force (17/2)
1 Cruiser
3 Former Droid Motherships (number of attached combat-ready gunboats unknown at this time)
6 Destroyers
7 Corvettes
2 Freighters
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Other Assets (32/11)
MSP Detached Forces (12/5)
1 Heavy Cruiser (Gamer Gate, under Captain Archibald’s command—assigned to Lieutenant Commander McKnight’s Sector 24 Task Force)
1 Destroyer (Freedom’s Bastard—assigned to Sector 24 Task Force)
1 Cutter (Custom design and personally owned by Sundered family—assigned to Sector 24 Task Force)
1 Medium Freighter (General Fleet Train)
2 Corvettes (Recent captures assigned to Gambit Defense Force)
3 Cutters (Omicron Defense)
2 Armed Merchant Freighters (non-hyper capable)
4 Cutters (Border Alliance – stationed at Tracto)
2 Armed Merchants (Border Alliance – stationed at Tracto)
Home Guard - Allied Forces - United Sentient Assembly (9/4)
1 Mothership (Oversized Constructor/Heavy Cruiser equivalent based on technical specifications)
2 Cruisers
3 Destroyers
3 Corvettes
1 Research Ship
3 Freighters
Unknown number of operable Gunboats
Home Guard - Allied Forces - Sundered People (3)
1 Destroyer
2 Corvettes
84 Gunboats
2 Fixed Defense Platforms stationed at orbital factory complex
MSP Mothball/Repair/Construction Forces (8/2)
1 Constructor Ship (New Dream - Gambit)
1 Cruiser (Harmony Cruiser)
1 Mothership Cruiser
1 Destroyer (Harmony Destroyer)
1 Decommissioned Battleship undergoing total salvage operation (Chief Engineer’s note: She’s the Lucky Clover 2.0—and she ain’t bein’ salvaged; she’s half-way rebuilt!)
1 Medium Cruiser (Furious Phoenix under extensive repairs)
4 Mothership Cruisers (under extensive repairs)
Chapter One: Peace at any Price
“New Pacifica is a peaceful world. We have no weapons; there’s no reason to attack us,” protested the power-armored, silver-haired woman on the holo-screen.
“I’m afraid I am not allowed to negotiate Reclamation Fleet policy, Miss. I can only relay terms,” the assistant Comm. Officer, Ensign Banks said politely.
“This is not an aggressive planetary system with a testosterone-fueled military industrial complex—our SDF has a strictly minimal footprint! Most of the warships built up by the previous administrations are now in mothballs, for the peaceful gods’ sakes. There’s no reason we cannot resolve this issue—or whatever other issues you have with us—peacefully!” exclaimed the woman on the screen, the Core World’s Foreign Minister.
“I’m afraid that I’m just the Comm. Officer, ma’am. My commanding officer, Admiral Arnold Janeski, has only authorized me to relay these conditions and accept your unconditional surrender,” the Ensign repeated.
“There must be a monetary figure that would satisfy your Admiral,” said the Foreign Minister of New Pacifica, looking genuinely stressed, “please send us a number we can work with and we can avoid all of this Neanderthalic mess.”
“Again, Miss,” the Ensign said with an edge to his voice, “I am not authorized to negotiate. If you are not ready to give your unconditional surrender then I think we’ve come to an impasse.”
“Then put me on with someone who has real authority you dim-bulb!” snarled the Foreign Minister. “War is simply economic and political competition taken to a disgustingly barbaric level. Put someone with real authority on and let’s bypass all the mindless death and destruction, letting everyone—including you, Ensign—get on with their lives and busy schedules!”
The Ensign opened his mouth but a penetrating look from the Admiral caused him to stop short, ignoring the woman on his screen.
“Listen up, whelp—“ barked the woman, only to be cut off by Janeski himself.
“I apologize for the abuse and ill use, Ensign,” the Admiral said firmly. “Even the meanest deck sweeper in this fleet is worth two of one of these up-jumped provincial ministers. I’ll take it from here, son.”
“My duty, Sir,” the Ensign said with a sharp nod, “and I’m happy to do it for you if it frees you or another officer from the task. You’ll find no complaint here, Admiral.”
“Even so,” Admiral Janeski said with a nod and then gestured to his command chair, “divert the channel to my screen.”
There was a short pause as the Foreign Minister was transferred to the Admiral. “Finally, someone in authority,” the silver-haired Foreign Minister said with no small relief. “I understand the need to negotiate from a power position, but dealing with that young man was starting to grow tedious.”
“Was it?” Janeski said flatly.
“Look, just tell us your demands, Admiral, and we’ll do our best to accommodate you. We must have peace at any price,” the Foreign Minister said frankly, “it’s obvious from the size of your fleet that we can’t resist you.”
“Any price?” Janeski asked coolly. “Did my communications officer somehow fail to forward my terms?”
“Unconditional surrender?” the Foreign Minister boggled, and then shook her head laughing. “Please, let’s be practical here. We can do far more for you under a tribute scheme than you’d get from a total surrender!”
“Very few people have described me as anything but a practical man,” Janeski said in a dangerously taut tone.
“I think you’ll find the amounts I can commit to pay you to turn around and leave—or at least forgo a direct invasion—will speak for themselves if you just give me the chance,” urged the Minister.
“I highly doubt that,” Janeski chuckled.
“I’m talking significant fractions of Gross Planetary Product here, Admiral,” the Foreign Minister said irritably.
“Oh really?” Janeski drawled with amusement.
“Yes! We’ve already calculated the amount of damage we’d have to repair from a full-scale invasion of this system and are prepared to start with an offer of 10% of our GPP. Rather than repairing all that damage and paying out the death benefit insurance for all the lives lost, wouldn’t it be better for everyone involved if we simply paid you out immediately—or in a contracted payment plan—in order to avoid all the mess? It can’t be cheap to keep a fleet that size up and running. And this way, instead of a one-time payment consisting of whatever you can carry off with you, you’ll get paid off immediately in a more liquid portfolio,” urged the Minister.
“And what’s to stop me from taking whatever you’re offering…along with everything else I want from you?” Janeski shook his head.
“You don’t honestly think we keep those amounts of credits on hand do you?” the Foreign Minister shook her head as if at a poor student.
“I’m afraid that whatever you can pay it won’t be enough,” Janeski said wryly. “Besides, even if you could, I really can’t leave an intact military force at my back.”
“What?!” the Foreign Minister started and then got a calculating look. “If it’s our SDF and military footprint you’re worried about then don’t! I’m authorized to offer, without precondition, the unilateral disarmament of our SDF in order to display our unceasingly non-hostile stance. By that I mean the instant and even immediate disarmament of our SDF,” she clarified speaking quickly.
“I’d like to see that,” Janeski said with real amusement.
“Then consider it done,” the woman said before turning and shouting at someone off the holo-pickup. “I want the Omega Code transmitted and I want it sent this instant! Give the order and transmit the code. Do it now!” shouted the Foreign Minister. She turned back to face the Admiral, “Consider it as good as already done.”
Janeski looked at her skeptically.
“Admiral, the system defense ships have started launching escape pods,” reported the Lieutenant Commander at Sensors.
Janeski lifted an eyebrow in genuine surprise.
“As I was saying, we’re offering 10% GPP but if that’s not enough I could probably go a couple points higher without wrecking our economy. The Financial Ministry has been working out the rough calculations, but the simple fact is that our social services programs will be overwhelmed and thrown into chaos if you continue with your invasion. Between that and projected infrastructure losses, the financial damages of an invasion will exceed our current budget proposals for the entire year,” the woman fretted.
On the main screen a dozen SDF warships simultaneously exploded—in several cases, before all of the escape pods had time to clear the blast radius.
“Ah, there it is,” the Foreign Minister said with satisfaction, “the Defense Ministry screamed bloody murder when it was first proposed, but any clear-thinking individual can see that a quick unilateral disarmament was the only reasonable response when dealing with a vastly superior force such as your own.”
“I notice that many of the crews didn’t make it away from their ships in time,” the Rear Admiral said neutrally.
“It is the job of the military to die for their nation,” the Foreign Minister shrugged it off as if unworthy of her concern. “It’s in their contracts, and is a risk that comes with the territory. In this case, a few died to ensure the rest of us survive—just like they promised to do when they signed up.”
“That seems a harsh outlook toward the very people who put themselves between you and danger,” Janeski said, his eyes hardening reflexively.
“My concerns aren’t for a bunch of crazy women who think that violence can solve a problem like this. You’d have thought we got rid of that kind of testosterone-driven thinking when we curtailed the male population on our planet down to less than 1%,” she said, shaking her head contemptuously.
“That seems a rather apolitical expression for a foreign minister speaking to the leader of a foreign military,” Janeski said dryly.
“It’s the orphans I worry about if we are unable to stave off this invasion of yours. I’ve looked at the projections and they’re enough to give anyone heartburn—social services might even face a complete collapse! Forget paying for grief counseling and new homes, it’s the warm bodies and standing structures that would be the problem. Frankly, we’re willing to do what it takes to get you in and out of our system as quickly as possible,” the Foreign Minister said, drawing herself up. “Just imagine it: order and social justice overturned by violence with rampant looting and rioting, resulting in a new paradigm of every woman being out for herself.”
“I think you are continuing to labor under a mistaken understanding—one which I no longer see the profit in maintaining,” Janeski said flatly.
“Don’t worry; I’m sending you an electronic copy of our proposed treaty, along with the tribute amounts and time schedule on the payment plan,” the Foreign Minister said quickly, sending over a copy of New Pacifica’s planned proposal as she spoke.
Janeski glanced at the document and then deleted it. “Unacceptable,” he said harshly.
“Just tell me the part and we can amend—” the Foreign Minister said before being cut off.
“Madam, when I request and demand a planet’s unconditional surrender, it is because I require its unconditional surrender,” the Rear Admiral barked.
“But we already destroyed our Fleet! What more can we do to portray our peaceful intent?” the Foreign Minister protested. “Do you want us to destroy our ships in mothballs as well?”
“A more foolish bit of insanity I have yet to see in these space ways—blowing up your own ships before the battle is even joined?” the Imperial Admiral scoffed. “It’s not so much that you had a chance of victory, but that your planet might have actually earned a fraction of my respect if you’d at least gone down fighting. As it is, I require those warships which are presently laid up in ordinary to remain untouched until after Reclamation Fleet engineers have had the chance to inspect them,” he said flatly.
“What possible use could our planet be to you if we’ve already disarmed and promised to pay you everything we can afford?” the Foreign Minister looked stunned and alarmed.
Janeski shook his head and sighed. “They actually let you help drive your world’s foreign policy,” he shook his head piteously.
“I’ll have you know that I have several doctorates in foreign studies, humanities, and related fields!” said the Foreign Minister, her face turning red.
“Madam Secretary, you may have adequately displayed your world’s peaceful intent—or, rather, its craven cowardice in the face of superior forces, alongside a complete and utter lack of consideration for the well-being of those in your own armed forces—but you have failed to consider a particularly urgent data point,” he paused, his eyes boring into the screen, “which is that this fleet invaded your system without regard for its intent, peaceful or otherwise. We are here to unify the Spine under one rule and you, madam, will not bribe us away from our course or chosen duty.”
“This is completely beyond the bounds of reasoned thought! Please, I beg you to reconsider, Admiral,” protested the Foreign Secretary, “I can forward you several Gaia proposals which, if you would but take the time to read, I am sure would change your current opinion on—”
“This can go one of two ways,” the Admiral cut in, his face turning deadly serious, “you can immediately begin preparations to turn over any current and former military assets on your planet to Reclamation Fleet forces—as well as arrange for barracks and bivouacs for my ground invasion forces in every major and minor city on your planet—or you can resist and we can do this the hard way. Of course, seeing as how you’ve already adequately demonstrated your provincial world’s spinelessness—and considering that I don’t like the thought of even one of my men dying needlessly—I hope you’ll agree to the former. In any case, I’ll be appointing a Governor before I leave this system and he will complete this time of transition as your current government hands over control of all administrative processes. After he is installed and your world has adequately demonstrated its submission, I will continue on toward the next world.”
“A male Governor! And men stationed in mass numbers on our planet? This is entirely against our planetary founding charter! You must be joking, Sir,” exclaimed the Foreign Minister. “I hope you realize that this is a fully-feminized planet with a less than one percent male population. If you must send troopers to look after your interests, at least send proper female ones. And as for appointing a governor to replace our current government, that is simply completely unacceptable! New Pacifica is a Core World. We aren’t some random, bush league, marginal fringe world like the members of that Border Alliance that’s been in the news. We are not to be treated in such a fashion!”
“You choose the hard way, then,” Janeski said turning to the Tactical Station. “Charge the main cannon and prepare to destroy their main orbital battle station and defensive platforms.”
“Yes, Sir!” said the Tactical Officer eagerly.
“What?” the Foreign Minister looked dumbfounded and then flushed a fiery shade of red. “You can’t do this! Moreover, you can expect mass protests and civil disobedience to sweep the nation if you land your forces! Our population will not bow down to foreign rule—we’re a Core World and expect to be treated accordingly.”
“Gathering in groups larger than twelve will be considered insurrection and banned until further notice: all insurrectionists will be shot on sight. That will be all, foreign minister. You may now take my words back to your government,” Janeski instructed.
“The Grand Assembly won’t sit still for this. When the Confederation Assembly hears what you’ve done, you’ll be burnt in effigy in hundreds of worlds across the galaxy. A Fleet such as has never been assembled will—” declared the Foreign Minister.
“If the Grand Assembly was going to do anything they would have done it when we pulled out of seven Confederation Sectors,” Janeski said, and then mockingly added, “Madam Secretary, New Pacifica may be what passes for a Core World out here on the border of known space but I assure you compared to New Terra or Homefall...” he trailed off.
“Main cannon ready and charged,” interrupted the Fleet Tactical Officer with a status update.
The Admiral took one last look at the robust space industry in orbit of the planet along with the more than twenty defensive platforms and moon base that protected this particular world. He then cut the channel to the Foreign Minister—the time for talking was over and done with.
Sadly, this system—like so many out on the edge of known space—was lost in the insanity laid down by their founders. It was sad because while they may not have kept their navy in good repair, they truly hadn’t stinted on their orbital defenses, turning what could have been a bloodless takeover into one in which his fleet might actually take minor damage. Not to mention the needless waste incurred at the loss of those defensive facilities.
That said, it would only be a matter of time until his fleet reduced those very defenses and began the integration of New Pacifica into the new order.
“Fire when ready; begin with targeting their largest most powerful orbital battlestation,” he instructed. “Try not to damage the orbital factories, Tactical. We may be able to make use of them after we pacify this Sector.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral,” the Fleet Tactical Officer said eagerly and moments later the main cannon fired ripping through the shields and into the incredibly tough battle armor of the station.
Standing with his hands clasped behind his back, Rear Admiral Janeski watched as the Reclamation Fleet stood off and pounded the fixed defenses outside of the range of the local force’s return fire.
It was a slower process using just the Invictus Rising, the only ship with a weapon that could fire from such an extreme range and still damage the massive, outdated battle stations. But the benefit of such a laborious effort was clear: the rest of the fleet took no casualties. Even though this Sector should have been conquered at least a year earlier, Admiral Janeski took pleasure in the proper execution of this particularly important siege.
This is the final turning point, he silently reflected watching as the first and then the second and third battle-stations, one by one, broke up and began to fall into New Pacifica.
New Pacific world would have its precious peace, but the price would be total subjugation. This Sector was the tipping point in his reclamation, and after this world’s subjugation he would tolerate nothing that might impede his Fleet en route to his inevitable victory. And if the response of the Sector in general was anything similar to the actions of this world there was nothing left to stop him.
In a desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable, a swarm of boats, shuttles and missiles erupted from the remaining orbital space stations orbiting New Pacifica. To his irritation, a squadron of destroyers shifted far enough out of position, in response to the action, to take unnecessary damage.
Aside from that particular lapse, it was looking to be a clean sweep from top to bottom. When the last fixed defense fell, he ordered the remaining civilian industry in orbit secured and the ground forces deployed.
The tedious but necessary work of planetary conquest was now about to begin.
In time, the rest of this Sector would fall just like New Pacifica and he would be one step closer to returning home in triumph and taking his well-earned place among the Senate.
“Communications: prepare the long-range array. I’ll be in my day cabin if anyone needs me,” the former and hopefully soon to be again Imperial Rear Admiral, if things continued to go as they had, said. It was time to send a report to his Patron back home.
No man climbed to the lofty ranks of the Imperial Senate without victory and meritorious achievement, but that alone wasn’t enough. In order to secure a position in the Senate, one needed powerful allies within that body—which he had. But with such allies came the tiresome obligation to keep them updated. Fortunately, he had much better news to report now than he had immediately after the Reclamation Operation kicked off.
What had been planned as a task requiring less than a year to complete was now nearing its third year, and the delay had taken its toll on Janeski’s sanity. The humiliation he had suffered in that delay would soon be paid with interest.
No one made a fool of him, certainly not an up-jumped Governor with delusions of grandeur.
Sitting down at his desk in the day cabin, Arnold Janeski began to fill out a report to be relayed via the hidden Com-Stat network. It would say that his organization of fifth column forces had remained on task since the official Imperial Withdrawal from this Sector.
It was sent and carbon-copied to his Patron: Senator Cornwallis.
In the report, he informed the Senator of his intention to split the Reclamation Fleet into four parts, as originally planned, to more quickly secure the Sector before significant resistance could take root.
The last thing this fleet needed was another Sector 27, with his assets chasing all over the Sector pursuing ghosts and squadrons of resistance forces because they didn’t have sufficient firepower to crush them all in one deft blow.
What was needed now was a decisive victory that would crush the old Confederation’s spirit before a serious defensive effort could be mounted.
And Janeski had the perfect plan to achieve that victory—one that would slake a previously unquenchable thirst for vengeance against an old acquaintance.
Chapter Two: An Urgent Communiqué
In the Star System of Harmony, located along the border of Sectors 23 and 24, the local ComStat buoy received and relayed an urgent communiqué to its intended destination.
Shortly after receiving and decoding the message, a middle-aged man of Asian descent boarded a fast air skimmer and jetted over to the primary offices of the Mutual Defense League.
Kong Pao strode through the giant, wooden doors guarding the inner sanctum of the MDL main office.
“What is the meaning of this interruption, Judge?” the head of the steering committee said with a frown.
“I have received an urgent message from our allies in the Multi-Sector Patrol: Sector 25 has come under threat from an outside force originating in Sector 26 or beyond,” Kong Pao said, bowing respectfully.
“This is highly irregular, Ambassador Kong,” the Vice Chair of the Steering Committee said in a scolding tone as her brows furrowed thunderously.
“If I could request a moment of the esteemed committee’s time, I believe this body will judge my interruption worthy of its attention,” Kong said with a deep bow.
The Chair and the Vice-Chair exchanged a glance before turning back to the Sector Judge.
“In recognition of your dedicated and determined contributions toward our Sectors, we will allow it. You may proceed,” said the Chairman with a gesture toward Kong Pao before leaning back in his chair.
“Please present your findings, Representative Kong,” said the Vice Chair picking up where the chairman left off.
“Thank you Chair, and Vice Chair,” the Judge said with a deep bow first to the Chairman and then to the Vice Chairman. He then loaded information sent to him by the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet into the committee’s local data system.
There was a stir as the various committee members reviewed the status update from the surviving Confederation splinter fleet based out of Sector 25.
“Preposterous!” exclaimed a thin as rails committee member from the devastated regions of Sector 23. “You can’t honestly expect us to help these machine-loving cretins! Simply outrageous,” he finished with a huff.
“Calm yourself, Member Von Straubergen,” said the Vice-Chair with censure in her voice. “Such words are hardly appropriate when addressed toward representatives of the Confederal government.”
“The same government which abandoned us?!” shouted Von Straubergen. “We formed the Mutual Defense League specifically because we had been abandoned by the Rim Fleet.”
“’Abandoned’ is a strong word,” Kong Pao interjected smoothly.
“Strong, but accurate,” scoffed Von Straubergen.
“If you like, you could come with me and tell that to the Vice Admiral whose Confederation Fleet came at my urging to assist in the defense of our great two Sectors, and was present during the Battle for Elysium. During the pivotal battle for that star system, the tide turned from defeat into victory. And many would say that it wouldn’t have been possible if not for Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet forces,” Kong Pao continued, his face blank to the point of almost being offensive in its lack of expression.
“Many might say that, but not I! Besides, not having the size or power of a ‘real’ Confederation Fleet, they were fighting under the banner of the Tracto-an Defense Force,” Von-Straubergen scorned angrily.
“They seemed real enough when the MDL sent me to beg Vice Admiral Montagne to take command of our united defense forces,” Kong Pao said, his voice gaining a real edge for the first time since his arrival. “And I did so at the urging—some would say pleading—of this very committee including yourself, Von Straubergen.”
“That’s entirely beside the point! This committee will have no truck with the sort of droid lovers who almost destroyed humanity not one year past,” roared Von Straubergen.
“Don’t you mean the sort that saved humanity in Elysium and our two Sectors, if not quite all of humanity as yourself suggest?” Kong said, his voice as sharp as a scalpel.
Von Straubergen purpled.
“Enough posturing; this is the steering committee of the Mutual Defense League, a dignified body charged with the defense of two entire Sectors of the Spine. Both parties present will control themselves or they will be removed,” the Chairman said, reaching over for and then pounding his gavel loudly.
“Outrageous,” muttered Von Straubergen, but then settled back down in his chair.
“I have the greatest respect for this body…otherwise I would not have undertaken such a hazardous mission for it in the past,” Kong said, cupping his hands and taking a step back.
Faces darkened across the committee as the members were once again reminded that they had personally requested a Sector Judge to go and beg for a fleet by offering promises which they, in the form of the MDL top military leadership, had ultimately repudiated.
“Your point is well taken, Judge Pao,” the Head Chair said with a nod. “However, perhaps you could lay out for us the reasoning, in your mind, why we of the MDL steering committee should consider laying out considerable resources when our two Sectors—especially your home region of Sector 23—are still trying to deal with the devastation and aftermath of the Droid invasion? Our resources are stretched thin, Judge Pao.”
Kong Pao nodded seriously and then, for several minutes, proceeded to lay out the argument he felt would most likely sway the committee.
“Thank you for this chance, Chairman,” he said, bowing before the committee after completing his bold proposal.
There was a very loud snort from direction of Von Straubergen, but other than that outburst no one else interrupted.
“My motivating reasons for responding to this information are two-fold. First, if the MSP leadership is telling the truth then anything we can do to delay the arrival time of an enemy fleet from beyond our two Sectors is worthwhile. Miring down a potential invader and allowing the…” here he shot a sideways glance at his most vocal critic of the day, “‘machine lovers’ to bear the brunt of the conflict while we secure time to rebuild, rearm and repair our economies and defense fleets should be done. Second, assuming Sector 25 loses we will have acquired critical information on a potential enemy, allowing us the chance to explore both military and diplomatic solutions.”
“That’s assuming this threat is even real, or that they can’t simply deal with it by themselves,” the Vice-Chair pointed out with narrowed eyes.
Kong Pao nodded with genuine appreciation.
“In that case, a small commitment of forces would allow us to maintain the appearance of assisting a former ally while at the same time giving us the opportunity to pursue diplomatic options. Securing foreign aid, ties with nearby Sectors, and a window into our neighbors politics that do not rely upon reports from the,” again he allowed a sideways glance and a faint smile at Von Straubergen, “‘machine-lovers’ would be ideal. Not to mention the possibility of a trade treaty, alliance or other arrangement which might strengthen our economy.”
“What could they have that we possibly want?” sneered Von Straubergen.
“Have you not heard?” Kong Pao pantomimed surprise. “The Tracto System has a rich and thriving trillium mining operation. As we all know, our own home-grown hyper drive fuel industry has taken a serious blow thanks to the war and is only now starting to recover. For a minimal investment of men, ships and materials we might find that assisting the ‘lovers’ gives us a return of several times that investment. I don’t have to tell you how badly the freight hauling trade has suffered this past year…do I?” he finished with a cocked eyebrow while off to the side Von Straubergen looked like he was going to have a stroke, giving out only incoherent noises as he struggled against his obviously rising ire.
“You propose offering assistance for a substantial trade deal?” the Chairman said with surprise.
“While assisting an ally out of nothing more than goodwill makes for a fine moral position, I have found that doing so for direct, immediate and tangible benefits to be far more profitable than a mere tug on the…heart strings,” he said, deliberately leaving the word ‘non-existent’ absent as he looked at Von Straubergen.
“People still starve in the streets thanks to those Droids, and now he mocks us with this farce of a treaty notion!” bellowed Von Straubergen. “All so he can help his human betraying friends?!”
“That will be enough, Member Von Straubergen,” the Chairman said forcefully.
“I concur; we must at least consider sending forces if by doing so we can increase the carrying trade. Do you realize how many crucial supplies, such as food and medicine, are not able to get to those in need simply because our freight companies do not have the funds to purchase the hyper drive fuel?” said the Vice Chair.
“I will not be a part of this farce,” Von Straubergen roared, standing up and moving to exit the room in protest, “better that a few of us starve, decreasing the surplus population, than we willingly give a foothold to the Droid menace in human territory. Billions of our ancestors died so that we might be free,” pausing, he turned to grandstand as he finished, “I’ll leave you with a few words: man, not machine.”
So saying, he marched out of the room.
There was a momentary pause as the committee members looked at each other uneasily. Then the Chairman cleared his throat, “How about we begin by looking at the particulars of the proposal, and then review what resources we have to offer in exchange for the trillium?”
There was a faint sense of easing in the room as the tension began to abate.
Kong Pao once again cupped his hands respectfully, all the while silently making a note to remember how the MDL Committee once again felt free to treat him, a Sector Judge, as an errand boy.
“I have nothing as grand as a proposal. However, I do have a few thoughts,” Judge Pao said easily and then started to lay out his ideas so far. It was the collective duty of everyone who loved the worlds and sectors of the spine and greater Confederation at large to do whatever was within their power to save them from conquest and collapse. There was no point in standing on dignity and watching whole Sectors burn.
The thought that he was only mortal lingered in his mind. He knew that those who disrespected his office had best hope they never showed up in his courtroom, for if they did they would only find a strict—and unbending—interpretation of the law.
On the outside, he smiled and continued to field the questions and stated frustrations of the Mutual Defense League without a word of complaint. He had succeeded in principle—all that remained now was the politics.
Chapter Three: Smoothing out the rough edges
“All ships report confirmed arrival at first rendezvous point, Admiral,” reported Lieutenant Commander Leonora Hammer.
“Thank you, Captain Hammer,” I said with a simple nod, but on the inside I was frowning. Managing a fleet of more than 100 warships—a coalition fleet made up of multiple groups, no less—was proving to be even more difficult than the computer modeling had predicted.
“Fleet is now ready to begin charging jump engines and proceed to the next waypoint on your order, Admiral,” reported the Captain of the Royal Rage, my latest flagship.
“Understood,” I replied and then fell silent.
After realizing I wasn’t immediately giving the order to charge the hyper drives, Captain Hammer cocked her head and gave me a look before turning back to running her bridge.
Tapping on the screen built into the arm of my new Throne, I pulled up the information on the last group of ships to jump into this waypoint system and pursed my lips.
The corvette group had been the last to reach this way point, two hours slower than their estimated travel time, which would have been bad enough except for the fact that it had been MSP ships—the newly refurbished Border Alliance warships—that had held up the corvette group and thus slowed down the entire fleet.
Due to the way the hyper drives worked, each ship class had a different charge rate on their hyper drives. Larger ships went further with each jump but took longer to charge their drives, and smaller ships jump faster but covered far less distance with each point transfer. Each ship varied in how far and how fast they could go in a single transfer, but generally speaking ships of the same size could jump close enough together that they traveled together in fleet movements.
There were two schemas a fleet commander could use when moving his fleet. The entire fleet could jump together each and every time, but that limited the group to the jumping as fast as their slowest ship could cycle its jump engines and only as far as their shortest range vessel could move, thus slowing the entire fleet down to a crawl.
That meant that a fleet only moved all together at the same time during battle conditions. The more common fleet movement order was the one I was currently using: break the fleet up into squadrons of ships roughly the same size and set rendezvous waypoints for the entire Fleet to periodically meet up at a mathematically-generated rendezvous space and time.
“Lieutenant Steiner, if you would be so kind as to ask our corvette commanders if they need any assistance—the temporary services of our engineering staff perhaps—I would greatly appreciate it,” I said, thin-lipped.
“On it, Admiral,” replied the Comm. Officer.
A series of rapid denials from each captain was soon relayed by Lieutenant Steiner.
“Get me the Perseverance,” I snapped.
Steiner turned back to her console.
“I have the Perseverance now, Admiral,” said the petite Communications Officer.
A young enlisted communications operator appeared on my Throne’s built in screen.
“Get me Captain Kling,” I ordered.
“Bob Kling here, Sir,” said the short, stout Captain a moment later, “how can the Perseverance help you, Admiral?”
“You can help me by getting control of the MSP Corvette Squadron, Captain,” I said evenly
“We’re doing the best we can, Admiral,” Captain Kling said fatalistically, “a quarter of our ships just came out of a hasty refit and haven’t had time to perform a proper shakedown. We’re still working out the kinks.”
“There are a hundred and nineteen warships in this fleet,” I snapped, “and your units of the MSP have just caused over a two hour delay. I realize we’re still working up and that you’re dealing with new ships and captains, but yours is the slowest squadron in the Coalition Fleet! Get control of the situation, Lieutenant Commander, and if you need a few more engineers then by all means let me know—instead of refusing the assistance when it’s offered.”
“It won’t happen again, Admiral Montagne,” the middle aged former Caprian Officer said, bracing stiffly to attention.
“See that it doesn’t. I know going from command of the Tracto SDF’s six ships to the entire MSP contingent is a bit of a shift. But now is the hour to shine or fail, Captain. Take those seventeen ships and show me what you can do, or I’ll have to find someone else. Montagne out,” I finished before cutting the transmission.
When it had come time to place an officer in charge of the MSP’s corvette squadron, Commodore Kling—who’d already been in command of Tracto’s SDF combined corvette and cutter squadron—had been at the top of the list. With more than forty starships including the freighters carrying repair parts and acting as colliers, all brought together at the same time, the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet had never been larger. Nor had so many warships to bring together in one place at the same time—and that wasn’t even counting the pair of corvettes left guarding Gambit, the Cutters at the Omicron, or the mixed warships left guarding Tracto.
“Not bad for an honorary Admiral,” I said to myself.
“Sir?” asked Leonora Hammer.
“Nothing, Captain, just talking to myself,” I explained.
“If you say so, Sir,” she replied.
I grimaced but let it pass. I was probably being overly sensitive. I was in direct command of more warships than at any time in the past, including during the Droid Campaign. That was in no small part due to the Border Worlds and the tireless efforts of our engineering staff. And yet, despite this great achievement, the number of forces I controlled paled in comparison to the size of this coalition fleet that was currently assembled in this star system.
With thirty some ships, counting freighters, from Wolf-9 and a similar number of New Sector Guard warships—not to mention the Promethean SDF refugee warships, Sundered squadron, and the nearly twenty warships of the droid contingent—the amazing thing was that my combined MSP Fleet was just around a third the total size of the forces currently under my command. Or was that merely under my ‘direction?’
In any case, I was back in the big seat after almost a year of downtime in Gambit System while we rested, repaired and recuperated. Oh, right, during which time I also fought off a few dozen challengers to my dual roles as commander of the MSP and as Protector to my wife’s holdings on Tracto. While I was used to running a battleship, or even a few squadrons of smaller warships, with well over a hundred ships in this fleet I was starting to feel decidedly outside my comfort zone.
In the past I’d always been able to tell myself—at least in the back of my mind—that even if I messed things up with the smaller ships, if I had control over the Lucky Clover or heavily-armed Furious Phoenix I could still turn things around using just the Flagship. At this point, however, things were decidedly different.
The Royal Rage was a battleship and, yes, after its many various upgrades definitely the most powerful ship in this fleet. But with that said, there were three other battleships. And after word of that Imperial Command Carrier’s robust arsenal, I was no longer very confident that just riding to the rescue with the most powerful ship was going to work—let alone even be possible with the Invictus Rising lurking somewhere out there.
Looking at the profiles of both warships, the Invictus Rising—assuming it was Arnold Janeski’s present command, as it had been when last we had seen him—was much more powerful than the aptly named and heavily upgraded Royal Rage. So wildly charging in with a full steam of my own brand of ‘royal rage’ and hoping for the best was right out the airlock. I’d tried attacking larger more powerful ships with the Furious Phoenix in our last battle and that had ended with the flagship knocked out of the fight, boarded, and I had personally been tortured after our engines were taken offline.
Thanks, but no thanks—I’ll pass on a second helping of that particular constellation of outcomes.
I was going to have to be smarter, faster, and better than I had at any point in the past. I was also going to do it while trying to outthink, outmaneuver, and just plain out-Admiral a man who had spent the equivalent of my entire life leading warships into battle.
It was a daunting task but one I felt up to the task for. Of course it would be interesting to see if I still felt the same way after making contact with the enemy.
“Fleet readiness status, Mr. Hart?” I asked of our Tactical Officer.
“All ships, squadrons and sub-formations report ready for action, Vice Admiral,” said the new man. The more precise use of my rank indicated he was one of the Confederation sleepers we’d liberated from the droids during a prisoner exchange.
I nodded. “Course laid in to our next Fleet waypoint, Mr. Brightenbauc?” I inquired of the ship’s first shift navigator, yet another Confederation sleeper. Even though he was a fine officer, I couldn’t help but feel a pang like that of a sore tooth at the loss of those who had been with me since what was essentially the beginning of this journey.
“We’re ready whenever you are, Sir,” Brightenbauc said.
“Pass the movement order to the fleet, Lieutenant Steiner,” I said, closing my eyes for a moment and then opening then with renewed determination. “We’ve stayed in this star system longer than I care to, Navigation. Let’s move out.”
“Aye, Admiral,” replied the Comm. Officer.
“Yes, Sir,” echoed Brightenbauc.
I sat there watching as the lighter units, starting with the corvettes and then followed by the destroyers, charged their engines and jumped out of the system on course for the next scheduled waypoint.
Moving an actual fleet was more complicated than running a single ship or even a squadron. Or maybe it just felt that way and I needed to step up my game. Either way, I was proud of what we’d done to this point.
I was still mentally patting myself on the back when my musing was interrupted.
“Contact,” reported the Second Shift leader for Sensors.
“Location, Mr. Harding?” Captain Hammer said.
Moments later a small icon appeared on the main screen.
“A straggler?” asked DuPont, but I shook my head—I knew better.
“All ships were already accounted for before the Admiral gave the order to jump the fleet, Helmsman,” Leonora Hammer said, an implied rebuke in her voice.
“Sorry, Captain,” DuPont muttered turning back to his console with a wince.
“Potential enemy action, Captain?” I asked, keeping my voice deliberately light.
“I advise we ping the ship, Sir,” Hammer said and then turned to the Comm. section. “Do we have an IFF on that bogey, Comm.?” she asked sharply. “I’m not seeing it on the screen.”
“They haven’t sent it—” Steiner started and then stopped.
“Ping them,” I interrupted.
“Signal coming in now, Sir,” Steiner continued after a brief pause, “we have a positive IFF. Computer says it’s the Speedy Delivery, a courier belonging to the Sector Government.”
“Scan them anyway and make doubly sure they are who they say they are,” I commanded.
“You heard the Admiral,” added the Captain.
“Sensor profile matches that of a courier vessel,” Sensors reported back.
“I’m receiving a burst transmission using the encryption key the New Guard sent us,” said Lieutenant Steiner, “it’s a text file, Sir.”
“Send it to my screen,” I ordered.
“Yes, Sir,” said the Lieutenant.
Pulling up the file, I read halfway through it before cursing.
“Are you feeling well, Admiral?” Captain Hammer asked, giving me the eye.
“We have an intelligence update from the Sector Government,” I said flatly.
“Are you sure this is the best time to discuss a classified report, Sir?” asked the Captain.
A hush fell over the bridge.
“New Pacifica has fallen,” I said, ignoring the tacit advice, “as such our plan to head toward New Pacifica, being the most likely target for the Reclamation Fleet after Prometheus, will have to be reevaluated. It’s not that we were wrong in our estimation of where they were likely to go but rather that they moved faster than we did. We were too slow off the jump and too far away,” I clenched my fist angrily.
Lieutenant Commander Leonora Hammer took a deep breath. “We’ll need to consider trying to link up with any survivors from New Pacifica SDF,” she said after a moment, “are there any damage estimates on the enemy fleet?”
“That would have been my plan…except that it appears New Pacifica fell only after the Provincial Government, in its infinite wisdom, decided to unilaterally disarm by way of core overloading the fusion generators of their entire fleet before the first shot had even been fired in anger,” I said into the now dead silence on the bridge as I finished scanning the document. “I also have here an attached document from the New Pacifica Administration. In the abstract it says that they were determined to give peace a chance. Well, it seems they did give peace its chance—and now the Administration and entire population of New Pacifica are at the mercy of the Reclamation Fleet.”
“May the space gods preserve them,” Captain Hammer said shaking her head.
“Indeed,” I said silently cursing the leaders of New Pacifica to the depths of Hades and the Abyss. Instead of defending their planet and whittling the enemy down along the way, they’d spiked their guns and done as good as nothing to stop or even slow down the enemy fleet.
I was going to need a new plan. Fast.
In the meantime, it looked like I needed to catch up with the rest of my fleet before I could even think about setting a new course or target.
“Navigation, continue to jump as planned; Communications, fire up the long-range array,” I instructed.
“Aye, Admiral,” my officers acknowledged.
Chapter Four: The Tau Ceti Counter Strike
“The enemy fleet has taken New Pacifica. Considering that their SDF didn’t so much as fire a shot in anger until the Reclamation Fleet hit their orbital defenses, I think it’s safe to say that charging into the system guns blazing to take on an undamaged fleet powerful enough to take their Star System is right out,” I said without preamble, pacing back and forth in front of the screen in the briefing room of the Royal Rage.
“The New Pacifica SDF never actually engaged the enemy fleet, Admiral Montagne,” Hammer pointed out respectfully.
“I know you’re playing devil’s advocate, Captain, but even a group proven to be as spineless as the New Pacifica government wouldn’t have destroyed their own fleet unless they were faced with overwhelmingly superior force,” I retorted, “as such, we have to take this threat seriously.”
“We still don’t have a hard count on enemy numbers, Jason?” Akantha asked.
I stiffened. “Right now all we have are secondhand reports and the sensor logs of a particularly myopic freighter that jumped out of the system shortly before the New Pacifica government, in its infinite wisdom, decided to blow up all its courier vessels alongside its SDF,” I said, drawing back before leaning forward and plastering a pleasant expression across my face.
“I still don’t get that last part, Sir,” said Navigator Brightenbauc. “To get the engineering staff on all those ships to willingly blow up their own vessels…it seems to defy reason. Someone should have balked at the order; it’s just human nature.”
“That’s assuming they were given the choice, Nav,” Senior Lieutenant Wave Grinder, our ship’s new and temporary Chief Engineer said clenching his fists.
“Even so—” started Brightenbauc.
“It appears they used a com-wave propagated computer code that bypassed the human element and put the fusion generators on all government-controlled ships in the system into an uncontrollable cascade failure,” I interrupted.
“The number of lockouts they bypassed was criminal,” Chief Engineer Wave Grinder growled, pumping his fists angrily, “to say nothing of the message it sends their other defense forces.”
“I doubt they considered their defense forces personnel of much value, considering what they did to their own ships,” I said dryly.
“Sweet Murphy,” DuPont muttered loud enough to be heard around the table.
There was a pregnant moment of silence for the lost ships and crews of the New Pacifica fleet.
“Well I sure hope someone has told the New Pacifica ships of the Sector Guard with us that their ships can be remote detonated by com-signal,” Chief Gunner Lesner said sarcastically. “You know, now that the people who had the codes have been conquered and all.”
“Yes, that would seem to be of importance—especially considering the recent object lesson in the disregard that local governments seem to hold toward their own people. We cannot simply assume that because the Guard Commander has access to this mission critical-information that he’ll share it with his New Pacifica ship commanders of his own free will,” I remarked casually.
“I’ll prepare a burst transmission to be sent directly to the New Pacifica contingent on your order, Admiral,” said Lieutenant Steiner.
“The order is given. Send the transmission as soon as it’s compiled and we’re out of this conference room, Ms. Steiner,” I ordered.
“Coming back to the size of the enemy fleet,” Akantha said, looking over at me now that we seemed to be done with that line of thought, “you did say we had some sensor logs?”
I gave my head a shake as another wave of emotion bathed my consciousness in bright, fiery red. It was time to put thoughts of betrayal, the untrustworthiness of key worlds in this Sector, and the general disregard for the very people who put their lives between the helpless citizens of this sector and danger and focus on the present. And presently we had to come up with a solution to deal with this Reclamation Fleet invasion force.
“That’s right, Hold Mistress,” I said forcing courtesy into my voice, “though we’re still hoping another one of the freighters in the New Pacifica system managed to escape with better, more comprehensive sensor logs.”
“Something is better than nothing, is it not?” Akantha said rhetorically, giving me a ‘go on with it’ look and a supportive smile.
I gritted clenched teeth behind a closed-lip smile as I nodded to her. I really hadn’t wanted to share what information we did have for fear of it crippling morale. Thanks for that, Akantha, I thought bitterly. However, in the end they did have a right to know—even if it was only going to make my job harder.
“The freighter scanned something on the order of three to four hundred unique contacts before it jumped. How many of those were warships and of what classification they might have been, we don’t currently know. The ship had already reached the point of no return on its hyper drive during a routine transit and jumped out of the system during the initial stages of the invasion,” I explained calmly.
“Three to four hundred,” Lieutenant Hart grunted as if struck, while Lesner whistled.
“Why can’t we get a more accurate count?” asked Wave Grinder.
“I don’t understand,” Brightenbauc said, looking confused, “the freighter jumped out before it could get a full tally and we heard it had poor sensor coverage. It sounds like we’re lucky to have what we do.”
“Yes, the Admiral said the ship jumped out during the initial stage of the invasion and we’re waiting for better sensor records. But if that’s the case then just how did we find out New Pacifica was conquered without firing a shot?” the Chief Engineer looked over at me apologetically. “Pardon me for saying it, Sir, as I’m sure you relayed the information you received…but something sounds hinky here.”
“Nothing to apologize for, Chief,” I replied, splaying my hands, “the reason we don’t have better information is because we’re using a combination of the freighter logs and reports from a Sector Assembly intelligence source on the planet.”
“Can we get further updates from the source?” asked Wave Grinder.
“Wait a minute,” Brightenbauc protested, “how can we get further reports from New Pacifica if the planet’s been interdicted by the enemy? For that matter, how did we get an intelligence report and no new sensor log from the courier that brought back the information in the first place?”
“That information is confidential,” I said firmly, “but suffice it to say that the informant had no access to sensor logs when she smuggled the information off world.”
“So it’s a woman,” Hammer nodded at me as if to subtly remind me I was giving away need to know information, in this case the gender of the informant that no one here really needed to know.
“An easy guess since, except for a 1% vintage heritage population in case of a massive apocalyptical tech regression episode, the entire population is female,” I said wryly.
“It doesn’t matter the male/female ratio,” Brightenbauc protested, “how can you get a report off an interdicted planet by courier but not the sensor logs?”
“That’s enough, Navigation,” Captain Hammer said sharply.
“As the captain says,” I agreed firmly, “besides, there are any number of ways. They might have paid a smuggler who didn’t want to get involved any further than he/she or it had it, or they could have bribed one of the enemy support ship officers. Such an officer wouldn’t be likely to provide a potential enemy with scans of their fleet, but a mere text file with vague information seems possible.”
“Probably just linked up using the Com-Stat network,” stated the Chief Engineer.
“Wave Grinder,” snapped Leonora Hammer.
“I thought the Com-Stat network had been destroyed,” said the Navigator.
“You don’t just destroy something like that, at least not entirely,” said the Confederation Officer. “Besides, anyone with eyes can see that we’ve been getting updates between systems faster than can be explained by courier,” Wave Grinder continued. “From there it’s a simple enough extrapolation to realize that if we have a working FTL comm. network, others do as well.”
“I’m warning you, Chief Engineer,” Captain Hammer said in a voice that promised dire retribution.
“No, it’s alright, Captain,” I soothed. Now that the secret was out of the bag, there was no point in continuing the deception, “Yes, we have access to a limited Com-Stat network. No, we are likely not the only ones with such access as we co-opted an existing network that our special forces team had stumbled upon during another operation. And finally, this information is not to be shared with other officers or crew of this fleet, or even amongst yourselves outside of this room on pain of a one way trip to a penal colony if you’re just a braggart—and on pain of death if you turn out to be a spy.”
There was a sudden and abrupt silence within the room.
I randomly picked up a piece of fruit and took a bite out of the randomly selected apple. After chewing and swallowing I gave a long and level look to the assembled officers.
“A lot of people from different organizations have tried to destroy this fleet on more than one occasion. Not only were such actions technically illegal they also succeeded in getting a large number of good people killed. Members of this Fleet even. You’re all here because I trust you to help me stop such actions from happening, not to cause them in the first place. I warn you not to betray that trust,” I said, locking each person down one by one with my eyes.
After the pause had grown uncomfortable, Captain Hammer loudly cleared her throat. “As the Admiral says, the statutes on mutiny and espionage are quite clear, people,” she said.
“Although that wasn’t what I was saying,” I said, speaking clearly and distinctly, “it is true.”
Wave Grinder slowly nodded and others around the table including the new navigator who also gulped also nodded.
“You don’t want your intelligence insulted; I don’t want this fleet’s most vital and important military secrets exposed,” I said grimly and then waved my hand. “Now that we’ve got all of that over and done with and out of the way, since our original plan to reinforce New Pacifica before it fell is out the airlock I am open to suggestions. That said, I am considering a move against New Tau Ceti, as it was the original breach point into our Sector and I can’t think of anything I’d like to do more than smash their supply chain…other than, say, to smash their entire battle fleet and send them running from this Sector like a ship with an unstable fusion core!”
“New Tau Ceti is it?” Chief Gunner Lesner rumbled reflectively.
“We would need a place we know they have to hold if we want to pin them down,” Captain Leonora Hammer said slowly, “assuming we want a fleet battle, this is probably the best plan, barring future intel intercepts that allow us to find them en-route to another location and hit them while their fleet is scattered out in group transits.”
“Assuming we want a battle?” Akantha asked coolly. “Of course we want a battle. I would have expected a woman of your accomplishments would be chomping at the bit to engage the enemy!”
“Of course I want to end this threat to the region,” Captain Hammer said, a hard glint entering her eye as she matched Akantha look for look. “But there is no ‘of course’ when preparing to attack a fleet of more than three hundred warships that outnumber you somewhere in the region of two to one! Throw in that the enemy is more technically advanced and has the largest ship type in known space at its head, and carefully choosing the time and place of such a battle is only common sense!”
Akantha stiffened in her chair her face coloring. “So you are saying what I lack is—” Akantha began hotly.
“Ladies. Ladies,” I interrupted sharply, “let’s not do the enemy’s work for them and turn on one another. The enemy is out there, not in this room.”
“My apologies,” Hammer said neutrally and sat back in her chair.
Akantha scowled but folded her arms across her chest. So long as she fell silent and let the matter drop, I suppose that’s the best I could hope for under the circumstances. I eyed her coldly as some of those troublesome emotions once again rose to the surface. I was far less understanding than I had been in the past-I can only stand by and do nothing while I am attacked so many times before I was ready to call a person to account. Despite the control she had over my fleet’s embedded Lancer force, Akantha had reached her limit.
Maybe the next time we were attacked by assassins in the middle of the night, she could fend for herself. I was tired of throwing myself between her and danger only to have the favor unreturned. Not raising a hand for or against me is different than not warning me of an impending attack in the first place, I thought coldly.
“Let’s try and stay focused on Tau Ceti and the enemy,” I suggested, pulling up a file on my hand held and projecting it onto the main screen.
“Moving against New Tau Ceti will definitely simplify some things while also presenting new issues,” suggested Lieutenant Hart, the flagship’s Tactical Officer.
“Such as?” Akantha asked, obviously failing to read my current state of mind.
“Attacking a fixed target is different from attacking a mobile one. In the case of a stationary target, such as a star system, the defenders have plenty of time to fortify and prepare along the most likely attack routes. Conversely, they never know when or where an enemy attack fleet will transfer into a system. On the other hand, attacking another mobile force almost eliminates entirely the possibility of facing fixed fortifications, but pinning the enemy route and making a successful intercept while on the move is much harder. In short: the fog of war makes it more difficult to find them and maintain an engagement, versus knowing exactly where they are and then assaulting a dug-in enemy,” advised Mr. Hart.
“Little different than attacking an army on the march versus assaulting a fortress then,” Akantha said, shaking her head.
“Generally speaking, what kind of intelligence assets do we have in New Tau Ceti or along the enemies projected route?” Wave Grinder asked.
“That’s moving a little bit beyond the scope of the Engineering Department isn’t it, Senior Lieutenant?” Chief Gunner Lesner asked quellingly.
“Maybe, but it’s still a valid question,” the Chief Engineer protested, “I thought we were here to help advise the commander as he devised fleet strategy?”
“Within the scope of our training and departments, Lieutenant Wave Grinder,” the Chief Gunner grunted.
“Well ‘Warrant Officer’—” began the Chief Engineer.
“Enough,” I slapped the table to bring the attention back where it needed to be: on me. After getting that attention and holding it, I turned to the Chief Engineer, “I’m not sure what kind of system the Confederation Fleet of a hundred years ago was used to, but even before the Empire formally abandoned this region of space—without so much as a peep we’ve heard from the Confederation Grand Assembly, I might add—the Fleet presence was almost non-existent. If a network of informants or intelligence assets even still exists in the Spine, it’s much more likely to be used and accessed by our enemies than spontaneously start reporting to us. To be blunt, we laid hands on this minimal FTL Network and expanded the MSP to a size beyond that of laughingstock status. Setting up a massive intelligence gathering operation on every world of Sector 25 just wasn’t a big priority until now.”
“I can understand all that, Admiral. But…” he trailed off unhappily, and I started to wonder if I had an armchair Admiral on my hand.
“We do the best we can with what we have to hand,” I said pragmatically, “and thank Saint Murphy and the benevolent space gods that things are going as well as they are.”
Heads nodded around the table from the veteran members of my Fleet, while a few of the newer members—mainly sleepers lost during the border conflicts with the droids and rescued by the MSP in a prisoner transfer—looked at the rest of us in disbelief.
“You think facing a fleet of three to four hundred ships is ‘things going well’?” Brightenbauc asked with disbelief.
“The numbers may be a bit bigger than I’m used to,” DuPont said with a wry shake of his head, “but the situation’s no worse than usual—and we’ve seen a lot worse.”
“Par for the course,” I agreed with a shrug, “whether it’s in relation to ship, world, or Sector, there’s always danger out there. The only question is: what can we do about it? And in this case, the answer is ‘quite a bit, actually.’ So yes, I think that all things considered, things are going well.”
The Navigator shook his head but settled back into his chair.
“Those of us with a background in long range border patrols are used to operating on the far end of the supply line with support a far call away,” Captain Leonora Hammer said contemplatively. “But perhaps we are still not entirely used to the idea that even if we could call no support would come.”
“You need to get used to it. Our allies in this region are chancy at best and actively subversive at worst. Even within this joint fleet we’ve assembled,” I warned, and then my eyes cut from the Navigator to the Chief Engineer, “the sleepers in this fleet have had the better part of a year to get their bearings, adjust to time shock, and acclimate to the conditions on the ground. It’s time and past time to get it together,” I paused to consider the correct way to put this, “to the veterans of this fleet this long, relatively uninterrupted, period of peace and downtime in the yard were an aberration. Not business as usual.”
“I think that last’s a given,” the Chief Engineer muttered, probably referring to our time in the yard.
I slit my eyes as I considered the Confederation Officer. He was walking perilously close to the edge of what I was willing to put up with. Right at that moment, I was missing one Commander Terrance P. Spalding. Sure, the old officer might have spoken out of turn and far-too-often challenged me, but he had ultimately been supportive—and he had also done more than enough afterward to make up for whatever license he’d taken with the chain of command.
“How are you finding running this battleship compared to your previous assignments, Lieutenant?” I asked, turning to our current Chief Engineer. I wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to stay stationed on the Rage.
Wave Grinder’s brow furrowed. “It’s a decent enough job, Sir,” the Chief Engineer said sounding concerned and then added begrudgingly, “and I’m grateful for the opportunity.”
“You’re entirely satisfied with your job, Lieutenant Wave Grinder?” I said calmly. “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable serving on a ship more similar to one you served on previously?” I continued with forced casualness. “I know from personal experience just how jarring it can be to change ship classes, and wouldn’t want to take anyone outside of their comfort zone.”
“I’m satisfied with my current billet and quite comfortable, Admiral,” Wave Grinder said stiffly, “as well as more than willing to continue in place until the previous Chief Engineer, Commander Spalding, can return to resume his duties.”
“I see,” I said with a smile that slowly sharpened, “so long as you say you are able to stay focused on your duties, that’s good enough for me.” The subtext was that if he continued to stray outside of those duties inappropriately he would no longer have a job. I hoped, for all our sakes—but mostly for his—that he had taken the hint.
Lieutenant Lisa Steiner placed a hand up against her ear as I continued.
“Now then,” I said firmly as I brought up an image of the New Tau Ceti system. It showed the planet and most likely places for new fortifications or sensor monitoring arrays, as the original inhabitants had been too poor for much in the way of system defenses. “This is the terrain of the star system we’ll be invading. I want you to pay particular attention to—“
“Excuse me, Admiral Montagne,” the Communications Officer lifted a hand to interrupt.
“Yes, Lieutenant?” I said, suppressing a sigh at yet another interruption in my attempt to form a battle plan.
“A Courier just jumped into this system; it has a message from the Sector Governor, Sir,” she said respectfully.
My eyes turned cold, and for a moment I thought about deleting the message sight unseen. However, tempting as that option was, ignoring my enemies was not how I’d lived to survive this long.
“Put it on the screen,” I waved a hand over my data-slate and removed the current image on the conference room projector.
“Just a moment,” she said pulling out her own slate and then paused mid-motion, “it’s addressed to the Fleet Commander and says its restricted priority—need to know only, Sir.”
I snorted. “I think it’s safe to say that everyone here has a need to know,” I replied tersely, “so put it up anyway.” Behind a cast iron smile I was thinking very unkind thoughts toward the now Governor of Sector 25, Sir Isaak, the very man who had decided to execute me out of political expediency. Not because I was a genuine threat to the Sector, mind you, but rather because I would have made an extremely convenient scapegoat for everything that was going wrong at the time.
Forget that he and the rest of the politicians had been standing around doing absolutely nothing while I’d been, and still was to a certain extent, the only person actually trying to fix the various things left broken by our former Imperial Benefactors when they pulled out—and not inconsequentially saving lives while doing it. No, my family name made me the perfect excuse to blame things on and get ahead on the latest news cycle.
I may be willing to die for many things, but a sag in the politicians’ weekly poll number I was not.
The holo-screen flickered to instant life and on it was the ugly mug of that politician and former Ambassador from Capria to the Central Sector government alright.
“Greetings, Jason,” the distinguished-looking man on the screen said and then frowned slightly, “or, rather, Your Highness Prince Jason of the House Montagne, Admiral of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, Protector of Messene on Tracto and Governor of the Planetary Body Harpoon,” the smile returned with only the slightest hint of a smugness in it.
Oh, how I wanted to wipe the smirk off his face so badly that I could almost taste it.
“As for myself, I don’t believe any introduction is necessary,” Sir Isaak smiled. I refused to grant him the title of Sector Governor any more often than actually necessary—even in the privacy of my own mind.
“Not at all,” I whispered, memories of sitting in a cell waiting to die surging back to the forefront. Only the fact that this was a recording and not a live feed stopped me from making a cutting remark.
The former Caprian Diplomat straightened on the screen, the faint smirk disappearing to be replaced with a stern and serious demeanor.
“I come to you with the gravest of news, your Highness,” he continued, causing my face to twitch—I was an Admiral, not a Prince, blast it! “I have placed a copy of all the intel we have on a courier ship in the hopes that you can be man enough to set aside our differences,” the Governor continued.
I’ll be setting aside our differences on a cold day in Hades where we’d all roast mystery meat together over a campfire, I thought scathingly.
I could tell I was starting to get sideways looks from the new Confederation officers. It was as if they were starting to wonder if I was the sort of unstable power cell that would actually put the fleet in danger for personal reasons. I would, of course, but not for something as minor as this. After all, he’d only tried to kill me…and my officers and the crew if I failed to comply with his plan.
“I realize the fact that I attempted to have you executed, and succeeded in having your name and public image dragged through the mud on the galactic news cycle, may incline you to disregard most anything I say,” Sir Isaak said simply.
I nodded at the screen as skeptical looks concerned about whether my mental stability was going to place this fleet in danger were replaced with shock around me.
“That was a mistake,” the former Ambassador admitted, although which of the two things he suggested was a mistake he didn’t specify. To my mind he was sorry he’d ruined my public image, seeing as how I was still alive. He stopped and his eyes seemed to drill through the screen, “Just as failing to listen to me right now would be a mistake.”
He paused and I waited as that pause lengthened uncomfortably. Then, as if certain the gravity of his message had been adequately delivered, the ‘Sector Governor’ nodded.
“Ever since I became aware of the Fleet which has invaded our Sector,” he cocked his head, “they call themselves the ‘Reclamation Fleet,’ by the way, but government sources have positively identified that they are in fact run by a core group of Imperials. A few of the most notable names are very familiar not only to those from Central, but those of us from Capria as well.”
Janeski. I knew it could only be him, but it was nice to have positive confirmation.
“As soon as I received word these Imperials—or former Imperials, no one is quite sure—had invaded us, I immediately dispatched scouting forces. We caught up to them one jump out from New Pacifica,” Sir Isaak’s face turned hard. “Sector Forces have been trailing them and they are on what we believe to be a course to Hart’s World. Hart only has one battleship and a decrepit squadron of cruisers; there’s no way they can stand up to a real battle fleet,” said the Governor.
Here it comes, I thought sardonically.
“This information is less than 24 hours old,” he said, causing me to jolt in my chair, “and given their current speed and your position, my military advisors believe you can intercept them two jumps out of Hart in an uninhabited star system. I know this requires trust on your part in believing me but this might be our best chance to stop this Reclamation Fleet cold. We haven’t been able to penetrate New Pacifica; everything we sent for a quick recon was destroyed so far, so it’s going to take longer to find out what’s still there.”
“Although we’ve not yet spotted the Command Carrier in the Fleet we’re trailing—either due to fleet jump cycles, the Carrier being back in New Pacifica, or in the event it was sent out on another mission entirely—our scout has been keeping pace with their destroyers and positively identified more than forty destroyers as well as multiple cruisers and two squadrons of battleships. Whether it’s the entire enemy fleet, as I’m inclined to believe, or merely a fraction of their real size, this is our chance to hit the blighters where they live. Your Highness, let’s teach them a lesson not to invade our Sector of known space. Sector Governor Isaak Doringcourt, out,” he finished, and a few moments after he stopped speaking the screen went blank.
“Ha!” I snorted. I knew that when the murderous blighter said he needed no introduction that he wouldn’t be able to resist the opportunity to sound his own horn at least once in the conversation.
“Sir! You can’t let past history with the man stop you from doing what you know is right. This could be our chance,” Captain Hammer said, her eyes blazing.
“What are you on about?” I asked and then waved her off. “Of course we have no choice but to willingly place the noose around our neck and intercept that fleet. What kind of Admiral do you take me for?” From the sudden embarrassment on her face, I didn’t really want the answer to that question. And realizing this whole course of conversation was the result of one utterance, I felt compelled to explain myself, “I was only commenting on the Governor’s hypocrisy, perhaps inappropriately, in first stating he needed no introduction in the beginning and then making sure and certain to trot out his new titles at the end of the message—after he’d gotten us good and hooked with his new intel.”
“If you say so, Sir,” Leonora Hammer said with a look that said in no uncertain terms that not only was it inappropriate, but completely out of place in our current war council. Fortunately, I was the Admiral, and therefore I was allowed to hold my petty grudges against those who had repeatedly attempted to slaughter me in my sleep—as well as on live camera.
Isaak’s day would come eventually, if I had anything to say about it.
“Just so we can confirm. We are switching targets from New Tau Ceti to an attempted fleet interception outside of Hart’s World Star System?” the ship’s Tactical Officer asked cautiously.
“Yes, Mr. Hart,” I informed the Lieutenant, “although I haven’t ruled out a spoiling raid with a couple of detached lighter squadrons, we are most definitely going to try and stop these blighters before they hit another Core World.”
“Worst case, we can follow them in and hit them on their way to Hart’s World if we bungle the intercept and only take out a portion of their fleet, or if they move faster than expected and we arrive too late,” Captain Hammer said firmly and while I didn’t like the negative word strewn in there projecting our potential failures I had to agree in principle—but not in practice.
“While there is truth to the Captain’s words, as your Admiral I have to say that I’m not about to accept anything less than the interception and destruction of this enemy fleet before they have the chance to devastate Hart’s World,” I growled.
There were mutters of acceptance, prompting me to clap my hands together before things took an undesirable turn—as was the norm in meetings like this one.
“We’ve got the time and we know where the enemy is about to hit. Let’s make the most of this opportunity. I don’t want to see this ambush fail because we missed something,” I said grimly and, unlike Captain Hammer who was free with her worries, I decided to forgo my fears. Those fears included the possibility of Sir Isaak leading us into a reverse ambush by telling us where the enemy were going to be, and then attempting to play both sides by warning these Imperials, or Reclamationists, or whatever they called themselves that we were going to be there waiting for them.
No, I decided these people didn’t need to be the subject of my worries. We would just work up a contingency plan for an early detection. I certainly wasn’t going to be telling Sir Isaak where we were going to be until after the engagement was over. Heavy lies the crown.
“Then let’s be about it,” I said.
Captain Hammer nodded.
“A preliminary scan of the potential ambush systems, taken from the Nav-data base indicates that…” the Captain began eagerly pointing out various pros and cons of using this star system as a potential intercept/ambush point, while the Tactical Officer occasionally chimed in.
With my laboriously devised plan for New Tau Ceti up in smoke, I sat back and let the new information wash over me. This was going to take a while.
Chapter Five: Medically-induced Frustration
The old engineer tromped into the room, pausing at the doorway to stare around suspiciously a plasma torch in one hand and a blaster pistol in the other. There was also a shock rifle strapped to his back, and a full tool belt circling his waist.
He was an engineer ready for anything, and a man loaded with ammunition for one of the greatest threats to life and limb a person could expect to face in this lifetime.
“I’m grateful you could take the time to come down, Commander. We really need your help,” said the white-coated man gratefully, “I don’t know what more we can do unless—” the other man’s words were cut off when a deactivated—but still warm—plasma torch was shoved in his face.
“Back away—to the other side of the room,” Commander Spalding ordered sharply.
“Of course,” the other man said, cautiously eyeing the Engineer’s many weapons, “you know…there’s no need for that weaponry here.”
“When you enter a house of horrors, you bring with you every weapon you can carry—now stand aside,” Spalding barked, motioning toward the wall. “And one more word out of you and I’ll stun you,” he said bluntly, tapping a stunner strapped to the upper part of his mechanical left leg when Doctor Presbyter began to open his mouth in protest.
Presbyter lifted his hands in the air and stepped back toward the wall. “The patient is in there,” he said, gesturing toward the appropriate room.
Spalding stepped sideways, sidling along until he was at the door, always careful to keep the doctor in the sights of his blaster pistol.
Suddenly the door leading out of the doctor’s office slid open and a second white-coated figure entered the room. The old engineer’s blaster instinctively swung in that direction, eliciting a gasp followed by a look of alarm.
“Doctor!” exclaimed the medical assistant, her eyes darting from Spalding to Presbyter and back, eventually finding and fixating on the blaster.
“No need to worry, Miss Aventi,” Presbyter said calmly.
“But…he’s armed,” the Medical Assistant said in dismay as soon as Spalding’s blaster tracked back to the doctor and stayed there.
“At least point that thing at the floor,” Presbyter sighed.
“Can’t trust a single one of the scheming lot of you,” Spalding growled, “but even if I could, I know the face of a serpent when I see it!”
Grumbling under his breath the old engineer slapped the entry pad leading into one of the private rooms in the ward. As soon as it cycled open, he hopped inside and didn’t relax until after the door finally slid shut.
“Now isn’t that just a ruddy mess…” he muttered to himself.
“Go-o away,” slurred a disinterested voice from the small hospital bed situated in the corner of the room. “I to-old you-u I don’t want more the-arapy.”
“And right you are to send that sanctimonious lot of charlatans packin’, lad,” Spalding said turning back around and clomping over to the bed.
“Chi-ef Enginee-er?” stuttered the man on the bed in a halting voice.
“That’s right, lad,” Commander Spalding declared, “the doctors have done what little they can for you, and now it’s time to cast them to the wayside. Tissue regeneration? Ha! ‘Cranial surgery after a traumatic brain injury followed by physical therapy.’ Yes, I read the file; what a passel of meaningless mealy mouthed psycho-babble.”
The patient stiffened his face before twitching and jerking his expression into a sneer.
“Go a-a-away. I do-on’t want it. Ta-ake the ther-apy and…shove it!” he shouted out the last two words in an almost normal and understandable voice. “I’m ru-uined. Can’t wo-ork a nav con-con-conso-ole if…can’t stay sitting or pre-pre-press a keypa-ad,” he finished with scowl.
“It’s worse than I thought,” Spalding declared, ignoring the look of shock, surprise and then anguish that crossed over the face of the younger man, “the quacks have done a real number on you. I just hope it’s not too late to reverse the damage!”
He stepped over to the younger man and grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Let me-ee die! No more thee-arapy,” swore the battle-damaged officer, jerking away and trying to fend Spalding off.
The Chief Engineer’s face hardened. “I hear you, boy, I really do…but I can’t let you do it,” the old Engineer declared righteously. “Can’t let you go out in this wretched hive of scum and villainy. No, we’ll find you a well-maintained airlock and send you off good and proper with nice load of mead and ice ale in your belly, surrounded by friends and shipmates ‘til the very end!”
The young bridge officer who’d been shot in the head and put in stasis—until he could be brought back to Gambit’s advanced medical center, where pre-surgery odds had put his survival at less than 60%--struggled against the old cyborged engineer with growling strength, if still rather poor coordination.
“No more ther-apy,” cursed the Navigator.
Spalding stopped temporarily and cocking his head to the side he released the lad’s rumpled hospital gown. “This isn’t a therapy session, Mr. Shepherd,” he said, eying the lad strangely and wondering if the lad had been permanently addled by the head shot he’d taken during the Battle for Elysium, “this is a jailbreak. We’ve got to get you out of here—out of this infernal hospital gown and back into real clothes. A proper uniform, no less! After that we can sauce you up and send you off to see the stars without a spacesuit in fine fashion if that’s what you wish. It’s clear that all this time in medical has begun to rot what little’s left of your brain.”
“Blast you-u,” Navigator Shepherd raged as he took a swing at Spalding’s head.
“There’s the fightin’ spirit,” Spalding encouraged lowering his chin to let the fist glance off the metal portion of his head. Then, in one swift grab and jerk, he pulled the fiery young officer out of his bed and started for the door.
“No—I wo-on’t go,” cried Shepherd, “pu-t me back down!”
“And leave you stranded here in this pit o’ torment?” Spalding shook his head decisively. “Can’t do it Lieutenant. But don’t worry: Papa Spalding’ll take care of everything.”
Under the worried eyes of the medical officers Spalding carried the punching and spastically kicking Navigator out of the medical department.
Dropping him into the grav-cart he’d placed outside the entrance Spalding jumped onto the cart and started up the controls.
“Now then,” he said, feeling rather pleased with himself, “I know you’re all set on ending things quick like.”
“Yo-u are the o-only one try-ing to ki-ill me…bli-ghter!” Shepherd slurred angrily.
“Anyway, before you decide to go too far down that road,” Spalding continued on blithely, ignoring the boy’s confusion and apparent short-term memory loss. Mr. Shepherd had been quite clear that he wanted to die, though hopefully that had been the medical environment talking and now that he was sprung from that jail he’d have a change of heart, “I have something of a proposition for you.”
“G-et st-ok-ed,” Shepherd stuttered.
“Is that anyway to speak to a superior officer and one who just saved you from a fate worse than death?” Spalding rebuked.
The Lieutenant stared at him mutinously, and Spalding leaned in close and looking around to make sure they weren’t being observed before finally deciding it was probably safe enough.
“How would you like to get back behind the nav-console of a real ship again?” Spalding asked in a voice so low it was almost a whisper.
“I ca-an’t walk…ca-an’t stand…ca-an’t use a key-pa-ad and can-n’t talk proper. I’ve go-ot a metal plate in my he-ad and a chip in my bra-ain! I can’t nav a shi-p,” Shepherd slurred angrily.
“I got me a metal plate in my head too—pretty useful when it comes to head-butts, truth be told. As for the chip, I’ve got more than a chip in my head, boy,” Spalding snapped, “that won’t slow you down.”
Shepherd stared at him in disbelief.
“As for the rest of it we can deal with that,” he said blithely, “the problem you’ve got isn’t too much metal in your head, but rather your problem is you’ve not got enough. The Sundered have a nice setup that’ll let you remote control anything set up with the right wireless access ports. I’ll have to show it to you before we install it…assuming you’d like your old job back, o’ course, and aren’t still all set in your ways for dyin’?”
“You’re craz-y,” Shepherd said disbelief warring with something else in his gaze.
“Ship’s in about the same state as you are right at the moment,” Spalding said frankly, causing Shepherd to glare at him, “but, just like you, I figure she’ll do as long as we can install the proper hardware before taking her out.”
Shepherd shook his head but stopped thrashing around on the cart. To Spalding’s eyes it was clear the lad wanted to hear more.
“Now, as I was saying…” he began to fill the injured Nav officer on those parts of his plan the other man actually needed to know.
Chapter Six: The Armsmen
We had stopped in an uninhabited system for a few hours to coordinate some material transfers and arrange for a new round of fleet-wide status updates. I was sitting in my cabin, reviewing those reports while the rest of the ships in the fleet were readying them. Many of the ships took the time to perform basic maintenance and routine repairs. Some of those repairs had been more routine than others, but that was to be expected on the first run out of dry dock—or so I’d been told on several aggravating occasions.
The com-panel built into my work desk buzzed. “What is it?” I asked after pressing the screen to accept the call request from the bridge.
“Sensors just detected a hyper footprint, Admiral,” Lieutenant Steiner said crisply, “we’re still waiting for further information, but the Captain wanted me to inform you immediately.”
I straightened in my chair. “How many and how far away are they, Comm.?” I asked tightly.
There was a pause. “They’re on the other side of the star systems, sir. Sensors say it’s a small footprint and guarantees there are no more than a small handful of ships, and possibly just one. He says there’s nothing bigger than Medium Cruiser unless they’ve somehow managed to mask their emergence signature with a new tech breakthrough he’s never heard of,” Steiner said confidently.
“Instruct our Corvettes and Destroyers to start charging up their hyper drives in case it turns out they’re hostile and then link the tactical feed to my console here in the ready room. I’ll continue to monitor the situation remotely for now, Lieutenant,” I ordered.
“Yes, Sir,” said Lieutenant Steiner.
Several tense minutes passed after I accessed the tactical plot, and I finally realized that I’d been trying to read the same e-form for the past two minutes. Closing the page in disgust, I focused my full attention on the irritatingly obtuse sensor returns.
Drumming my fingers on the desk and glaring at the tactical evaluation, the tension finally reached the point that I threw a stylus onto the desk and stood up. Enough was enough. I was a bundle of nerves sitting in the ready room trying to act as if nothing was wrong. I’d felt less tension sitting on the bridge staring down superior numbers of Battleships.
It was time for a change of scenery, and I knew I would feel better sitting on my thrown on the bridge.
Then the com-panel chimed again. “What is it?” I asked, smashing my hand down on the panel to activate the link.
“It’s Duncan; let me in,” said the voice of my childhood sword instructor, current paramour of my mother, and temporary head of my personal protective detail.
“Alright,” I released the lock on the door.
“Your Highness,” Duncan greeted, stepping into the room and scanning for possible threats before finally turning to me with a deferential nod.
“What can I do for you, Duncan? We have a developing situation on the bridge,” I said brusquely.
“Yes, the fuzzy contact on the other side of the system,” Duncan said.
“Right,” I gave him a slanted look, wondering how he’d picked up that little piece of intel before shrugging it off. As the equivalent of the head of my security team and personal guard, he was directly linked into more information onboard this ship than most, and indirectly I was sure he had cultivated even more sources of information.
I splayed my hands and waited. “You have something to say?” I prompted.
“I can’t say with one hundred percent certainty, however the current sensor profile of that new arrival matches one of the three transport vessel signatures your security detachment would use to meet you,” Duncan explained, placing his hands behind his back and widening his stance into an ‘at ease’ position.
“My security detachment?” I said, nonplussed.
Duncan nodded. “I believe your personal armsmen have just entered the system and will be swearing their oaths as soon as they can rendezvous with the flagship,” said the former Caprian Royal Armsman.
“I see,” I said with narrowing eyes.
Forty five minutes later, the strange contact short-jumped across the system and our sensors got a good look at the heavily modified courier ship squawking a Caprian civilian IFF signal.
It looked like this could be a very interesting development.
Chapter Seven: Changing of the Guard
After Duncan verified the identity of the courier vessel’s crew, the other star ship matched course and speed prior to docking with the Royal Rage. Meanwhile, I waited in my office until the new arrivals were brought onto the flagship and escorted up to my ready room.
The door chimed and I beckoned, “Come in.”
With a swish, the door opened and nine figures dressed in cargo pants and civilian stevedore jackets—with a full body skin suits peeking out from underneath—walked in.
Despite their attire, all of them walked with the upright posture of current or former military as they formed up into a line before the desk.
They ranged from grey and grizzled to a pair of fresh-faced, beardless men who looked younger than I was. Except for those two, they tended toward middle aged or older. This was a group that leaned toward the well-experienced side of the strip, but with their sharp eyes and straight, well-muscled backs they gave off an aura of competence that I hadn’t seen since leaving the Winter Palace on Capria.
“Lead Armsman, Sean D’Argent, along with a detachment of six former Royal Armsmen presenting for service, your Highness,” said the man at the far left side of the formation, stepping forward and giving me a penetrating look as if he could weigh and measure me by somehow peering directly into my soul.
“Jason Montagne, Armsman D’Argent,” I said with a nod to introduce myself, “and maybe my math is off somewhere, but I count nine in your party.”
“The detachment currently numbers seven armsmen and two aspirants that have completed their training but never held an oath bond, or tendered direct service to a member of the royal bloodline,” said senior armsman Sean D’Argent.
I pursed my lips, “I see.”
“Now that D’Argent and the armsmen with him are here, they will take over control of your protective detail and general security arrangements as soon as I can read them in, Jason,” Duncan interjected. “That is assuming, of course, that you accept them and they, in turn, find you worthy of service.”
“Find me worthy…” I said contemplatively.
“A problem, my Prince?” asked D’Argent, cocking an eyebrow in a manner not the least bit servile—quite the opposite, in fact, as it looked like he was measuring whether or not I was worthy of him.
Not that I was surprised. You didn’t get to be a Royal Armsman if you were a wishy-washy ‘yes man.’ They were hardened professionals through and through.
“Look. Out here I’m not a ‘Prince’ or a ‘Highness;’ I’m the Admiral of this fleet,” I said seriously and then decided there was no point in obfuscating. Even though Duncan had recommended them, I wasn’t going to try and rope them in under false or hidden pretenses, “Frankly, while I really need a group just like yours in charge of my personal security, royal armsmen are famous for their loyalty, competence, and dedication. The fact is that the ‘Prince’ business comes last if at all.”
The armsmen shifted and shared a few glances, but D’Argent looked at me steadily.
“Armsmen have had to deal with primaries serving on warships, including Captains and Fleet Commanders, in the past,” D’Argent said. “We are all familiar with the various security protocols, though only John Geary has direct experience with guarding a primary who had prolonged space-based duties.” He pointed to the oldest looking member of the bunch as he spoke.
“While I appreciate the information, I’m not concerned with the level of experience in your unit. I have every confidence in your abilities as armsmen,” I assured the other man. “I just wanted to make perfectly clear that despite the various troubles back home, I have no intention of returning to the home world anytime soon. My duties now are to the Sector as a whole and Spine in general.”
“That was expected,” D’Argent nodded.
“Also, I do not consider myself or this organization to be under the authority of King James, but I don’t want any confusion on this next point: I’ll not be seeking the throne. Capria’s going to have to muddle along without me. I say this just in case anyone here, despite the well-known fact that I’m a member of House Montagne, was under the impression that service with me would sooner or later lead to a return to the Palace,” I said with firm finality. The last thing I wanted was a potential group of closet Royalists thinking I was the answer my home worlds woes in charge of my security, and then later feeling betrayed when I didn’t go home and try to fix things. There was a frown or two and a bit of shifting after this last statement, but no one broke ranks or immediately declared their disgust or disapproval, so I took that as a provisionally good sign.
It never paid out in the long run to deceive the men and women who held your life in their quite capable hands.
“It is as Duncan previously relayed to us. You have a love for your country, but no current desire to return home or claim the throne,” D’Argent said.
“That’s correct,” I said, easing fractionally.
“Those of us who are here are the ones who feel the work you do among the stars is of great importance—vital, even, to the long term survival of the Capria. The fact that the blood of the rightful Kings of Capria flows through your veins just makes our decision to swear service easier. Even if some of us wouldn’t particularly mind if you were to return home to claim the throne, we feel that the best good we can do for our people and our world is to place our lives between you and danger,” said the Lead Armsman.
“Even though I’m a Montagne?” I said with disbelief.
Sean D’Argent smiled. “For those of us gathered here, it is especially because you are a Montagne,” he replied. “To our minds, a Prince without his armsmen is like a king without his crown.”
“Well how about that,” I said neutrally.
D’Argent and the men behind him took a knee one after the other, like a wave crashing on the shore.
“If your Highness is prepared to take our oaths as his personal armsmen, then we’ll sooner be able to begin to take up our duties,” said D’Argent.
Since a personal armsman historically swore his or her duties and loyalty first to his oath-holder, second to the King or Queen, third to the people of Capria, and fourth to the home world, I had no problem with this at all. The Royal Guard was hard enough to get into, but the Royal Armsmen took things to a whole new level. While the armsmen did recruit from the Guard, most of the successful aspirants spent time in special forces units before joining due to the rigorous requirements.
As long as I could secure their true service and loyalty, I would finally have a group security team that would let me sleep safely at night. Historically, an armsman couldn’t be sent to harm anyone or anything he’d been sworn to defend, but on the flip side he or she was constrained to defend them in descending order. It was one of the reasons the armsmen as a body had survived the numerous regime changes which had rocked Capria in the past.
“You may need to remind me of the particulars. But by all means, let’s begin,” I said. I didn’t believe that just by having them swear an oath that I won their hearts and minds completely to my cause, but if there was one thing Uncle Jean Luc had shown it was that once sworn into service, an armsman would follow their Prince even into piracy and rebellion. If I had even the chance to acquire that kind of loyalty, I had to try for it.
“Then if you will step over to me first, my Prince, we can get started,” said D’Argent.
“One final thing,” I said, pausing briefly, “out here I am an Admiral first, husband and Protector—which is like Commander-in-Chief of the military—second, and a Caprian Prince-Cadet last if at all. If you’re to take service with me, you’ll need to get used to calling me Admiral.”
D’Argent pursed his lips and cocked his head before he said, “Of course, my Prince.”
I heaved a sigh. Maybe asking a group of people—people who had joined me out of a sense of duty to the Royal House, no less—to put aside the minor detail that I was, technically speaking, a Prince was asking too much. I didn’t think so, but this was a battle I probably wouldn’t win.
“Proceed,” I said, feeling disgruntled. Capria, her internal politics and my ties back home were things I was trying to put behind me and not bring back to the fore. Unfortunately, thanks to my wife and those traitors who’d backed Nikomedes, I was forced to take these sorts of countermeasures to ensure such things never happened again.
Then my eyes narrowed as my thoughts turned to those blasted Tracto-ans. After this ceremony was over, I decided it was going to be time to start shaking things up. Enough with Mister Nice Montagne. The possibilities of having a small group of armsmen who, while a part of this fleet, owed their loyalty totally and entirely to me were slowly starting to sink in.
It was time to make some changes around here, and I had a few ideas where to start.
Chapter Eight: Task Force Charlie
Admiral Wessex leaned back in his chair. While his initiative in chasing down those Promethean stragglers—and failing to catch them—had resulted in a few touch and go moments, the fact that he had bagged a battleship with the assistance of Captain Goddard and the Admiral’s flagship had counterbalanced things nicely.
So well, in fact, that when the previous brevet commander, Rear Admiral Norfolk, had come down with a case of the Feruvian Blue Flu when new fleet assignments had been issued, Wessex had been able to secure a transfer from support command and the leadership of Task Force Charlie.
“Rear Admiral,” Captain Jenner said, turning from where he’d been huddled with the Comm. Officer, Lieutenant Commander Turner, and hurrying over to Wessex.
“What is it, Captain?” Wessex asked, suppressing a sigh. Leading a fleet was exactly what he wanted; what he had trained for and he didn’t even mind the politicking of it. But the constant updates and interruptions involved in a battle fleet moving through enemy or at least contested territory was wearing on him. It seemed every little thing needed his time or his attention—not that this was much different from running a stationary or supportive command, but it wasn’t what he was used to, which made it harder to fall back into a routine.
“Several of our destroyer commanders are reporting intermittent contacts on the edge of sensor range,” reported the Captain.
“Sensor ghosts or something more, Captain?” Rear Admiral Wessex asked dismissively.
The Captain unleashed a feral smile. “Not unless they’re sensor ghosts that match the profiles of warships made with old Confederation tech, Sir,” replied Jenner.
“Scouts from the local powers in the region no doubt,” Wessex said with slightly more interest. “What does the destroyer flotilla commander estimate the potential number of our shadows to be?” the Rear Admiral asked perfunctorily.
The locals were much like trash in that they needed cleaning out periodically, and in that if one lets trash sit in one location for too long without a routine cleaning, all sorts of disgusting and even potentially harmful things could start growing in the trash’s receptacle.
That said, locals—much like garbage before the advent of waste recyclers—were easily dealt with so long as one observed the proper protocols and precautions for dealing with them. Thankfully, Admiral Janeski and the Reclamation fleet had already taken such precautions.
“Either a pair of ships or a short squadron,” Jenner said promptly, “the flotilla commander estimates no more than four and no less than two, Admiral.”
Wessex shook his head with a sigh. The local response had been entirely underwhelming to this point. Not that he was complaining; he was perfectly happy to roger the provincials while they were still trying to get their acts together.
That was the nature of provincials, after all. They wouldn’t be bloody provincials if they had two pairs of functional brain cells to rub together at the same time. They were short-sighted, weak-livered, and almost completely unable to think more than two steps ahead at any given moment—unlike the blessed Empire of Man and the Senate, it was their very nature to be and remain the second class citizens of known space.
“Inform Commodore Bruneswitch that he is to assume these sensor ghosts are in fact provincial nipping at our heels; take his forces and treat them as he would any dog looking to take a bite at his ankles,” instructed Rear Admiral Wessex.
“Do you want me to pass that on…word for word, sir?” Jenner asked, looking confused. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow the metaphor.”
“He is to bring them to heel, Captain!” Wessex exclaimed and then seeing the guarded look on the other man’s face rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Killed or captured, man. Is that clear enough for you to understand and relay, or must I pass the message along myself?”
“Quite clear, Admiral,” Jenner said stiffly. “With your permission, I’ll pass the word on directly to the Commodore.”
Wessex waved him away irritably. “Just do it—and cut the orders for a trio of cruiser squadrons in rotation to act as a rapid reaction force for the destroyers. If they get into trouble along the way, I want that trouble crushed.”
“That will slow them—the cruisers—down, sir,” Jenner pointed out neutrally, “they’ll have trouble keeping up with the rest of the fleet.
“Better to be slow and sure than to explain to Admiral Janeski why I lost warships needlessly, Captain,” Wessex said coolly. “You have your orders.”
“I’ll have the cruiser orders ready for your signature, sir,” Captain Jenner turned away with a nod.
The Rear Admiral started to bridle at the man’s tone before taking a deep calming breath. Line officers in the battle fleet were a lot more forthcoming to their superiors with their opinions than staff officers of the same rank or even the type of line officers generally assigned to the rear support echelons, like Wessex himself. It was almost a different culture and he needed to remember that. It was also important to keep in mind that Jenner had been assigned to his task force as flag captain by high command—meaning Admiral Janeski himself.
Jenner was an experienced under-officer with the ear of the High Admiral. It wouldn’t do to needlessly antagonize the man. Besides, they were all here for the same reason: the greater glory of the Empire.
“All hail the Empire,” he muttered before turning back to the never ending stream of paperwork sitting in his personal data space just waiting to be filled out.
So far everything was working out exactly as planned; in a way he almost hoped for some unexpected action. It wasn’t that he desired anything to go wrong per se, but this would be his moment to shine.
He would not let it pass.
Chapter Nine: Lying in Ambush
“The fleet is in place, Admiral,” Lieutenant Hart said with satisfaction clear in his voice. It had been eight days of furious movement, followed by another day setting up our ambush spot, and his sense of satisfaction seemed to be shared by the rest of the crew.
I nodded. It was true that there was no way to gauge exactly where a ship would come out of hyperspace unless you had access to their nav-computer before they jumped. That said we didn’t need to know exactly where they would arrive. We just needed enough smaller warships set up as relays around the system. As soon as one of the pair picked up sign of the enemy fleet, the other would jump to the main fleet and we in turn would jump over there as fast as our ships could carry us.
“Now we need to wait until the smaller forces are separated from those battleships—then we pounce,” Captain Leonora Hammer said a hint of a growl in her voice.
“I’m not opposed to hitting the escorts while their heavies are away, if that’s all we manage to catch in our net,” I said pointedly, just to be clear.
“It’s all the same to me,” Lesner said with a gleam in his eye, “what gunner doesn’t relish the thought of a target rich environment, where even a stray bolt has a strong chance to land?”
“Better to strip the heavies of their support ships first and do this by the numbers, Chief,” Hammer said seriously.
Chief Lesner settled back irritably but made no further reply.
Lieutenant Hart, the ship’s Tactical Officer nodded in agreement. “Preliminary reports are that they have at least two squadrons of the wall and another four of the line. A direct confrontation might not go as smoothly as we would hope. We need to whittle them down first, if that’s at all possible,” he said.
“What’s the latest enemy fleet estimate?” I asked.
“Ninety,” Hammer interjected.
“We still don’t have a new tally? It’s been the better part of a week since our last update,” I said, thinking dark thoughts toward the local Sector Assembly and its recently appointed Governor.
“Everything was fine and we were getting twice daily updates until suddenly we weren’t,” Tactical Officer Hart explained. “Frankly, I’m amazed they were able to accurately predict where the enemy invasion fleet was going and tail them as well as they did. It seems rather improbable on the face of it, but I suppose if you know where they are going—or at least have a pretty darned good guess—and are willing to follow it down the rabbit hole it’s not as far out as all that.”
“Hmm,” I said, not nearly as sanguine about the ‘serendipitous’ and fortuitous circumstances that allowed the local Sector Guard to find themselves in position to shadow the enemy fleet only to suddenly and suspiciously fall silent. It might be my paranoia talking here, but that looked highly doubtful.
“Most likely, the enemy caught scent of them—sensor ghosts or an outright sighting by a random patrol screen—and set a trap for them. Then when the point transferred into the next system the enemy short jumped on them and that’s all she wrote,” Hart continued, explaining and expounding on the ‘most likely’ scenario.
Personally, I was taking everything with a grain of salt.
“Regardless of the particulars, the fact remains that they’re not scouting for us right now,” I said abruptly. “As such, I want our operators on the ball and our sensors peeled for intruders. We’re only going to get this chance once and then it’s gone, people; we need to make this operation as damaging as possible for the enemy fleet. In the meantime we’re going to hang out near the most likely jump point until the enemy is either caught in our trap or slips through our fingers. Remember: we have the advantage in numbers.”
“A slight advantage only,” said Lieutenant Hart. “We also haven’t seen anything smaller than a destroyer among their fleet so far.”
I eyed the new Tactical Officer for a moment before clarifying, “That’s according to Sector Central.”
“A lack of anything smaller than a Destroyer would fit with the idea that this group is run by current or former Imperial Officers,” Captain Hammer pointed out. “Imperial doctrine relegates anything smaller than a destroyer to system defense duties with only a few exceptions, such as in special operations groups which wouldn’t normally travel with a fleet.”
“All indications are that if they have lighter units, they aren’t using them here,” Lieutenant Hart said, pulling the conversation back toward the enemy fleet. “So we may outnumber them, assuming our current information is correct, but they’ll still bring a lot more to the table when it comes to larger ships.”
“Your best estimate?” I asked.
“Tonnage-wise, I’d say we’ll see at least a fifty percent increase when it comes to battleships and cruisers,” Hart said a touch heavily. “Although they might weigh in at as much as double our strength—which is something we’ll need to keep in mind.”
“You mean I’ll have to keep that in mind,” I corrected; this wasn’t anything new but it was just as unpalatable as the first time I’d heard it.
“This is a team effort, Mr. Hart,” Hammer cut in adroitly, “we’re all here to support you, Admiral Montagne. This is your call.”
“Glad to hear it,” I agreed, keeping the irritation at Hammer’s continued attempts at reframing my statements out of my voice.
“But that’s the question, isn’t it,” Navigator Brightenbauc said nervously, “is this the right call to make? Should we really be considering an attack on a larger force—one that also holds the tech advantage over us?”
“Presumed tech advantage,” Chief Gunner Lesner bristled before slinking back into his chair. It seemed that even though he felt the need to protest the enemy’s superiority over our Fleet, his heart wasn’t really in it as much as it could have been. Say…if the enemy hadn’t held a very likely, and very real advantage over our force.
I cleared my throat loudly. We were getting too far afield and I needed to bring things back to the center.
“The purpose of this conference is to discuss the best way to hurt the enemy using the most advantageous distribution of our forces to ensure we can hit them hard and fast. We are not here to take heed of our fears and allow these Imperial Reclamationists to run rampant,” I said firmly. “They can attempt to return this Sector of the Spine to their secret Imperial masters over my dead body.”
“Are we even sure that these former Imperials still work for their former masters?” Brightenbauc wondered aloud.
I glowered at him, wishing once again that Navigator Shepherd hadn’t been shot in the head. Shepherd’s chances of a successful revival from stasis had been low; the doctors had wanted more time to study the matter before making what looked like a futile attempt to save his life.
“If there’s not some hidden force secretly behind this invasion fleet then it’ll be a first for this fleet,” DuPont cut in witheringly, his disdain aimed at our faint hearted navigator.
Brightenbauc flushed.
“I wasn’t aware the MSP had extensive enough experience with massive invasion fleets to start making such generalizations,” Captain Hammer retorted, giving DuPont a level look.
“You’d be surprised what this fleet has had to deal with,” I cut in to cover for DuPont. There was no point in letting the man suffer for assisting his Admiral. As a leader, I had to stand up for my men, “this isn’t our first rodeo: pirates, Bugs, more pirates—droids,” I said, offhandedly listing the various invasion forces we’d had to deal with using the fingers of my right hand. “It seems like everyone and everything we’ve stumbled across has been in the invading business of late and, more often than not, there’s been someone or something pulling strings behind the curtain.”
“Amen to that,” DuPont said fervently.
Captain Hammer settled back into her chair with a frown.
“Moving along,” I said, forcing the conference back where it needed to be, “I’m thinking that we should be moving these squadrons into grids four and five. And while I can see the utility in splitting up our battleships into pairs and spreading them out to either side of the prospective battlefield, I feel the advantages of concentrating our firepower outweigh the potential advantage in quick response time.”
“With our enemies as numerous as they’re estimated to be, that’s probably wise,” Hammer said after a moment.
“Yes, but it cuts down the potential damage we can do before we have to pull out of this system,” Lieutenant Hart protested.
My brows lowered thunderously. “It seems that the lukewarm attitude possessed by some of your fellow officers toward this ambush has infected you as well, Mr. Hart,” I said in a low voice.
Lieutenant Hart looked uncertain before wiping his face clean of all expression. “I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn, Admiral, but as this ship’s Tactical Officer it is part of my duty to prepare for all eventualities,” he said firmly. “I wouldn’t be doing my job if you were caught out because of some unforeseen eventuality.”
“That may be the case,” I said, silently doubting his motives, “however any talk of running away from an enemy that we outnumber is premature at best. I want men and women,” I nodded toward the women in the room, “with fighting spirit on my ship. We fight hard in the MSP and this constant talk of running away, or not even engaging in battle unless all things seem favorable to us, will not win us this war.”
“That is no doubt true, Sir, including our numerical superiority,” Tactical Officer Hart said stubbornly. “And yet, for all that, we do outnumber them in hulls…according to our latest incomplete estimate, at least. The issue remains that when it comes to tonnage and number of laser mounts, not simply the number of independent ship, they’re larger and they heavily out-throw us.”
“Which is why we will keep our heavier forces concentrated so that we can counter that edge in larger ships,” I said with a closed lip smile to hide my suddenly clenched teeth.
“It’s true that dispersing our ships will allow for a more vicious series of wolf pack attacks on the enemy formation, Sir,” Lieutenant Commander Leonora Hammer—the captain of my flagship—broke in, diverting attention from her junior officer. “Despite the concerns raised by some members of this staff, this ship and its crew, including its officers, are more than ready to face the enemy, Sir.”
“I appreciate that Captain,” I nodded to her, “and your concerns as well, Lieutenant Hart,” I added, willing to throw a sop to the Tactical Officer’s pride if necessary. “But while I am in this for the long haul, I’m not seeking to win a war of attrition,” I held up a hand, “I’ll make the final decision when confronted with the enemy fleet, of course. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over these past several years of near constant conflict it’s that you go for the head and, when you go to battle, you fight to win. That’s something I don’t think will be possible if we spread out our strongest assets.”
“We follow your orders, Sir,” Captain Hammer said.
“Aye-aye, Sir,” agreed the other Confederation sleepers.
“Alright here’s what I want to do,” I said, leaning forward and pointing at the tactical plot. Maybe it was my early experiences as a Battleship Captain coming into play here—even somewhat against the advice of the more seasoned professionals in the room—but I knew it in my gut that, as long as we kept our biggest hammers ready for action, this enemy fleet could be stopped before it did any more damage.
The battleships were, obviously, our biggest hammers.
I firmly believed that we could achieve victory by leveraging them properly. Otherwise, what was I out here for? To try and slowly bleed the enemy until both sides were so exhausted and enough worlds destroyed that a strong wind from a surviving local SDF—or one of Sir Isaak’s Sector fleets—could deal with them?
While I’d do that if I had to, as I had said—and meant—before, I was in this to win. Knuckling under to either Rear Admiral Janeski or Governor Isaak didn’t appeal to me.
I didn’t need or want any consolation prizes. A philosopher once said ‘second sucks,’ and I agree with him. I’d much rather divide this enemy fleet and conquer it but, in the end, I’d do what I had to just like I always did—and just like it seemed I was going to have to keep on doing.
Chapter Ten: Wessex in Command
“Two more muster points before this fleet reaches the enemy world targeted for reclamation, Admiral Wessex,” the ship’s captain reminded his commander.
“Quite, Captain,” Wessex said with absentminded satisfaction. It was gratifying to show the line command officers just what he could do—and even more gratifying to watch them jump at his orders. However, despite his current satisfaction, he couldn’t rest for a minute—not if he was going to segue this temporary command into a permanent transfer out of second-rate support commands.
“Your orders, Admiral?” Jenner prompted.
“Are there any signs of a renewed local presence?” Wessex asked, referring to the pair of local spy ships that had been shadowing his fleet.
“No, Sir,” Jenner said promptly, “however, I would still advise that we change our original route and divert to attack the locals from another angle. The chance, however slight, exists that an officer or com-encryption was compromised. This would eliminate any such concerns now that we’re in transit and operating under communication silence with the long-range array shut down.”
Wessex pondered for a moment and then shook his head. “We can’t afford to add an extra week to our schedule. High Admiral Janeski has made his intentions clear, and I for one don’t want to be the only task force commander to achieve his objectives late,” he said firmly.
Jenner winced but did his best to hide it.
Wessex frowned before turning away. Then he hesitated. If things went wrong he didn’t want to give the review board enough rope to hang him with…and completely ignoring a flag captain’s recommendations could be one of those ropes.
He grudgingly nodded.
“In consideration of your concerns, we’ll make the following modification: after we reach what would have been the final muster point before attacking the local world, I will divert the fleet so that we are coming in from a different world than they expect,” he said finally.
“Sir,” Jenner said looking physically pained, “I’m not sure it matters which final jumping-off point we use. In fact, just jumping around from world to world within a single jump range of the enemy star system would only increase our risk of encountering an ambush. The whole point is to move through an unexpected route so they can’t ambush us—”
“I’ve done my best to allay your concerns, Captain,” Wessex said irritably. “By your own logic, if the last waypoint is too close then the second is no doubt too close as well. We will continue as planned.”
“We could turn the fleet now, Sir; issue new movement orders while our ships are all gathered together,” Jenner pointed out.
“And wait hours because of this phantom menace, while we plotted out a new route around it and then confirmed receipt of the new nav-plot by all of our ships? I think not, Captain,” Wessex scoffed, finally having had enough of all this delay and second guessing. “Issue the new movement order to the fleet. They are to proceed at alert level two and monitor for shadowing forces of enemy ships along our route of advance, but they are not to delay any further and are to jump toward our next way point upon receipt of these orders.”
“You’re the Admiral, Sir,” Jenner said turning away to issue the orders.
“I am indeed,” Wessex said shortly. Jenner might be right and he might be wrong, but this constant second-guessing of his orders was starting to get under Wessex’s skin. Just who was the Admiral here?
They were going to go now, and they were going to hit these provincials so hard that no one—least of all his fellow task force commanders—could say Wessex had done anything other than earn his place in the battle fleet!
Chapter Eleven: The Furball
I was sitting on my throne with my fist glumly propping up my chin as I spent yet another interminable shift waiting for an enemy to arrive. It might go without saying, but unfortunately for my increasing sense of boredom, no enemy seemed ready to actually show up.
Maybe, I wondered for the umpteenth time, they popped in on the other side of the star system and transited onward to Hart’s World without my fleet catching so much as a whiff of their presence? Even while I sat here waiting for them, light-lagged images of their point transfers in and out of this system could be winging their way across the star system.
All this while I wasn’t even aware they’d been here until after they were gone!
Of course, that meant they would have had to have avoided the mobile sensor net of ships I’d posted in pairs to ring around the star system. Wherever the enemy fleet arrived, supposedly I’d have enough time for one of my ships to spot them, jump to our ready reaction force, and then jump back with the reaction force in tow to rain some pain down on their heads.
Bored out of my skull—to the point that I had already caught up on the electronic paperwork and was even now going through supply reports—I suppressed a sigh. This waiting around for the action to start was for the dogs. I was used to long periods of inactivity, sure, but that was when I was jumping my way through long stretches of dead space. When I jumped into a star system that was when the action usually started. Sneaking, fighting and running—or even hiding—was all to be expected, depending on the circumstances. But sitting and waiting for the enemy to show up in a star system that wasn’t Gambit or Tracto was starting to wear on me.
I stared at the screen half-numb from the ears up, at a list describing the supply of stan-bolts—broken down by ship, naturally—for several minutes without really absorbing anything that I was seeing.
There was stir in the sensor pit. It gave me no small amount of pleasure to be back in a Dreadnaught class battleship—one with a familiar layout, as opposed to the Strike Cruiser I’d used for my last big battle.
“Contact!” reported the Sensor Officer causing me to jerk in my seat.
“Report,” barked Captain Hammer.
“I’m reading a small contact roughly corvette siz—” the Officer said rapidly.
“IFF identification, Admiral,” cut in Lieutenant Lisa Steiner, “it’s the Hog March, a corvette of the New Sector Guard that was assigned to the rapid reaction patrol!”
Immediately, a new tension filled the bridge. We had been worried that an enemy ship had just arrived in our proverbial lap, but now the situation was reversed and—with a little bit of luck—we were about to become the hunters.
Janeski, I thought darkly, I’m coming for you.
Steiner still had her hand up against her ear, listening to something only she could hear through her earbud.
“Well? Spit it out, woman,” Hammer said after a pause that seemed to drag on a touch too long.
As she looked up, a grin spread across the Comm. Officer’s face.
“Target arrival confirmed, Sir,” she said, looking between myself and the ship’s Captain, “six squadrons of Destroyers have been spotted just transferring into this Star System.”
I leaned forward in my chair—finally, a chance for some action! It’s not so much that I wanted the people in my fleet to fight and die against these invaders, but I was relieved that the wait was finally over and done with.
“Send in the rapid reaction force. I want the Guard, Promethean, and Sundered Contingents, and our own MSP Destroyers and Corvettes to ride in there and cut that Destroyer force to pieces before they know what hit them—more importantly, I want them taken down before they can cycle their jump engines. Send half the Cutters with them as well but instruct them to hang back so that they can play relay for as long I need them there. I’ll also want at least four Cutters with the Battleship squadron at all times,” I ordered. The MSP was the only force that had brought Cutters along, but where a Corvette might take a half hour to cycle their jump engines, a Cutter could do it in fifteen minutes. There was an accordingly sharp decline in how many light years a Cutter could jump, making them slower than a Corvette even, but for short-jumping around the edges of a star system there wasn’t anything faster in our fleet. They were going to be critical if I was to be able to maintain communication with the various elements of this fleet after they jumped to the site of the battle.
“Relaying now, Admiral,” Steiner replied.
If four cruisers—three of them heavies—17 destroyers, and 24 corvettes—the total number of our vessels scattered around the edges of the star system—were gathered back together, and weren’t enough to deal with this destroyer force…we could always send in more ships.
“Add an amendment stating that Commodore Kling has command, with Force Commander Glue to take over if anything happens to him,” I added.
There was a chime as my private communicator signaled an incoming call. There were only a handful of people who had access to my personal com, and the ID showed it was the Captain. Pulling out an ear bud and inserting it, I took the call.
“Are you sure it’s wise to send in so many different contingents to deal with the Destroyer force, Admiral Montagne?” Captain Hammer asked over the com-link. “And will the Sector Guard contingent simply accept the chain of command you’ve designated?”
“I think we need to do our best to overwhelm the enemy before they can jump out and warn their friends,” I said forcefully. “As for the Guard, they’d better blasted well do what I tell them.” I finished with a growl. “We went over all of this with them days ago. The time to object was then, not now.”
“And if there’s trouble?” she asked.
“I have four battleships and thousands of Lancers who are eager to convey my disdain for mutineers. Better we find out now, before the enemy has time to bring in their heavy hitters, than later when they can do us real damage,” I said flatly. My mind filled with images of just exactly what I would do to the ‘New Sector Guard’ if they tried to stab me in the back, “Satisfied, Captain?”
She nodded, “We do what we can.”
Minutes later, the first of the Corvettes began to jump. The Destroyers followed them as fast as they could power their hyper drives for a short jump.
A Cutter jumped into communication range and was quickly identified as one of ours. “We’re receiving an update, Sir,” Lieutenant Steiner reported, flashing the information to my console.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” I said, opening the vid file and playing it forward at a speed of twenty to one. So far, it was only the opening maneuvers of the engagement and our forces were coming in piecemeal, but the enemy Destroyers were currently scattered. It was nice to see that precision point transferring from one star system to another while staying in formation was something that escaped even the these Imperials as much as it did my own forces.
Oh, they had arrived in the same general area as each other. But that had meant that when my own forces arrived, it had led to a rolling series of dog fights as first my corvettes, and then my destroyers began arriving in much closer formation.
On my screen, Corvettes swooped and Destroyers scrambled as Coalition Fleet Forces started hammering the enemy formation.
I gave Hammer a penetrating look. Initial estimates had placed enemy forces at least at double the current number of destroyers. That meant either they were due to arrive any time now, or they were already here and scrambling to get into formation for a short jump of their own.
“Tell the Droids and the Wolf-9 Reservists to send in everything smaller than a Cruiser,” I instructed. Either way, it looked as if our boys and girls out there in the now swirling dogfight—a battle which was starting to spiral out of Commodore Kling’s control—were going to be needing some reinforcements.
“Once we do that, all of our lighter forces—the majority of this fleet—will be committed,” Leonora Hammer pointed out in a neutral voice.
“We won’t win by waiting to see what the enemy does and reacting to it,” I dismissed after a moment of hard consideration. I might have been wrong, but my gut was telling me it was time to go all in, “We have to keep him reacting to us; the best way to do that is to overwhelm everything he has in the area before he has the chance to consolidate.”
“Aye, Admiral,” Hammer replied turning to pass the order onto one of Steiner’s assistant com-operators.
A moment later, it hit me: the realization that after this latest series of orders were carried out, I’d have sent nearly a hundred warships into one of the biggest fleet engagements I’d seen to date…and I still had yet to join the battle? Somehow that just didn’t seem right.
“Admiral, I’m receiving request for confirmation from every contingent Commander—and what seems like half the cruiser and battleship captains—all wanting to know what you want them to do, Sir,” Steiner said.
I hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Instruct the Prometheus Fire and the Sector Guard cruisers that they are jump at their earliest convenience to reinforce their various contingents. But tell the droids I want them to synchronize their jumps so they arrive together as one squadron,” I said.
When the next Cutter arrived, it showed that the United Sentient Assembly and Wolf-9 reinforcements had arrived just in time to intercept another six newly arrived squadrons of enemy destroyers.
So far, the battle was going as well as I could have hoped. I didn’t trust such a fortuitous turn of events.
With more than half of the original force of enemy destroyers destroyed and only minimal losses among our own ships, even with these newly-arrived enemy reinforcement squadrons, our combined Corvette and Destroyer squadrons outnumbered the enemy almost three-to-one. It felt too good to last, and I immediately started looking around to see what else I could throw into the mix. But there wasn’t anything. Two Light Cruisers from the Wolf-9 contingent could get into the action before anything else, and that was it.
So other than what I’d already done, there wasn’t much left to do but wait for the hyper drives in our larger ships to build up a charge. Oh, I could panic of course and try to send out some of our auxiliaries and collier ships into the fray only to watch them be destroyed…or I could blind myself to the growing battle by ordering the Cutters into the fray prematurely. But, tempting as it was at times, acting the fool had never really appealed to me.
So, with a sigh, I cut the orders for the pair of Light Cruisers and then sat back to bite my nails. Everything now rested on whether our Cruisers and Battleships, or the enemy’s heavy hitters, would arrive first.
All this sitting and doing nothing while the majority of the fleet was out fighting and dying was twisting and turning my stomach. I had grown used to being in the thick of the action or at least a part of the action. It was hard to feel like I wasn’t contributing, even if I wasn’t personally present, so long as I was fighting for my life in some way.
For a brief second, I wished that everyone could just get along and stop with all the fighting. Then I shook that particular lunacy off with a wry grin. Life would be pretty boring if there was no more fighting. I mean, if the historical record of AI rule was to be any guide to go by, instead of constant conflict we’d instead be crushed under an ever-increasing electronic bureaucracy until we were being taxed for the rain water we collected and drank, as well as the carbon dioxide emissions we breathed out. Not to mention the notarized pre-coital contracts for one-night-stands, and filling out forms for every use of the public rest room facilities.
Yeah, sure, conflict could be almost eliminated, but I had no interest in requesting a permit to relieve myself or notify the city administration if I was thinking about taking a girl home. Not that I was interested in other girls, of course! I had more than enough trouble with the one I currently had. I couldn’t imagine what would happen if I had more than one of the creatures in my life; I could only tip my hat and shake my head at those men who attempted to live with and satisfy more than one at a time.
That seemed to me like a surefire way to cut your life span drastically short, but then what did I know? After all, it seemed like everyone was out to kill me all the time but then I could just be biased on the death-by-outraged-woman front. Still, I wasn’t about to take any chances. I’d leave that for more foolhardy to men to pursue…and then watch with muted interest.
“New arrival,” remarked the Sensor Officer, who was easy to spot as a former or rather long serving Confederation officer due to the slightly different pattern Confederation uniform the majority of the sleepers used, “profile matches that of the scheduled Cutter.”
My shoulders relaxed and then promptly tensed again as I immediately dived into the latest review, again at ten times regular speed.
I clenched my fist as I watched first a pair, and then a third Reclamation Fleet Destroyer flee the battle scene while a fourth ship on the edge of the combat zone stayed still just long enough to charge and engage hyper drive and point transfer away. But other than those four, the confusing interplay of the icons representing the battle seemed to be trending in our favor.
Even so, each and every icon indicating one of my ships had been destroyed or knocked out of the fight felt like a kick directly in the gut. Sure, faint hearts never won fair ladies…although considering the fair ladies I knew….
Yeah, best not to consider that. The point was that I was here to win, and one couldn’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.
Several more Destroyers fled the battle and slipped away, leaving their remaining fellows to be ground up between my Corvette and Destroyer forces until finally the first of our Cruisers started to arrive on the scene.
Our losses were not inconsiderable, but on the whole I was satisfied with the result, especially after the Cruisers arrived to finish sweeping up the pieces.
Of the fifty enemy Destroyers caught up in our trap, thirty two warships had been destroyed or damaged to the point they could no longer fight or run away. Sadly, the other eighteen had fled into hyperspace.
“They ran like the cowards they are,” Brightenbauc chuckled, sneering at the screen where an entire squadron of Destroyers disappeared into hyperspace moments before our Cruisers could reach them.
I glared at the other man. Really, this Confederal officer was a little bit too much. Hesitant to commit to battle, timid in the planning stages, eager to run away until reinforcements arrived, but more than willing to denigrate and trash talk our opponents at the first opportunity? I was completely disgusted.
I needed to find myself a new navigator—someone more like the late Officer Shepherd. He may have been cautious and just as willing as the next man to cheer when we succeeded, or when the enemy failed, but when the chips were down he had iron in his stomach.
In the meantime, a few choice sayings from my remote childhood burbled up to the surface of my thoughts. Little limericks like, ‘he who smelt it dealt it,’ and ‘don’t get mad, get even.’ Either of which, sadly, might make too pointed of a comment if leveled at my lackluster navigator. Because while he was rapidly approaching the next closest thing to trash—in my opinion—saying such a thing about one of their own might incite the rest of the Confederation sleepers to turn against me. Unlike the loudmouthed navigator, I wasn’t stupid enough to let my mouth run without reason other than self-satisfaction. Well, at least not often, I silently amended.
It was remotely possible that I was biased against the ‘trash navigator’ due to his lack of fighting spirit, and not due to an inherent lack of ability. So I settled on a more neutral response.
“Let’s try to temper our enthusiasm with reality, Nav,” I said a hint of frost. “Against Cruisers, those Destroyers are not only outnumbered but fighting above their weight class. The smart move was to run.”
Captain Hammer seemed to agree as she nodded. “It’s probable that they’re well-trained in joint maneuvers at the squadron level and higher. As such, their best strategy would be to withdraw and return as part of a joint force,” she observed.
I felt the urge to hunch my shoulders. We’d been practicing squadron formations and fleet movement, but even the MSP had only been working on squadron level actions since we left Gambit—and the results had shown we still had much to learn. Throw in all the additional volunteer forces and our limited practice after leaving Tracto made it something I didn’t want to think too closely about.
I knew that both the MSP and Coalition Fleet had a lot work to do in order to make us into one seamless unit, but seeing precisely what that meant in these reports was unsettling.
I resolutely turned my thoughts away from that line of thought. “How would you evaluate our chances in a head-to-head set piece fleet battle?” I inquired, just so I could get her opinion on our effectiveness.
“I’ve only commanded small units, and most of that was out on lone patrols or operating as pairs. So while I know what needs to be done, I’m in no way a master of the subject. I was Rim Fleet, not Battle Fleet,” she paused and then nodded seriously in thought. “The way you maneuvered the enemy into a situation that negates their battle fleet formation training and emphasizes the advantages our people have—which is one of independent or small forces tactics—was quite masterfully done.”
Unable to resist a flush of pleasure at the evaluation, I still managed to lift an eyebrow at her. I wanted her to know that despite the deft dodge, I had noted the way she’d failed to answer the actual question—which was about how well she thought we would do against a trained force of equal or greater size.
The lack of response said it all, as far as I was concerned, and a new resolution started to fill my soul. The fact that we hadn’t previously had the ships to perform fleet maneuvers, or the officers that were capable of carrying out the sort of training we needed, was immaterial. The Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet was here to stay, and that meant we were going to start learning the certain things in order to remain one of the bigger fleets in the Spine.
Like everything, it was going to be a work in progress and I fully expected we were going to get far more on-the-job-training than we’d prefer. But that was par for the course in this organization.
I was still musing on training plans—and wondering just how I was going to handle an enemy fleet that was trained in all the things my forces weren’t—when another Cutter popped into existence beside us and completely removed all such future considerations from my mind.
“Data dump!” Steiner said after the Sensor watch had successfully identified the little warship as one of ours. “Commodore LeGodat reports large scale enemy reinforcements have arrived on scene. More than fifteen enemy Cruisers just jumped into sensor range of our forces! They’re scattered, Sir, but he says they’re moving to regroup quickly and expects an attack to be imminent.”
“Blast it all,” I cursed under my breath, motioning for the data transfer and pulling up the Commodore’s message and attached sensor files as quickly as I could manage. I’d never wished so ferociously before that I was somewhere other than I was right then…well that wasn’t entirely true. Back when I’d been on the dungeon ship I’d wished I was anywhere but there just as badly. Facing an execution with a certain fixed date will do that to a person, but I suppose barring that the previous statement could stand as it was.
“The standby Cutter is asking if we have any orders to transmit,” reported Lieutenant Steiner.
I narrowed my eyes. The captains of Cutters ought not to be jogging the elbows of Admirals, but I decided to let it go. I had bigger fish to fry.
As frustrating as it was, there wasn’t actually anything I could do right then. I mean, sure, I could give orders to the men at the scene and try to micromanage them from a distance. But that didn’t really seem like a sound way to try and run a battle.
Sure, if the Sector Guard Contingent started doing their best to ruin things by running out of control then I’d micromanage the Hades out of them and dare them to say ‘frog’ while doing so.
“Tell the courier Cutter Captain to wait; I’ll be sending them out directly,” I grumbled, settling back in my chair. There was nothing I could do other than draw up orders instructing the droids to hold back the Mothership and Cruisers we’d sold them for a combined strike with our battleships. The Mothership is an incredibly slow warship, and while their gunboats might have been useful against the Destroyers, against Cruisers they weren’t going to last long enough to do much good.
When the next scheduled Cutter transfer came in with a status update, I could hardly keep my breathing under of control. Nostrils flaring, I glared at the report tallying the number of our ships which had been knocked out of action by the enemy’s newly arrived Cruisers.
The enemy Cruisers had done more damage in ten minutes than we had sustained during the entire battle with the Destroyers. Well, okay, not quite as much but it was still pretty blasted bad.
“New orders for the messenger to relay,” I snapped, quickly jotting down instructions for them to maintain distance and keep the enemy Cruisers from jumping out if they could, but by no means were they to risk their certain destruction. I needed those ships more than I needed dead martyrs.
Even after our Cruisers showed up and spearheaded their various contingents, the enemy was too powerful for us and we were forced to retreat.
Still, things seemed to stabilize somewhat over the next handful of reports—until the departed Reclamation Fleet Destroyers returned with a vengeance.
With superior numbers but smaller ships, and pressed on all sides by the enemy, our forces began a fighting retreat. The tables had well and truly turned, and for a long moment I regretted holding back those droid Motherships. Then I shook my head roughly. I had to trust that even if I’d made a wrong call, there was nothing to be gained by regretting it. All that existed for me in that moment was the need to push forward. I had to let victory and defeat be the final judgment on this battle and how it was fought.
After several minutes, Corvettes started popping back into existence around the battleships, flash dumping their sensor logs and demanding instruction, direction and emergency medical or engineering support.
“Captain Hammer, use our shuttles to provide what assistance we can to those damaged ships—or better yet, utilize whatever the freighters, colliers and support ships can spare. That’s what they’re there for: support and repair. I don’t want to risk lives or ships but we might need those shuttles in the battleship squadron if worst comes to worst. Better to keep our options open,” I ordered tensely, battling through the confusion caused by the premature interruption of the information line. I was used to a focused report from the Cutter captains I had sent out on sequence to monitor the enemy. With three ships showing up at once and dumping their logs on me, I was essentially drowning in details.
The next several relays didn’t improve my mood. Watching a fighting retreat when you are stuck away from the battle and unable to do so much as issue an order that wouldn’t be hopelessly time-lagged by the time it arrived was increasingly hard to bear.
Then—finally—it was our turn.
“Time to micro-jump in five…four…three…two…one…jumping,” declared Brightenbauc, and I had a moment of relief tinged vindication: we were going to arrive before the Reclamation Fleet battleships! Then, in a flash, we were there.
“Point transfer!” exclaimed the Navigator.
“I’m reading multiple high energy discharges at close range,” cried the Sensor Officer.
“Shields have just been hit; strength holding firm at 93%,” reported Ensign Longbottom, one of the transfers from my old command along with Helmsman DuPont. He might not be much, but Longbottom was an officer I could trust.
“Baffling extended and main engines going to half burn,” DuPont stated tensely and moments later the ship lurched, “the ship is free of the inertial sump.”
“Point us at the enemy and take us to full burn on all engines, Mr. DuPont,” I ordered, my fist slamming down on the cushioned arm of my command chair as a smile filled my face. Finally, we were no longer sitting back unable to do a thing—we were back in the action.
“Enemy Cruisers approaching at high speed!” cried the Sensor Officer.
“Exactly as planned,” I said with a shark-like smile, knowing without a doubt that my battleships were slower than enemy Cruisers. Considering the increased accuracy of a short-ranged jump, I had deliberately placed our squadron along with the three droid Motherships right in the path of two squadrons of Reclamation Cruisers—it was what some would call a ‘target-rich environment,’ and I had decks full of guns in need of a thorough clearing. “Inform the Chief Gunner that he is to take aim and fire as they bear, Mr. Hart,” I ordered in a slightly raised voice.
“Aye aye, Admiral,” Hart acknowledged, turning to the microphone on his desk and doing just that.
“Reinforce the shields on the port side, Longbottom,” I instructed, watching the Cruisers approaching at top speed.
In just a few moments, the Royal Rage and the rest of the battleship squadron would join the battle. I couldn’t wait.
Chapter Twelve: Fire from the Gun Decks
“Portside prepare to fire,” bellowed Lesner, spitting out his recently lit cigar and lighting up an enemy Cruiser with his targeting computer as his voice echoed throughout the gun deck. A moment later the computer signaled a good firing lock, and he bellowed, “Pour it on, me hearties!” Putting word to action, he depressed the dual triggers needed to activate the turbo-cannon.
Through his gun sites, the Chief Gunner fired, and fired again at the rapidly approaching enemy Cruisers. Each ship in the battleship squadron had been assigned a different Cruiser to focus their fire on, and the target assigned to the Royal Rage was Cruiser #3—he aimed to prove that his crew on the flagship was still the best gun crew in the fleet.
Through the targeting computer, Chief Lesner could see the Cruisers going to hard burn as they tried to move outside the range of the Royal Rage’s main guns, but it was an action doomed to fail. The Admiral had planned this engagement too well, and they were only going to get deeper in before things got better.
Assuming we survive long enough for things to get better, he thought with a savage grin.
“Starboard-side: get ready to compensate for fast-moving targets and take over for the port,” he said, his gun rapidly overheating. He figured he could get off at least one more shot before the Cruisers shot past the ship in a desperate attempt to escape his firing arc. Then a thought occurred to him, “And a half keg of brew to the team that takes down number Three’s engines,” the Chief Gunner declared over an open mike. Keeping crew morale up is almost as important as destroying the enemy, he thought piously.
He had barely enough time to see his last shot punch through the enemy shields, causing an explosion near their main shield generator, before that ship flashed past the portside in the blink of an eye.
He released his dual triggers and leaned fractionally back in his chair, knowing that it was up to the starboard half of the gun deck now.
Chapter Thirteen: Raining and Pouring
“Pour it on!” I shouted, pounding on the arm of my Throne. “Order the Sector Guard forces to advance and pin those Destroyers down!”
The last thing we needed the enemy’s battered fifth squadron of Cruisers, recently reinforced by the Destroyers that had fled or survived up to this point, to throw a monkey wrench into things.
The Guard, with its three battered—but still very much functional—Heavy Cruisers along with their accompanying smaller warships, should be able to handle them long enough for us to finish up the rest of the enemy heavies.
“Sir, we’ve only got positive confirmation on three of the four—” Lieutenant Hart started to report.
“Instruct the droid Cruiser squadron they are to move up behind the Rage in a triangular formation so as not to obstruct us when we turn,” I ordered brusquely.
Helmsman DuPont had gone to full burn, but the battleship was still getting up to speed even as it moved to intercept the embattled enemy’s fourth Cruiser squadron, a group consisting of five very slow Hammerhead class Medium Cruisers.
Behind the Royal Rage floated the wrecks of the once-powerful Heavy Cruisers. While I would have preferred to continue after the five survivors of the three squadrons—three of them standing almost completely unscathed—that had so recently been the heart and soul of the enemy’s offensive push against our then beleaguered lighter forces, I would take what I could get.
I knew the relative speeds of our two forces and, when it came down to it, Battleships chasing Cruisers it was a losing proposition every time. Well…every time except when the Cruisers being chased were what had to be the slowest capital ship in the Spine, the sluggish Hammerhead class and not the new construction, Imperial tech Cruisers the enemy had built. Like, say, the ones we’d just knocked out with our surprise point transfer-and-attack.
“Admiral, are you sure…” Hart started to ask, but I turned a deathly look on him and he raised both hands before turning back to dealing with his section.
I knew what he was worried about. He feared the remnants of the first, second, and third enemy Cruiser squadrons—the ones we’d just torn through like a buzz-saw—would rally together and move to assist the fifth if given enough time. Not to mention those Cruisers we’d only knocked out through engine damage if given enough time might affect repairs and get back into the action.
The fifth squadron being the one facing the Sector Guard, I had to concede that his concerns where legitimate. That said, it actually would be a terrible loss if the New Sector Guard were overrun…
With a sigh, I briefly considered what that would do to the defensive position of our lighter units and then turned to the communication section.
“New orders to the Promethean and Droid Contingents: with my compliments, they are to rally on the New Sector Guard,” I instructed. “We need some reinforcements in that area.”
“Yes Sir,” Steiner said rapidly relaying my message.
“Enemy Cruisers are attempting to turn and face us,” Lieutenant Hart reported from his position at tactical.
I smiled. The Hammerhead is a slow beast at best, and most of its firepower is concentrated forward. This makes them deadly in a head-on attack, but makes their flanks—and, most especially, their rear—open to attack. Combine their outdated design with a decided lack of speed compared to modern warships, toss in their relative impotence to anything but a head on attack—which they were particularly strong and suited for—and you had one happy Admiral. Why, you might ask?
Because if they were turning to face us, that meant they were opening themselves up to the guns of the battered and bloodied Wolf-9 contingent.
“Incoming com-call from the Commodore, sir,” reported Steiner.
I raised my brows we had more than one Commodore, three at last count in fact, in this lash up I was calling a Coalition Fleet but I let it pass. It was obvious enough who was calling.
“It’s good to see you, Admiral,” LeGodat said, appearing on my holo-screen relief briefly flickering before being replaced with an image showing a distinctive glint in his eye.
“You as well, Commodore,” I agreed with a nod, “but don’t mind us; we’re just here to help take out the trash.”
LeGodat snorted.
On the screen, the Medium Cruisers, realizing that escape was futile, had completed their turn—all except for one which was still pointed toward the Wolf-9 force as some kind of rearguard and were now facing us. Not to be left behind, the Confederation Reserve Force, minus three Destroyers and several more Corvettes, immediately began to pursue.
The fact that two of the Wolf-9 Cruisers—and more than half the Destroyers and Corvettes—were leaking atmosphere or responding sluggishly compared to the others did little to invoke my confidence.
“It’s good working with you again, Admiral,” LeGodat said with a tight smile, “how do you want to do this?”
“You handle the rearguard and we’ll sweep away the pieces, Commodore,” I explained. A Battleship squadron reinforced by Droid Cruisers—equipped with those antimatter-pumped spinal lasers—was more than able to crush anything that was pinned down or in this case too slow to escape. Sure, even the Hammerhead class could have escaped us if they’d been at full speed, but they weren’t and they knew it.
As our Battleships lunged forward, I could all but feel the consternation among the five surviving Cruisers of the three squadrons we’d jumped in front of. If they had been intact, maybe they could have actually done something about it. But they were going the wrong way at high speed, which meant they were in a genuine pickle and knew it.
“That’s odd,” Captain Hammer said.
“What?” I asked her.
“The rear guard Cruiser in the enemy squadron is somehow keeping station with the rest of the squadron even though they’re pointed at us and it’s at the Wolf-9 force,” she said.
I glanced at the icons representing the ships of the enemy’s fifth Cruiser Squadron. They did seem relatively close together. Too close together in fact.
“Sensors, what’s the separation between the enemy’s four lead ships and the Hammerhead at the back?” I asked.
“Checking, Sir,” said the Officer, he read the results on his console and frowned, “that’s odd. Running a high focus scan now.”
I waited a beat.
“Results confirmed,” the Sensor Officer said, shaking his head, disbelief and admiration on his face as he turned to me, “the enemy are towing their fifth ship with bucking cables, Sir.”
“Bucking cables!” I snorted and then look appraisingly at the enemy squadron. Whoever was over there was one smart cookie. He knew that as soon as his main force of four pulled away from the rearguard ship that LeGodat and his forces would cut in behind it and take out its engines, after which they would immediately turn at make an attack run at his other ship’s now undefended rear ends.
By literally towing their cohort behind them, they could both defend their rears and keep from being out flanked—barring an insanely lucky shot to sever the cables.
“That shouldn’t work,” Hammer said as soon as she heard, “the drive plume on anything but a straight course towing a ship that large would eventually burn through the cables and we’ve seen them make turns too steep for them to make without burning the lines.”
“It looks like two of the ships in the middle have split the towing duty between them. The drive plumes are never in danger of impacting the cables,” reported Sensors.
“Sneaky blighters,” Lieutenant Hart swore.
“I hate a competent enemy, they’re bad enough, but an innovative one is ten times worse,” I said, wishing the squadron commander over there worked for me. I could use the help. Druid seemed competent enough but he had lost his Battleship on his very first independent patrol. LeGodat was definitely competent—and sneaky—but innovative? I hadn’t seen that. Add in the fact that while he’d thrown his lot in with mine, I knew his support only went so far, and what did I have left. Akantha? Glue? Middleton?
Now there was a man: Captain Middleton had been competent, sneaky and innovative. Sadly, it hadn’t been his qualifications that had been in doubt but rather his loyalty or to put the extreme best face on it, the ability to follow orders.
“They don’t have much of a chance do they?” observed Hammer’s First Officer.
“Not unless they know something we don’t,” I observed and then pursed my lips, cocked my head and narrowed one eye.
“A thought, Sir?” the Captain asked not failing to catch my sudden change in appearance.
“I think I’d like to speak to these Reclamationists—or at least the commander of this particular cruiser squadron,” I said offhandedly, as if I hadn’t a care in the world.
Her gaze sharpened but she didn’t object to my notion.
“Lieutenant,” I said turning to Ms. Steiner, “if you would be so kind as to open a hail before we hit the enemy?”
“We’ll be on them in less than two minutes, Admiral,” Captain Hammer noted.
“Well then we must endeavor to move with alacrity,” I said eyes shooting back to Steiner with a silent message in them. However, as soon as I looked back she was already on the coms.
“I have the Squadron Commander of the enemy ships on the line, Admiral,” Steiner said, her face flushed with success.
“Put him through,” I instructed and a moment later the image of a man in a uniform with a suspiciously Imperial cut to his uniform, albeit one with the usual Imperial colors reversed. Normally in the Empire they wore blue on black, not black on blue.
“This is Senior Captain Jerry Creed of the Reclamation Fleet, cease your hostile actions and prepare to be boarded by Reclamation Marines. If you do so now I promise to speak for you at your trial,” the Officer—a standard-looking man for a white-skinned, blond-haired Imperial—said, drawing himself up a steely glint in his eye as he stared at me.
I lifted my eyebrows. “My trial, Mister?” I asked, my voice cracking like a whip. “I dare say you lack both the power and the legitimacy to demand such an action of me.”
“It’s Senior Captain to the likes of you,” he barked. “It’s true that you’ll probably succeed in killing me and wrecking my ships if that’s your intent, but our ultimate victory is inevitable. Things will only go that much harder for you and your world when this Sector is subjugated if you don’t cooperate.”
“I’ll make you a counterproposal, Captain,” I sneered, “lower your shields and strike your fusion generators and I won’t treat your lot for the rebels, insurgents and pirates that you’ve proven yourself to be.”
“I will not be spoken to like this by some jumped up provincial with his mighty one-world SDF. We are here to save these sectors, including yours, from the chaos and anarchy that has overtaken them due to ineffectual efforts of weak men like yourself. Frankly, son your commission isn’t worth the parchment it’s printed on. Better to use it for toilet paper now while it still has some value to you,” the Senior Captain mocked.
“While I’m not surprised that a pirate like yourself is unfamiliar with Confederation uniforms,” I mocked, quite certain that he was in fact a former or even current Imperial Officer and not an actual pirate—even though he and his fleet’s actions had technically been piracy, “the fact remains that I happen to be both a Confederation officer, not a provincial one of any stripe and a Vice Admiral in the service. So unless you’re suddenly claiming you’re an Imperial officer—something I’m told your Reclamation Fleet has gone to great lengths to avoid doing—you have less than no authority in this Sector despite whatever organization you say you follow. What’s more, since this is Confederation territory and not the Empire, even if you were to claim to be one of those slack-jawed, bum-rushing Imperials, any authority you might attempt to lay claim to would still require you to defer to Confederation judgment and authority. Meaning my judgment and authority, not to put too fine a point on it.”
The Senior Captain flushed turning increasingly red in the face. Then he threw back his head and barked, his laugh sounding more like a seal’s bark than anything else I’d heard.
“I ought to give you both sides after that; too bad a Hammerhead only has the front. Everything else is of marginal firepower or strictly point defense,” replied the Captain.
“Thirty seconds, Admiral,” Lieutenant Hart reported.
“As much as I’d like to stick around and chat ‘til the system primary turns over, I’m afraid our time is almost up,” I said, leaning forward and giving the Senior Captain a resolute look. “I respect the maneuver with the bucking cables, I really do. Towing your fifth ship behind the other four to provide cover for the otherwise unprotected stern of the rest of your squadron was inspired. That’s why I’ll give you this last warning: you can’t win. Step down your fusion generators, lower your shields and prepare to be boarded.”
“I must refuse, young Admiral,” Senior Captain Jerry Creed replied.
“So be it,” I nodded and motioned for Lieutenant Steiner to cut the channel.
A second later the channel cut, and moments after that the Battleship Squadron and accompanying Cruisers with us opened fire.
A trio of antimatter-pumped spinal lasers lashed out each striking a different ship. Shields flared, weakened, and then were punched through as lasers lashed the hull and metal turned to slag, ruptured, and fissured off in spraying geysers from the ferocious volleys.
Battleships and Cruisers pivoted and immediately after turbo-lasers flared and smashed into the already damaged vessels, as well as the pair that had escaped the brunt of the Mothership’s attack.
“Multiple hits to the enemy vessels,” reported Mr. Hart, “enemy shields are weakening. Multiple instances of turbo-laser punch-through resulting hull damage.”
For several long seconds our ships pummeled the enemy’s squadron of medium cruisers.
“The rear-facing Cruiser being towed with bucking cables just took a critical hit to her engines!” Lieutenant Hart said seconds before the ship exploded. “Correction: enemy Cruiser destroyed!”
As I watched, one by one the enemy’s Hammerhead Medium Cruisers lost their shields, started venting gases, and eventually fell silent.
“One Medium Cruiser destroyed, three more heavily damaged. Two are drifting and the third lost the forward right quarter of their forward facing and their entire shield generator!” crowed the ship’s Tactical Officer.
“Tell gunnery hard at them, Mr. Hart,” Captain Hammer said, slamming a fist into her other hand for emphasis.
As we flashed past the enemy Cruisers, a furious barrage of medium and heavy lasers lambasted the battered enemy Cruisers until we slid past them, the distance between us and our former targets growing by the second.
Behind us, the battered remnants of the once proud Reclamationist Squadron continued to drift and spew atmosphere.
“Bring the squadron around for another pass, Captain Hammer,” I said, tapping the screen her image was portrayed on and uploading a quick and dirty proposed course change.
Her eyes briefly flickered down to check the file and she nodded curtly.
“We’ll get on it,” she replied, “however, as you’re aware we’re now going exactly the wrong way so it won’t happen quick. Would you rather we curve over and relieve the Sector Guard contingent instead?”
I took a moment to take another look at the local battle space, and the increasingly pressed Guard contingent, before shaking my head. Not only would we not save that much time diverting to help the guard versus swinging back around to finish the Hammerheads, but after ripping out the heart of a pair of squadrons when we first arrived and then dealt with these slow Medium Cruisers I wanted to put the finish on something. Besides that, most Cruisers—such as the ones facing the Guard—were much fleeter than our battleships. So unlike when we faced the sluggish Hammerheads, even if we diverted as the Captain had suggested all we could be sure of was that we’d run them off, possibly not earning so much as one single kill. My way ensured that several enemy warships were permanently put out of commission. If that meant our ‘allies’ had to suffer for a bit longer then that’s what they were going to have to do.
“Captain, while my heart weeps for our brethren of the New Sector Guard, they’re just going to have to make do with the support of the Reservists from Wolf-9 for the next little while. We need to keep our options open and finish off this squadron. Pass the order to Commodore LeGodat that he is to take his contingent of faster more maneuverable ships to their relief,” I paused as I considered what this was going to do to the various pieces in play, scratched the back of my neck to relieve an itch, and then nodded. “That should do it for now.”
The Captain nodded. “It would be marginally faster to simply reverse course if you want to get to those Cruisers as quickly as possible,” she said without judgment.
“Standing around essentially flatfooted in the middle of a battlefield that keeps evolving with more and more enemy warships jumping into it all the time hardly seems the wisest course, Captain. My orders stand,” I replied curtly.
“On it, Sir,” she nodded and started spewing the orders necessary to make my vision, such as it was, possible.
I watched as the Royal Rage and her sister ships, including the droid crewed Motherships, slowly arced around the outer edge of the battlefield where only a few battered wrecks from both sides drifted. As the minutes piled up, I wished that I’d been able to pick either of the flagship captain’s alternatives and run with them.
Normally I was used to other ships either running away or coming at us directly. I was essentially sitting in my chair and twiddling my thumbs while nearly a hundred other ships wheeled, raced and charged into battle. Those vessels seemed to act as if my battleships were merely a brutish afterthought that would be dealt with if and when slowly jogged back into the battle, and that began to wear on me for some reason. I was surprised to discover I was grinding my teeth in frustration.
That would never do.
Taking a deep breath and unclenching my jaw, I leaned back in my chair. There was too much going on to pay as much attention to individual ships, even the Destroyers and Cruisers, as I was used to. In my last large fleet action I had also been unable to pay attention to everything but at least all of my ships were in close formation around my flagship. Essentially, I had been a single contingent commander. But if this battle was teaching me anything, it was that I was going to have to keep expanding my field of vision and keep from growing mono-focused.
Ignoring the gut grind that was taking place in my midsection, I absentmindedly motioned for a cup of tea.
A young yeoman scurried over and placed a steaming hot cup in my hand before stepping back out of my field of vision.
Carefully taking a sip, I took a moment to savor the sensation while we were still well outside the range of anything that could hurt us or we them. It wasn’t the best blend I’d ever had, as battlefield teas tended not to be overly aromatic, but by my second sip I was feeling much more centered.
We were only a couple minutes from returning to finish Creed’s squadron of enemy Cruisers, which I insist had nothing to do with my improving mood.
I took one final sip to fortify myself before I instructed Steiner to give one last call for surrender from the Senior Captain and his hammerheads when an alarm went off in the sensor pit.
“Multiple point transfers detected. We’ve got a heavy hyper footprint, Captain!” cried the Sensor Officer. “It looks like it’s the enemy battleships and they’re less than five minutes away from our position!”
I choked as hot tea tried to go into my lungs instead of down my throat. Acting purely on instinct to preserve myself from the murderous beverage, I spilled the rest of the cup down the front of my uniform. I wheezed and convulsed, trying to eject the scalding hot liquid from a place it was never intended to be and wondering if I had just chosen the greater of two evils by not pouring the scalding fluid straight into my lungs.
“Are you alright, Sir?” a yeoman asked, hurrying over and deftly picking the cup out of my hand before it hit floor, concern written all over her face.
“What?” I coughed.
“I can call the medic for an analgesic, Admiral,” she said.
I waved her off angrily and then turned to my officers.
“Report,” I rasped, my eyes raking over the screen where two squadrons of enemy warships had just appeared toward the middle and off to our side of the main battle taking place between our ships and theirs.
“Still waiting for confirmation on ship sizes, Sir,” Tactical Officer Hart reported, “but all enemy Cruisers that are not currently engaged seem to be pulling back toward them.”
“I want confirmation,” I said with a nod, “though, looking at the screen it would appear that it’s not just their Cruisers but all surviving enemy ships that are pulling back,” I observed as warships all over the field started to drift back, as if pulled to those newly arrived enemy ships by the force of gravity itself. “If those aren’t their heavies then I’ll eat my hat.”
Hart nodded.
“Enemy classification confirmed,” exclaimed the Sensor Officer, “those are two squadrons of battleships.”
“Two squadrons,” I muttered. We were outnumbered—heavily.
“Orders, Admiral?” Hammer said staring at me expectantly. Looking up, I could see that she wasn’t the only officer looking at me as if expecting something. It took me a moment to recall that a number of my officers, even those who had supported the ambush, had called for a rapid retreat in the face of superior enemy battleships.
I furrowed my brow, then ran the numbers.
“You’re right. We’re going to have to let these Cruisers pass for now and divert our course…we’ll be back,” I said, grimacing at the thought, even if it wasn’t at all the actual thought behind all those expectant gazes. “Captain, swing us around for a high-speed intercept on those battleships.”
“The two squadrons of enemy battleships, Admiral?” Hammer clarified.
“The very same,” I grunted, “I don’t think we’re going to get a better chance than this to strike a telling blow.”
I could see the moment realization thudded in the bellies of our more fainthearted friends that, far from running away, we were about to charge the enemy head-on. It was, after all, the MSP way.
“Yes, Sir,” Hammer said and her jaw clenched once before she turned back to her crew on the battle bridge, “you heard the man: point us at the enemy and full speed ahead.”
“Good woman,” I nodded, turning back to stare at the screen portraying the battlefield. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the Captain stiffen and bestow me a thin-lipped look before turning away and returning to her duties.
I frowned. I’d said ‘good man’ to Spalding, as well as my former flagship commander, Captain Laurent and both had reacted well. Was saying ‘good woman’ really so very different? Shaking my head, I decided to ignore the Captain’s peccadillo by reminding myself that it took all kinds of cultures to make this galaxy of ours, and that just because hers might be biased when it came to gendered statements didn’t mean I had to stoop to that level.
Besides, equal opportunity was a founding principle of my people—and that included the equal opportunity to make a fool out of yourself over outdated and outmoded social models. Often people mistook Capria for a misogynistic backwater when they first encountered it, but the truth was actually something else entirely. We enjoyed the trappings of anachronistic culture, not the actual patriarchal or matriarchal suppression experienced in history. Sure, highborn women might preferred to act the graceful Lady and dress up in the finest and most expensive attire they could get their hands on. And our men act the proper gentlemen toying with swords, duels and the proper appropriate cognac and cigars for our station. But we did this out of a desire for sophistication and high society, not to suppress one gender or another.
All one had to look to for proof was the fact that our monarch was a Queen, or had been until deposed by ‘King’ James and our Sector had sent cousin Bethany as its most murderous representative. On Capria it was a commonly acknowledged fact in certain circles that, while men were the most lethal during times of war, during times of peace we didn’t hold a candle to the women of our Houses.
The number of bodies that had dropped after attending tea parties alone was rumored to exceed the total lost to duels. It was said that only the fact the highborn women refused to disclose their complete guest lists that…
I snapped back to the present. None of that had anything to do with our current situation and, in retrospect, perhaps gender inequality had something going for it after all. But regardless, this was neither the time nor the place to contemplate the merits of such trivialities.
Refocusing and looking back at the screen showing the twin lines of battleships neatly arranged side by side, I wondered just how bad this butcher’s bill was going to be.
I also wondered just how it was that the of all the groups of warships from Destroyers and Cruisers all the way up that it was only the battleships that had come into this system in formation.
Chapter Fourteen: Fat and Happy
15 minutes prior
“Is everything ready?” Admiral Wessex demanded of his flag captain.
Jenner closed his eyes as if in frustration, but when he opened them again there was nothing but calm and professionalism in his gaze.
“Navigation reports that every ship in both squadrons has complied with your orders and is ready for a short jump into the Star System,” Captain Jenner said evenly.
“Excellent work, Captain,” Wessex said, feeling magnanimous, “I also hope you settled the grumbling among the other Captains?”
Jenner looked at him levelly.
“We follow orders, Sir, it’s as simple as that,” he said.
“Oh come now, Captain,” Wessex frowned, “I realize that deciding to deliberately jump short so that we can then make a micro-jump in formation wasn’t a popular choice. However, while other officers like Commodore Bruneswitch may prefer speed over formation,” he stopped, forcing himself not to allow his frustration with the Commodore to leak into his voice before continuing, “and, in his case dealing with the Destroyers that are the fleet’s screening force even, with some justification to such a stance, in my opinion recklessly charging forward at top speed hardly suits the dignity of the battleship class.”
“Wars are not about dignity, Sir. They are about achieving victory, if I may be so bold,” Jenner said, his voice neutral even if his words were not.
Wessex frowned in frustration. “Ignoring dignity and the beneficial effect that arriving in formation—to showcase the power and unstoppable force this fleet possesses—has on fleet morale factors into the equation, Captain. If, say, there was a problem upon our arrival wouldn’t you say that arriving with our power concentrated the most effective method?” Wessex said with irritation.
“The modern battlefield is a complex thing. Arriving with our forces concentrated would generally be the best move,” the Captain paused, the corner of his mouth turning up, “unless our arriving earlier would have the effect of allowing us to avoid defeat in detail because instead of arriving first we took nearly six hours to dress our ranks and make a micro jump.”
Wessex looked at the other officer coldly. He knew backside covering when he heard it. “Frankly, I expected more of you—a supposedly hardened professional—Captain,” he sniffed.
“I try to learn from all the officers I serve with as well as every branch in the Fleet, including the services branch, sir,” Jenner said, his voice respectful but the implication clear.
“Tell the Navigator to jump when ready,” Wessex commanded shortly.
“Your wish is my command,” Jenner said.
Several minutes later, when all ships signaled readiness, the Battleships of Task Force 3 jumped.
****************************************************
“Point emergence,” remarked the Sensor Officer.
“Inertial sump estimated to be at less than 15 gravities,” reported the Navigator.
“Preparing for a hot transit,” the Helmsman said with excitement.
Wessex winced and then scowled.
“Belay the hot transit protocol, Helm,” he grunted leaning forward in his chair, “easy in and easy out. Same as we’ve been doing for the rest of the journey.”
“For the record, I must again point out that standard fleet protocol for emergence in an uncontrolled star system is a hot transit,” the Helmsman objected, his enthusiasm notably waning.
“All screening elements should have arrived in this vicinity well before we arrived,” Wessex pointedly out patiently. In all honesty he wouldn’t have minded the hot transit to exit the sump as fast as possible, except that he had spent far too much of his career in the service and supply service repairing ships that had spent too much time hot-rodding around.
If it had been battle damage that would have been one thing, but constantly dealing with simple stress fractures that could have been easily avoided if only the ship’s captain had reined in the Helmsman. All Helmsmen preferred to put out the baffling and immediately go to full thrust and torc the engine housing as much as they could get away with—it was to be expected, but it was also unnecessary in most situations.
“Easy does it, Helmsman,” he muttered again.
“Aye, Sir,” the officer sighed as he slowly, smoothly, and steadily stepped the engine power up from five to fifteen percent.
“I’m reading multiple warships all around us,” reported the Sensor Officer.
Captain Jenner looked up like a hunting dog catching a scent.
“Which is exactly what we expected,” Wessex pointed out before turning back to work on the electronic paper work that kept this fleet running. It’s not that he thought that arriving in a new system wasn’t without its own share of dangers, even if the rest of the fleet should have transferred in before them. Rather, he was certain the officers whose job it was to detect such things were better at doing his job than he was.
Although, who in their right mind would not only be aware of his fleet’s route and be both in a position to intercept them and have the stones and ships to do it…He shook his head as the improbability of it.
“Are we receiving Fleet IFF signals?” Jenner asked.
The Comm. Officer paused as if hesitantly.
“Even though they don’t know we are here yet, we are receiving a number of Destroyer and Cruiser friend or foe signals,” the Comm. Officer finally replied.
“First ship contacts are starting to appear on the screen now, Captain,” the Sensor Officer reported.
Jenner frowned. “Why is there so much yellow on my screen, Sensors?” the Captain demanded. Yellow indicated a potentially hostile contact unlike the green or blue of fleet or allied forces. “Link up the IFF signals from the com-section.”
So gently that one wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t been paying attention, the Flagship of Task Force 3 broke free of the inertial sump as the bridge crew went about their tasks.
“We have, sir,” the Sensor Officer said sounding stressed.
“Message to Squadron 1 and 2,” Wessex interrupted, knowing that appearance was everything. That said, on the off-chance there was trouble, it was better to have everything set up correctly. “All battleships are to dress ranks and form up on the flagship. My compliments to the battleship captains and their navigators on the spacing of their ships following our short-jump. That said, I think we can do better.”
“On it, Admiral,” said the Comm. Officer.
“Sensors, why is my screen still covered in yellow contacts?” Captain Jenner growled.
“Captain, we have already linked in the data from the Comm. section and double-checked the data-stream. This is all there is,” the Sensor Officer said tightly, “as such, I have to recommend we go to alert status one while Sensors runs a diagnostic.”
“Set flagship to Alert Status One from Alert Status Two,” Jenner barked, and all around Admiral Wessex the bridge tensed as everything went to war footing.
“Captain Jenner, report,” Wessex barked as the battleships of the two squadrons that made up the heart of his Task Force started falling in on one another to get into formation.
“Possible hostile contacts, Sir,” Jenner replied.
Wessex opened his mouth.
“Weapons fire detected in sector 43!” the Sensor Officer exclaimed.
“Sir, we’re being hailed by the Destroyer, Rapid Shot! They report they are currently engaged by enemy forces and are heavily pressed. They are requesting immediate support, Sir,” interrupted the Comm. Officer.
“Nearby formation of unknown warships has diverted from previous course and heading; unknown formation is now on a direct intercept with this squadron!” reported the Sensor Officer.
“Data dump from Rapid Shot being forwarded to the sensor section,” reported Comm.
“Unidentified formation has now been confirmed hostile and they’re almost on top of us, Admiral!” the Sensor Officer said in a rising voice.
“Code Omega detected!” cried the Comm. Officer in shock, prompting Wessex’s ears to pin back and his hackles to rise. An Omega was the destruction of a fleet warship.
For a moment that almost seemed to stretch on forever, nothing happened as everyone on the bridge suddenly realized with unshakable finality that they were in a fight.
Adrenaline flooded the Admiral, and everything seemed to come into sudden and sharp focus. It seemed that the enemy had finally shown their hand, and after days and even weeks of running away like scared little schoolgirls they had finally decided to make their move.
Taking a moment to look at the list of lost and damaged warships forwarded to them by the Destroyer, Wessex took a moment to be appalled before steeling himself for what was to come. This was the moment he had been waiting for all his life.
While he had been contemplating, the battle-seasoned Captain had not been idle.
“Shields, I want our shield power at 100% or I’ll know why—and I’ll get someone else to do your job,” Jenner barked before turning to another officer. “Tactical, get gunnery on the horn and tell them to be ready; I’ll be sending them targeting information. Helm, be ready to go to full burn on my mark. Damage control, tell your teams their moment to shine may come sooner than they expect. Comm., ready for an announcement to the lower deck.” He turned to encompass the bridge, fixing each of his department heads with a hard gaze in turn before saying, “We are at war, gentlemen.”
Wessex stood. “Message to the fleet, general hail,” he said sharply, “all units that can disengage are to fall back on the Flag. All units that cannot are to fight their ships. As far as those Captains who can fall back but feel that they need to stay and support another member of their squadron, they are to do so at their individual discretion unless specifically ordered to do otherwise,” Wessex declared.
The Comm. Officer nodded worked his console and then gave the Admiral a thumbs up to indicate the message had been sent.
“New message for Squadrons 1 and 2,” the Admiral continued implacably as he glared at the nearly two squadrons of enemy ships barreling down at them. It looked to be a mixed group of battleships and cruisers, “Stay on the Flag and prepare to receive the enemy.”
“Messages sent,” Com’s said after a short pause.
“Good,” Wessex said shortly and then eyed the Helm before turning to his flag captain, “Jenner, prepare to take this ship to maximum burn.”
“Destination, Sir?” the combat officer asked tightly.
“Those enemy battleships,” he replied.
“With pleasure, Admiral,” said the Captain.
The enemy appeared to have caught him out of position, not only his battleship squadrons but his forces in general. Well as they say every dog has his day and the local dogs appeared determined to snap at his heels. There was nothing he could do about that right at the moment. But soon he would show them the error of attempting to address the Reclamation Fleet from any position but on their knees.
Normal space mechanics, if nothing else, dictated that at their current speeds they’d only have time for a short engagement window before pulling away. After they pulled away, the battle would be on a more even footing. Then the discipline, training and superior technology of even these refitted, locally-built ships would seal the battle if mere numbers alone wouldn’t do the trick.
These locals were about to die—but not before they suffered for what they had done to his fleet.
Chapter Fifteen: A Smashing Success
“Sir, if you want to slow down in order to extend the engagement window, now would be the time, sir,” Hammer said, repeating herself in more ways than one.
“I thought you didn’t particularly want to risk a prolonged engagement with the enemy heavies, Captain,” I replied without censure.
Hammer flushed. It appeared that while I may have spoken without censure, my words might not have been taken that way.
“I am doing the best I know how to support you, Sir,” Hammer said, turning squarely to look at me. “That means that I give my advice before you make a decision and then I do my best to back you up and make that decision a success.”
I cocked my head. “An unusually enlightened opinion,” I said, genuinely impressed.
Hammer glared at me. “As your Flag Captain I, by design, play the Demon’s advocate. If something comes up later that would, in my opinion, significantly alter the situation it is my duty to inform you,” she continued hotly. “However, my duty and honor as an officer—”
I cut her off with a chop of my hand. “I’m not used to such unwavering support and was surprised by it, Captain. I was not attempting to question your professionalism; I was merely surprised,” I said forcefully.
“Of course, Sir,” she said neutrally while eyeing me before settling back watchfully. I could tell that she had a particularly fine trigger, but then I figured this was only to be expected.
I nodded, happy that this had been settled but was interrupted a moment later.
“Do you want to slow the ships and prolong the engagement, Admiral?” she finally asked after a prolonged moment.
I cocked a smile. “The battleships of this fleet have the means to prolong our engagement without a gradual slow-down that, at this point,” I paused to confirm by looking at the main screen and then nodded sharply, “would gain us mere seconds. Its time these Reclamationists felt our royal rage, Captain.”
“I am unfamiliar with a method that would allow us to prolong weapons contact with the enemy that does not involve slowing this ship,” she said.
“Then you’ve never heard of the Maneuver before,” I joked.
“Which maneuver is that? There is quite a list of them compiled in the database. Or is this something you’ve thought up on the spot all by yourself, Sir?” Hammer sounded irritated.
“It’s called the…” my mouth made a moue of distaste at the full stop maneuver’s official name, as coined by one Terrance Spalding, “Montagne Maneuver, and it doesn’t merely slow down a ship—it brings it to the next best thing to a full and complete stop in the matter of moments.”
Hammer took several moments to consider what I had just said and, at the end of it, looked like she’d swallowed something sour.
“I now recall reading something about your Maneuver in the after action report of the Second Battle for Tracto. I have to strongly advise against using untested technology that might backfire catastrophically, Admiral,” Captain Hammer warned.
“It’s not my maneuver; it was the creation of our former Chief Engineer and my Uncle. And it’s hardly untested, Leonora,” I grinned. “Besides, it’s part of the winning combination that’s been used by this fleet in the past.”
Lieutenant Commander Leonora Hammer shook her head. “I want to go on the record as opposed to this action in the strongest terms,” she replied after a moment of brow-wrinkled, furious thought.
“Noted for the record,” I said congenially, “that said, have Navigator…Brightenbauc, I believe it is, plot a course that will bring us smack dab between the two squadrons of enemy ships and have Lieutenant Steiner open a channel. Oh and Warrant Officer Blythe, if you can get ready to do the honors?” I asked, looking over at Damage Control pointedly.
“On it, Sir,” the Damage Control watch stander said with a nod as she turned back to her console.
“Admiral?” Hammer asked looking over at me sharply.
“Not now, Captain. I have a few things to say to the enemy—for the record,” I explained, baring my teeth.
“Channel open, Sir,” Comm. Officer Steiner said.
Captain Hammer gave me a frustrated look before turning and barking the orders to Brightenbauc.
I straightened in my chair and glared at the screen. “This is Vice Admiral Jason Montagne of the Confederation Fleet. You are in violation of Sovereign territory and your assembly exceeds the mandatory limits on fleet size for ships operating outside their home province territory. Strike your fusion generators and prepare to be boarded for, may Saint Murphy guard your souls, I most assuredly will not,” I said, speaking in a clipped voice. I then paused and allowed a wild look to enter my eye, deliberately hamming it up for the holo-pick up, “And just on the off-chance that this illegal pirate force of yours is headed by a man known to the galaxy as Arnold Janeski, I’ve got just one thing to say to you: come on out and fight, you backstabbing butcher! Or have you added ‘craven’ to your list of accolades since last we met?”
I motioned for the Lieutenant to cut the com-channel, and as soon as she’d done so I wiped my expression clean. I quickly resumed the role of competent and self-assured Flag Officer—an act which, truth be told, was becoming decreasingly difficult the longer I practiced it.
There was silence on the bridge and I could feel the sense of hesitation from our newest Confederation bridge officers and crew.
“Are you sure that provoking the enemy like that was wise, Admiral?” Hammer asked. “A legal argument against a superior foe, followed by an…off-balanced demand that they come out and fight, along with a direct insult to their potential leader?”
“I came across as unbalanced?” I asked, feeling quite pleased at her evaluation of my performance. “That’s good. I can only hope they think the same. But,” I frowned, determined to make a point, “as far as provoking the enemy, why exactly should I care? I want to provoke them. I want to make him or her angry; angry people make mistakes. Don’t worry, it’s all part of the plan.”
“So you do have a plan, other than charging into the middle of a superior force and hoping things go our way when the dice fall?” Hammer remarked sharply.
I felt a stab of anger. “This is a barren system with no civilian targets to worry about, and it’s not exactly like we’re out here for tea and crumpets, Lieutenant Commander,” I said harshly. “We are here to stop these Reclamationists from conquering yet another key world of this Sector. So yes, personally I hope the enemy commander gets angry. I hope he gets furious and so worked up that he can’t think straight. Enemy officers are much easier to deal with when they are not calm and calculating. And, as I already said, angry people also have a tendency to make genocidal attacks on civilian targets—as the man I referenced has done—but we don’t have to fear that here,” I finished, more than happy to smear Janeski in front of my new crew and at the same time build up the image of a man they wouldn’t like but would actively fear allowing within orbital range of an inhabited world. It would almost certainly make things easier on me not if, but when, the new crew started to have serious concerns about my leadership.
I mean, I hoped deep down in my heart that this new crew would not attempt to follow the path of their predecessors under my command and not actually turn against me. But if there was one thing I’d learned in my time as a Fleet Commander, it was that hard decisions had to be made and someone was always unhappy with either the results or the method used to get those results. As such, someone else—probably someone they knew and sympathized with deeply—would greatly desire to put a knife in my back or throw me in the brig. Or possibly both.
As such, it was my duty to make the job of any such would be mutineers as hard as it could possibly be. All of which did nothing to negate the fact that as far as I was concerned Arnold Janeski really was a right blighter on the personal level. This in addition to being an officer who willingly—perhaps even eagerly—slaughtered thousands when he attacked my home world from orbit.
I finally realized I was being stared at by a furiously red-faced Leonora Hammer.
“You, Sir, go too far,” she said harshly. “I formally request a private channel.”
“Do I?” I asked, lifting my eyebrows and activating the private channel. I waited until it was active on both sides before looking at her and nodded, “Feel free to speak your mind.”
“Tea and crumpets? Acting as if every valid concern that is raised in your presence is only done so because of an inherently timorous nature—if not outright cowardice in the face of the enemy by the officers who raise the issue?!” Hammer ranted. “Blast it, Admiral, you insult me as an Officer, as a woman, and as a citizen of this Confederation when you all but call me a coward and insinuate that I’d rather spend my time with pursuits such as taking tea with the other non-combatant women when we’re still in the middle of a battle! And I’m not the only one you’ve treated this way. Are you purposely trying to alienate the rest of your command team in the middle of a warzone?”
“Said what you needed to?” I asked strictly.
“For now,” she replied hotly.
“Alright then. First off, I’d like to apologize for failing to invite you over for my weekly spot of tea and crumpets. If I had, perhaps this specific issue wouldn’t have come up. I wasn’t aware that taking tea was a gender specific pastime with negative connotations as it pertains to warfare. You see, back on my home world of Capria tea is a gender neutral pastime. As you may have deduced from the fact I take tea even in the height of a battle to help instill confidence in and among the crew, my people have a tradition of maintaining the social amenities—even while under fire. Furthermore—” I continued only to be cut off.
“Respectfully: blast the tea, Sir,” Hammer cut in, “we don’t have time for a discourse on comparative sociology right now!”
“Then lock it down and prepare for what you are about receive, Captain,” I snapped and pointed at the screen which clearly showed we were moments away from our attack run.
“Yes, Sir,” she said in frustration.
“Are you ready to give a performance that our latest guests inside this star system won’t soon forget, Ms. Blythe?” I asked calmly.
“Ready to knock their socks off on your command, Sir,” Blythe said the faintest hint of a smile.
“Tell the Chief Gunner the time is now, and that he is to be grateful for what he is about to receive, Mr. Hart,” I instructed the ship’s Tactical Officer.
“Done, Sir,” the Senior Lieutenant said, and then added after he’d relayed the message, “and the Chief said to tell you that he loves a target rich environment.”
“Mr. DuPont, you’ve done this before; I’ll be counting on you to pick the right moment,” I said, reaching down to strap myself in and then take a good hold of the arms of my chair.
“Not a problem, Admiral. We’ll show this latest batch of pirates why you don’t mess with the MSP!” he replied.
“Give the order, Comm.!” I exclaimed as it looked like we were almost on top of the enemy battleships. “And tell the Droids to strafe the enemy battleships as they pass and then when they’re free to do whatever they feel like so long as it’s toward the confusion and ruination of our mutual enemy!”
“Shields up to one hundred and ten percent, Admiral,” Longbottom cried.
“That’s where it’s supposed to be, Ensign,” Blythe said, projecting the aura of an unnaturally calm oasis in the midst of a stormy sea.
“Enemy ships have turned to present broadsides and are opening fire!” reported Lieutenant Hart.
“Admiral, I’m not liking the fluctuations I’m seeing the shield generators and hyper dish; it’s not too late to cancel this and continue on with a standard attack run,” Hammer urged. “Remember that the last ship to use this maneuver almost blew out her shield generators and splattered the crew against the bulkheads when the grav-plates fluctuated,” she added rapidly. “Thank you for that particular bit of morale-building, Captain, but I was there when the last ship used this Maneuver—I even read the after action reports,” I bit out. “We carry on.”
Looking at the screen, I didn’t remember getting this close to the enemy battleships before activating the Montagne Maneuver. A second after that realization I was sure we’d gone too far.
“Now, Mr. DuPont!” I barked, unwilling to wait to find out just what exactly he thought he was doing. We were going too far, too fast. Had the Helmsman caught whatever was afflicting the Confederals among us?
“Just a bit longer,” DuPont said.
“Blast it, man, I’m giving you an order,” I shouted.
“Spalding made some adjustments before he—” DuPont started and then slapped a button on his console causing, the ship to lurch beneath us.
I held onto the arms of my chair and suppressed a yelp as the Royal Rage bucked and writhed underneath us and the lights dimmed.
“Shield generators are going critical—they can’t take the strain,” shouted Longbottom, while at the same time the Motherships alongside us seemed to move forward increasingly faster. I knew it was only our own pace starting to slow that caused the illusion, but it sure seemed like they began to leap ahead.
Moments later the Motherships opened fire on the first line of enemy battleships and promptly adjusted course as if to try and move aside from them.
An elephant jumped on my chest and then grew gorilla arms and tried to tear me out of the chair and break me in two as, for a single instant, the ceiling suddenly became the floor and then went right back to being the ceiling again.
“We’ve got to shut it off!” shouted Brightenbauc.
“No! The grav-fluctuations would kill us all,” cried Blythe as the Motherships on the screen started to take more and more fire from the enemy. A trio of turbo-laser beams seemed to punch right through the side of a beleaguered Mothership as the trio of droid-controlled ships made their closest pass to the enemy before starting to pull away.
“As soon as we have a target, order the Chief Gunner to fire as she bears,” I commanded in an increasingly strangled voice.
The Tactical officer grabbed his microphone and started relaying my orders while holding on for dear life.
“Making final adjustment now,” DuPont yelled in an increasingly tense voice.
****************************************************
The image of the upstart little Admiral finally disappeared from the screen.
“The hubris of those living in this region of space is quite staggering. Wouldn’t you agree, Jenner?” Wessex asked, his face rigid as he wondered if the little brown monkey yapping on the screen had really believed what he had said or had simply done so in an attempt to provoke a response. Well, the cretin would get a response alright—just not the one he had so obviously been attempting to illicit.
“Communication from Commodore Bruneswitch for the Admiral,” interrupted the Comm. officer, saving Jenner from a response.
Wessex scowled, “Put it through.”
“Admiral, I hope that you are about to treat this Spineward cur the way he deserves,” the Commodore said, his face so red he looked practically apoplectic. “Not only have they attacked us from ambush but now they have the temerity to malign the Admiral? Such gall is not to be born lightly!”
The screen cleared at that. “That was the message, Admiral,” reported the Comm. Officer.
“Recorded, I see,” Wessex fumed. If Bruneswitch had channeled a mere tithe of that outrage into defending the fleet’s emergence point from these rubes then Wessex wouldn’t have arrived to see half his fleet in ruins! And yet the Commodore continued to speak as if he were not at fault—and, what’s more, he carried on about the Admiral as if there were only one in the Reclamation Fleet.
Not that the other man was incorrect; Arnold Janeski was the head of the organization and the only one that had the backing of the Senate—or at least the key elements in it that backed the Spineward reclamation plan—but even so! Openly saying such a thing in the hearing of your commanding officer simply wasn’t done.
“Yes sir,” the Comm. Officer replied.
“Send a text only message informing the Commodore that I will be sure to treat the upstart the way he deserves, and that I expect his after action report in my inbox one hour after the conclusion of this battle!” he growled.
“Relaying message, sir,” replied the Officer.
“Of all the pigheaded, stubborn officers I’ve had to work with…” Wessex cursed under his breath.
In the middle of venting his anger at not only Bruneswitch, but the entire situation he had arrived to find himself in, he looked up at the screen and his brow quickly furrowed. It seemed that not only did these local Confederation idiots think they could freely insult their betters, but they also failed to understand the reality of the modern battlefield. Their course and speed plainly showed they were now attacking a vastly superior force with an inferior one.
“What do those fools think they’re doing by charging a superior force? We have the numbers and weight of metal on our side, to say nothing of the tech advantage,” Admiral Wessex shook his head in bewilderment at the screen, “and look, they’re not even trying to slow down.”
“Even if they’ve heard about our better shields and lasers, they might not believe it,” Jenner pointed out far too rationally. “They probably intend a high-speed pass to do what damage they can and test both our beams and defenses. It’s not a bad call, just not a winning one. With the throw weight so heavily in our favor I don’t know that there is anything better they could try to do. If I were them, I wouldn’t be coming in this fast; I’d at least try to punch a few shots through our shields if possible, even if I couldn’t do any real damage.”
“First they think that guessing our Fleet Commander’s name and insulting him will in some way cause us to abandon these Sectors to the sort of barbarism, tyranny and suppression of human rights we’ve observed in the other Sectors we’ve reclaimed. Now they attempt to prove their complete and utter ineffectiveness with a high-speed pass doomed to failure—unless failure and an escape past the hyper limit is their intent,” Wessex sneered.
“If they truly believe they are a Confederation fleet, perhaps they feel it is their duty,” said his Flag Captain.
“The Confederation has been nothing more than a paper panther for the past three decades,” Wessex scoffed, “anyone who believes otherwise either sits on the Grand Assembly and dreams of days gone past, or is a fool.”
Looking at the screen the Admiral judged it was about time to open their gun-ports.
“Message to both squadrons: present sides and shoot those backstabbing rustics out of my skies,” he said coldly. “Start with the Cruisers and finish with those Battleships. A two day furlough to any ship that bags me one of those ships. They might not be in engagement range for very long, but I want them to know the touch of the Servants of Man!”
In an aside, he turned to the Captain.
“If they’ll only refrain from running away, we should be able to make short work of them,” he said.
“Never underestimate the enemy, sir,” Jenner warned mildly. “That said, you’re probably right about a quick run to the hyper limit. Maybe they want to assuage their honor by being able to say they not only hit us hard, but that their battleships exchanged blow for blow with ours before withdrawing?”
“Who can fathom the mind of such rustics,” Rear Admiral Wessex mocked bitterly. Why had he stopped to dress the ranks of his ships for a controlled short jump? If he hadn’t done it this time, the Battleships would have been the first to arrive on the scene and not the last after all of his lighter ships had been attacked!
“Certainly not I, Sir,” Jenner replied evenly.
“Let them have their clash of arms and high-speed pass. We’ll chase them to Hart’s World and route them there at a place they have to hold. If they continue to run all the way to the local Sector Capitol—this ‘Central’ of theirs—and even so far as all the way around Orion’s Belt if we have to. No one hammers my fleet like this and gets away with it,” Wessex said, his eyes burning and the thought of what the losses his Task Force had taken could do to his career unless he put the finish on these rustics and the ‘Core World’ they were fighting so hard to defend.
Calling Hart’s World a Core World was like calling the wife of a Senator a member of the Imperial Senate. Such an entity might just possibly be able to affect Senate policy by borrowing the power of another, but did not possess such standing on the entity’s own merits. They were close to such power true, and could effect it but were not yet, if ever, of such a station. In the same fashion it was simple aggrandizement of those out here in the middle of nowhere, with an overinflated sense of self-importance that dared lay claim to Core World status when they clearly fell far short of such.
“If they’re playing the part of a Confederation Fleet, they might let Hart’s World burn rather than face our righteous and well justified….” Jenner stopped mid-sentence, his head craning around as he turned to look at the screen.
Wessex started to snap his fingers under the nose of the Flag Captain when Jenner failed to report on whatever it was that had taken his attention. Then the Admiral paused and squinted for himself at the screen depicting the enemy Battleships.
“Why are the cruisers picking up speed?” he asked with surprise.
“The cruisers aren’t speeding up; the Battleships are slowing down,” Jenner replied. “But I see no indications they are using their engines to do it.”
The Admiral frowned and then came back to himself.
“It doesn’t appear to be a significant speed reduction,” he rolled his eyes, “stay focused on the moment at hand, man. We’re only going to have a short window here.”
“I apologize, Sir,” Jenner said, appropriately shame-faced.
“Think nothing of it,” Wessex said with a faint smile, unable to help the small part inside him that was gloating at the line officer’s discomfort. It was nice to see his subordinate lose his composure every once in a while. It helped to make him seem more human.
With eagerness, Wessex watched as the first of the enemy Cruisers took damage, forcing them to divert. Then the enemy Battleships arrived and began to take fire as they charged straight at his formation.
“Tell gunnery to fire at will and ready the starboard side for when they pass,” Wessex said shaking his head as he saw the rustics weren’t even firing anything at his squadrons. He relaxed fractionally when he saw that the shields of his ships were fully charged. At worst, they’d only have to deal with a few shots as the enemy passed them by.
However, the next moment his smile froze on his face only to be replaced with a look of disbelief.
****************************************************
With a forward lurch, the ship came to an abrupt rest and slid in between the two rows of enemy battleships. Stacked in a standard wall of battle formation, the two squadrons were stacked four in a line, one row on top of the other, with the individual ships lined up nose to tail.
In short: we had the hind ends of two ships to our port side and the noses of two more to starboard.
For two seconds, an unnatural silence filled the bridge as everyone realized they were still alive. Then the sudden silence was broken by the moans of a yeoman and cries of several bridge members who hadn’t properly secured themselves.
“Fire as she bears, Mr. Hart!” I roared, returning to myself in that exact instant and realizing we needed to pour it on if we were going to survive this trap we’d willingly thrown ourselves in the middle of. “Don’t stop until our focusing arrays melt down!”
“Medic!” called out an assistant sensor operator.
“The first volley was set to automatic, Admiral,” Hart coughed as the main screen seemed to explode with colorful lines of fire crisscrossing every which way. “We’re on it, Sir. And, by the way: beam arrays overheat and shatter, not melt, Sir.”
“I’m well aware of that, Lieutenant. Now focus on your duties and belay the terminology corrections!” I snapped.
“If that’s what you call ‘improved performance’ over the last time you did this maneuver then you can count me out for next one,” Hammer coughed, sagging to the side in her chair for a moment as if her ribs hurt. She then straightened herself with a fire in her eye that told me she was ready for the fight.
Shaking my head, I glanced over at the Captain and then back to the main screen. “It wasn’t quite that rough last time we did this, I think the process still needs some work,” I grunted eyes never leaving the screen. Even though we had four battleships and they had eight, being at the front of the enemy line the Royal Rage was surrounded by four enemy battleships. Two had their sterns nicely pointed toward us, and another pair showed us their bows.
I clenched my fist as fire lanced out from both sides of the Rage striking the enemy shields at close range.
“Take that, you bloodsucking Imperials,” I swore with delight.
The situation began to change as the Reclamation battleships started to lite off their engines and go to full burn for evasive maneuvers.
“You think? At least we’re not all dead,” the Captain replied to my earlier comment and then her head shot around. “I don’t care about damage to the secondary power systems unless it affects performance, Lieutenant! Fix it and make it work or find a workaround—that’s what we have Damage Control for,” she snapped, speaking to someone off-screen.
“Trouble?” I asked the Captain with concern but she have a negative shake of her head so I let it go.
“We came out lined up almost perfectly behind the rears of the first row; we’re perfectly set up for up the stern shots,” Lieutenant Hart crowed, even as the enemy battleships started to swivel in space and a deluge of fire erupted from both sides of the Rage. All up and down the line, other members the MSP squadron slammed volleys of fire into the sterns of the enemy warships.
The Rage’s gun decks continued to hammer away into the shields of the enemy ship to port, and shortly afterwards an explosion rocked the image on the main screen as our fire punched straight through the enemy’s stern shields.
“What was that?” I asked in disbelief and growing excitement. I looked like we’d punched through that ship’s shields much faster than I’d originally projected!
“The droids hit that ship with their antimatter-pumped lasers on the way past; they must have knocked their shields down to almost nothing on that facing!” Hart exclaimed, a fiercely exuberant expression on his face as a Sensor officer called out a report that the enemy battleship had just lost its shields to a cascade failure—along with its main engine.
“Excellent work, Lieutenant,” I exclaimed, “keep at it and keep up the pressure!” I turned to the helm and pounded the arm of my char, “Don’t let the other one get away, Mr. DuPont.” I was well aware of the second ship in front of us desperately trying to throw off our aim, “I want our guns locked onto their six even if it exposes us to fire from the rest of the enemy battleships! We can’t let it escape.”
“On it, Admiral,” DuPont replied happily.
“Shields down to 72% and 47% on port and starboard facings,” Longbottom cut in nervously.
“Single out a dozen and a half heavy lasers and have them switch to aimed shots at the secondary engines of Target One,” Lieutenant Hart instructed one of his assistant Tactical Officers before picking up the microphone at his desk. “General order: all gunners and turrets not specifically assigned to Target One are to switch over to Target Two!”
Hart paused a moment.
“Blast it, man, what happened to our shields? We’ve hardly been hit,” I demanded over the rising hubbub.
“Turbo-lasers and all remaining heavies except the twelve designated are to shift over to Target Two instantly or I’ll know the reason why,” the Tactical Officer roared, spit flying from his mouth as pulled the microphone so close to his lips I absentmindedly wondered about a feedback squeal on the other end.
“Sorry, Sir! The Montagne Maneuver drained the Shield banks and we started taking fire from starboard,” Longbottom called out.
“Blast it; keep those shield up,” I snapped, turning back to take in the battle raging across the main screen. Seeing another engine—one of the secondaries—explode and begin spewing plasma out into cold space from a series of ruptured lines, I cheered. “We’ve got them right where we want them boys!” I shouted.
The bridge crew cheered as the third and final engine on the first enemy battleship was holed.
“Take out their engines and they’re nothing but sitting ducks!” I proclaimed excitedly. If I could keep the enemy stuck in one place then I could come to extreme range and take them apart one by one. Or I could even send in the Lancers. Anything was possible if we could only take out those engines!
“Enemy warship to our starboard side is turning to present its broadsides,” reported Captain Hammer reported in a clinical voice. “Perhaps you should focus on the squadron as a whole and let the Captain fight her ship, Admiral.”
“Knock ‘em dead, Lieutenant Commander,” I said, immediately turning to pull up a view of the local battle-space and take in the current situation.
Druid and the Armor Prince was the last ship in line. I had wanted another combat veteran there at the tail end of this lash-up just in case everything went to pot. While he may not have been the sharpest tool in the box seeing as how he’d lost the Parliamentary Power, he had proven during the Battle for Elysium that if you put him in the middle of a slugfest he didn’t have a lot of quit in him.
Next to Druid was now-Captain Eastwood in command of Messene’s Shield, the ship captured by Akantha during First Elysium. Finally, the Rage’s immediate squadron mate on the other side of a pair of enemy battleships—which were even now turning to cut loose their broad sides on us—was the Battleship I’d traded the droids for and subsequently renamed the Metal Titan, captained by Druid’s former First Officer.
“Get me Lieutenant Commander Jackson on the line,” I barked, looking at the icon representing the Metal Titan.
“The interference is too heavy for a visual link, Admiral Montagne,” Lieutenant Steiner reported, “best I can do for you is audio and they might try to squelch that. I can send an encrypted text, if you’d like, since I’m sure that will go through.”
“Open the voice channel and transcribe a voice to text message for the Metal Titan,” I rapped out quickly.
“Putting you through now,” said Steiner, on the ball as usual.
“This is Quentin Jackson of the Metal Titan, who am I speaking to?” interrupted the rough voice of the Lieutenant Commander in command of the other ship before I could actually begin dictating the message.
“I need you to stop one of those battleships between the Titan and the Flagship from turning to present her broadside,” I said without preamble.
“Admiral, we’ve damaged our primary target’s main engine but—” Captain Jackson started.
“By any means necessary, Captain!” I cut him off. “Make it happen. Neither of our ships needs to be caught in a two, three, or four-way broadside. I’m counting on you, Captain!”
There was a short pause. “Aye, Admiral. Titan on the rampage; we’ll get it done,” Captain Jackson said and cut the channel.
I turned back to see that the Royal Rage’s second target was still trying to bring her full broadside to bear and the shields on the facing nearest us was still up around the 50% mark.
“Captain Hammer, what’s the hold-up on Target Two? Put her engines in the ground before this becomes a slugfest. We need to put our two in the bag and move back to assist the Titan,” I snapped.
“DuPont is keeping us away from more than half their broadside and allowing us to keep a bead on her rear facing. But unlike Target One, Target Two had full shields upon our arrival, Sir. It’s taking time,” she reported.
“Time you don’t have, Lieutenant Commander,” my voice cracked like a whip. “I want that ship stopped and I want it done now! Put her out of action, Hammer, or I’ll find someone who can. Beams, marines, or sour cream—I don’t care how you do it just get it done, just make it happen.”
Hammer glared at me.
I was asking the improbable, if not the outright impossible, but this was ‘sink or swim’ time. If she didn’t want me taking over ‘her’ battleship then Leonora Hammer was going to have to show me what she could do.
“Aye aye, we’ll get it done for you, Sir,” she bit out turning back to her bridge.
“Not for me, Captain. For everyone out there whose dying while we chop Target Two down to size,” I declared with clenched teeth.
****************************************************
“Victorious Alignment and Norfolk both report their engines destroyed and the North Hampton reports they’re down to their last secondary, Admiral!” cried the Comm. Officer.
“Tell Pyramid to provide cover fire for the North Hampton along with the Flagship,” Wessex said, unable to believe that the Liberation of Persecution, his flagship, was the only ship of Squadron One that still had engines and mostly full shields. Or, rather, he was unable to believe that the enemy had suddenly stopped on a dime and blew out the engines of the other three in a handful of minutes.
“Enemy battleship to port is maneuvering to knock out the North Hampton’s engines while enemy to starboard is attempting to delay us with a full out attack!” reported Flag Captain Jenner.
“How does a battleship just suddenly stop like that?” Wessex raged. “How?!”
“Clearly our fleet is not the only one with a tech advantage,” Jenner said bitterly.
“Pour it on, Captain, and someone tell Squadron Two that they are to take the fight to the enemy. I may have just lost my command thanks to these rubes but I’ll see them in the Pit before today is over—every last one of them,” Wessex said frothing at the mouth.
He might have been able to make up for his previous losses by blaming subordinates and overcoming adversity with a speedy and complete victory over the enemy here, followed by the conquest of Hart’s World. But after the way the enemy had just shot out the engines of two of his battleships—and looked to shortly finish a third—he knew there was no hope.
This would probably be his last line command, but before he was recalled he was going to destroy these rubes.
“Link our fire with any available ships and kill them!” Wessex barked with rage. “Flaming atoms, but this fleet will not be defeated by a pack of brown monkeys. Not on my watch!”
****************************************************
Looking at the screen I could see that, in no small part thanks to the droids weakening their shields, three of the enemy battleships had lost all engine power and were basically down the maneuvering thrusters.
It seemed that after knocking out the engines of his first enemy ship, Target Five, Eastwood was determined to go broadside to broadside with the battleship in the enemy’s second squadron line, which I was designating Target Six. Eastwood was acting as if his shield-strong battleship was actually armor-strong, and was using his slight maneuverability advantage to the hilt but for some reason I wasn’t surprised. That man had always liked to get in close and pound the enemy into scrap.
Druid had also neutralized one of his opponents, not that this was surprising considering the fact he was commanding the Armor Prince. I knew that battleship and she was as strong—or stronger—than anything else he was likely to face out there. Ignoring the fire from his recently crippled opponent, he too was going head to head with his second target.
On the other hand, the Metal Titan and Captain Jackson were struggling as the pair of enemy warships, Targets Three and Four, which were still fully functional had busied themselves by vigorously pounding away at Jackson’s shields. The enemy ships had already completed a full turn and were slamming broadsides out in both directions as if their lives depended on it…which, in all likelihood, they probably did.
“Get me Captain Jackson on the line,” I demanded, anger liberally applied to disguise my growing concern. Even if I was no longer mono-focused on the Royal Rage, I could still hear the litany of falling shield reports in the background.
“I can’t get a hold of him, Admiral,” Steiner reported sounding put out, “the Titan’s Comm. Officer says the Captain’s too busy to talk.”
“Blast it all—” I started, only to be cut off.
“Metal Titan is coming about,” exclaimed the Sensor Officer, “she’s on course to go right between the bow and stern of the Targets Three and Four if they don’t move, Admiral!”
My fingers itched to be doing something. I wanted nothing more than to call the shots and give direct play-by-play orders to Captain Jackson and his command. I might have actually done so if he hadn’t done anything more than tried to win a two on one slug fest, but instead I settled back in my chair.
I had to let the Captain of the Metal Titan command his own ship…at least until after he was proven incompetent.
“Enemy battleships focusing fire on the Rage,” Hart yelped as four battleships, including both ships under attack by the Metal Titan, opened fire on the Rage.
“Shields down to 32% to port and 18% to starboard,” Longbottom reported in a high voice, “we have severe spotting to port and punch through to starboard. The starboard shields are starting to collapse!”
“Balance shields as best you can but sacrifice the starboard for the port if you have to, Mr. Longbottom,” Hammer ordered.
“Keep our port side aimed at the engines of Target Two, Helmsman,” I commanded as the enemy battleship pivoted its rear out and away, “straight at those engines as if you’re life depends on it, Mr. DuPont!”
“Aye, Admiral,” DuPont said.
“Starboard generator overloaded. It’s going into an automated shut down routine, Captain!” Longbottom yelled.
“Enemy lasers have degraded our starboard sensors by 20% and rising,” the Sensor Officer reported as heavy lasers and turbo-lasers from the pair of enemy battleships pounded the reinforced Duralloy II armor of our starboard side.
“We have burn-through on starboard airlock 16; damage contained by automatic emergency bulkheads,” reported Blythe.
“Those engines, Mr. Hart!” I roared, lunging out of my chair.
“Our main dish just took a hit,” Brightenbauc said with panic in his voice, “multiple hits! I don’t want to risk a jump until after a repair team has had time to evaluate and make emergency repairs.”
“We can worry about our hyper capability after this battle, Mr. Brightenbauc,” I barked.
“Our starboard side is being torn to pieces, Captain. We need to roll the ship,” advised Damage Control.
“The Chief Gunner begs the Captain’s indulgence for just one more minute and promises you’ll like the results,” Lieutenant Hart cut in. “But I have to agree with Damage Control: we need to turn before they hit something vital like our overheated shield generator.”
“Prepare to roll the ship,” growled Hammer.
“Belay that, Captain,” I said firmly, “give the Chief Gunner his minute.”
Hammer turned to give me an angry look. Although we’d succeeded at most everything I’d hoped for, going into this our ships were getting smashed. Something needed to break our way and I was ready to roll the dice on the Chief Gunner.
Chapter Sixteen: Resonating on the Gun deck
Superheated fluid spurted into the air and an emergency bulkhead slammed down before the entire heavy laser crew could jump clear.
Lesner winced and looked away as a man was cut in half but still kept screaming. Batting and clawing, the third and fourth degree burns covered him as that fluid splashed face—and eyes.
It was a grim enough sight to turn a man’s stomach—even a seasoned veteran’s. But unfortunately he had more important things to do than care for his injured men. The ship was caught in a heavy crossfire and one thing was clear: so far they’d gotten off surprisingly easy. The improved duralloy was proving worth its weight in trillium, and turned out not to be just as another one of Spalding’s pet pipe dreams. Even with the shields down he had lost fewer than half the beam mounts he’d have expected.
Stomping over to a turbo-laser mount, he slapped the gunner on the shoulder. “New orders,” he screamed over the terrible din of screaming men and the shrieking, overheated laser turrets and focusing arrays, “we go to volley fire. All turbo-lasers on the portside are to fire-link for a simultaneous strike on these coordinates.”
“It’ll slow down the rate of fire,” the Gunner shouted, twisting around in his chair in order to be heard over the noise, “we can wear down their shields faster if we keep hammering as fast as we can, Chief.”
Chief Lesner shook his head. “The shields are too heavy; they’re tougher than anything I’ve seen and they’re regenerative. There’s no way they’re operating off of just two massive generators like the Dreadnaught class; they’ve got to have at least six overlapping generators, so any single beam won’t punch through in one shot and destabilize the rest of the shield arc like it would for us. They’ve always got two other generators with overlapping coverage to take up the slack when one starts to heat up or run down on power. I think we’re seeing the wave of the future—if only we had that tech,” Lesner said, pounding a fist into the back of the other gunner’s chair in frustration. “Bloody Imperials and their blasted tech advantage.”
“Just tell us what to do, Chief. We’ll backstop you,” said the mount’s assistant gunner, and the gunner beside him nodded.
“I know we haven’t done it before, but that’s why I’m going to link in those new short range plasma cannons the Chief Engineer installed before we left Gambit. We used them on the Phoenix for point defense, and while they won’t punch through a shield on their own—even in volley form—they don’t have to. If we can get a resonance field set up across all three generators covering their stern, and if they’re all hit at the same time, it won’t matter if they’re able to overlap and share power coverage,” Lesner explained, baring his teeth fiercely. “Smaller generators like that just can’t cope with a whole blasted broadside at the same time, and the plasma cannons’ll play merry hob with their overlapping coverage!”
Slapping out a series of requests for confirmation orders on his data-slate, the Chief Gunner grinned as the last of the confirmations came in.
Holding his slate up to his mouth, he set it to broadcast over every one of the linked gun mounts.
“Prepare to fire in five seconds at time four-eight and blow these Imperial bastards to kingdom come…” the Chief Gunner called out. When the time elapsed, he bellowed, “FIRE!”
Chapter Seventeen: Wessex on the Edge
“Curse these,” Admiral Wessex swore, “just how many shots does it take to punch through a duralloy hull?! If this was crystal mono-locsium, I could understand, but mere metal? Their shields are down!”
“It’s stronger than expected but it doesn’t matter how tough their hull is; we’re getting punch-though, so it’s only a matter of time,” Senior Captain Jenner said stoically.
“Sir!” exclaimed the ship’s Tactical Officer. “The enemy battleship to our starboard side is moving to pass between us and the Dark Matter Influx, they’re going to try and target our engines again.”
“Maneuver the ship to avoid,” Admiral Wessex snapped.
“If we do that we’ll have to take our fire off of the battleship pressing the North Hampton,” Jenner observed.
Wessex slammed his fist into the arm of his chair. “Fight your ship, Captain,” he said harshly.
Jenner nodded. “Evasive maneuvers, Mr. Portobello, if you please,” said the Flag Captain.
“With pleasure, Sir,” said the ship’s helmsman.
“Sir, it’s the North Hampton!” cried the chief sensor officer.
“What?” Wessex’ head whipped around.
“The enemy just volley fired their turbo-lasers and some kind light weight weaponry the computer is identifying as plasma balls intended for point defense,” the Sensor Officer said.
“Well, what is it, man? What happened to the North Hampton?” Wessex demanded, pulling up the current status of the North Hampton and falling back in his chair. The Hampton was listing its last engine as presumed destroyed pending a visual verification by a repair team. With all three of her engines down for the count, the N.H. had just gone from an asset to a battlefield liability until a repair team to get to work on her engines.
“Captain Jenner, I want that battleship blown to flaming atoms. Do you hear me? Completely and utterly destroyed,” Wessex raged, “we will not stop until every last one of these—”
“Enemy vessel is not maneuvering to pass. She’s trying to ram!” screamed the ship’s Tactical Officer.
“Full burn, Helm!” shouted Jenner moments before the Metal Titan, in all her majesty, slammed into the Liberation of Persecution’s shields.
The ship jolted like a hover-car rear-ended by another, and the bridge’s power supply flickered, briefly died, and then returned at full force.
“What in Man?!” Wessex cried.
Chapter Eighteen: Hot Pursuit
The bridge had cheered when the Rage’s gun deck, under the command of a certain Chief Gunner, punched through the enemy shields and knocked out her last engine. But when the Metal Titan punched bow-first into the shields covering the rear of Target Three, overloading them to the point they broke, there was dead silence on the bridge.
“Dear space gods,” Captain Hammer said, a hand instinctively moving to cover her mouth as the Titan jolted a good nine degrees off target due to the impact of hitting and collapsing the enemy shields. The Titan’s own shields had obviously been destroyed by the impact.
One of the Titan’s engines sputtered and died as it careened off from the impact, but despite the dying engine and the atmosphere streaming from several ruptures in the hull, the Metal Titan continued her stately progression. When Captain Jackson’s ship came even with the stern of Target Three, she opened fire.
Serving as a testament to both the ruggedness of the battleship class in general, as well as the severe damage Metal Titan had taken hitting those shields, a little less than half the battleship’s broadside slammed into the now fully-exposed stern of Target Three.
The bridge cheered.
“Yeah!” cried a yeoman.
“Pour it on, Titan,” said Hart, clenching his fist.
“They did it, Sir,” Hammer said, looking over at me with gleaming eyes.
“He went on the rampage, alright. Instead of Captain Quentin Jackson, I guess we’ll all just have to start calling him Captain Rampage,” I said, allowing my own elation to show. For the first time since we’d initiated the Maneuver and gone head to head with a superior force of enemy battleships, I allowed myself to feel that we were actually doing this. We were going head to head with these Reclamationists—Imperials by any other name, if my suspicions were correct—and coming out ahead.
With that, we had just disabled five enemy battleships or their engines at least. That was the better part of two squadrons or eight battle ships knocked down. Assuming we could finish the other three without being knocked out ourselves, they would be in the same position as the Bug Mothership during Second Tracto, or like the Sector 23 battleships were with the Conformity Droids during the Battle for Elysium. We could win this thing!
That was the very moment I realized just how down and negative my thinking had turned after the constant nay-saying and ‘can’t do’ attitude I had been forced to deal with, courtesy of my new command team. Well, not entirely new. I did have a few holdovers. And not all of them were totally negative, but it was only now that I realized how much I had subconsciously allowed them to impact my thinking.
My face hardened. I was used to breaking in new members of my command team and opposition was nothing new. But I’d probably allowed the fact that they were honest to goodness Confederation Officers affect me more than I should have.
Yes, they had superior training. But in the end if you weren’t willing to use that training or, even if willing, didn’t have the vision to do so in the face of adversity, it didn’t mean as much as it should have.
The Titan finished its pass of Target Three, but appeared to be having difficulty turning.
“Incoming call from the Metal Titan, Admiral!” said Lieutenant Steiner.
“Put it through,” I instructed.
“Titan reports the engines of Target Three are eliminated but we’re now having some trouble with our maneuvering thrusters, Admiral,” the Captain of the Metal Titan said, a light in his eye and the jut of his jaw challenging me to say something derogatory.
Fortunately, I was too wise to step into that pitfall—and too grateful as well.
“Good work, Captain Rampage. You tell your team from me the Metal Titan’s done a fine job,” I said, giving the other man a look of respect and noted the look that flickered across his eyes. I was guessing it was surprise but I couldn’t be sure. Whatever the emotion, it was nice to know I wasn’t the only one able to pull crazy desperate maneuvers out of the hat if that’s what it took to win, “We’ll take it from here. You take whatever time you need to get those thrusters back under control before rejoining us.”
Jackson pursed his lips, almost as if disappointed, and then like a fighter hoping to find a fight and disappointed when no one accepted his challenge, he smirked.
“The Metal Titan’s not done yet, Sir. We’ll be along directly,” he vowed, reaching down to cut the two way com-connection with a chop.
While we’d been talking, Captain Leonora Hammer had rolled the Royal Rage and turned to face enemy battleship; the still elusive number 4 battleship and placed our still functioning shields between us and her.
“Disabled warships continuing to target our unshielded port side,” reported Lieutenant Hart the Tactical Officer, “we’ve lost a number of laser mounts.”
“Give me numbers,” Hammer said tersely.
“An estimated 67% of our portside lasers are still effective, compared to over 80% on the starboard. This is according to combination of verbal confirmation and automated reports,” Hart explained tensely just as the ship shuddered under another barrage of hits. “For better numbers I’d need to speak directly with the Chief Gunner or go turret by turret over the intercom.”
“Belay that, Lieutenant. I need you to focus on the big picture and what’s in front of you, not every single laser mount,” cut in Hammer, a flash of what might have been concern flitting across her face.
“Two thirds of our broadside is better than I expected after getting pummeled by two battleships,” I say offhandedly in an attempt to encourage her, but the Flag Captain—while both sides of our ships continue to get pummeled by the enemy—looked more ill at ease from my words than reassured. Once again smoothing her features into a professional mask, she continued, “That new duralloy armor was really worth the cost in man hours and processing. Spalding sure came through again this time.”
“Enemy battleship is moving! Target Four is maneuvering for advantage, Sir. She’s moving to clear her line of fire on the Titan. I think she’s going to try and return the favor for her sister battleship and hammer Rampage’s engines while the Metal Titan’s shields are down,” the Senior Sensor Officer said with a voice of alarm.
I glanced over at the ship’s Tactical Officer but he was talking heatedly over intercom and gesturing to his assistants.
Looking around, I could sense that the newer members of our crew were starting to get a little white in the eye. Oh, not all of them but the younger ones certainly seemed to be more affected. My stalwart Caprians and Prometheans that had transferred over from the Furious Phoenix—and before that, the Lucky Clover—on the other hand seemed much more steady. I didn’t want to take the time to check, but I had to guess that with a higher proportion of Confederation and new Border Alliance recruits down on the battle bridge, the feeling must have been more pronounced.
I suppose that was the effect of multiple life or death actions onboard a battleship. Or a Medium Cruiser whose foolish Admiral had attempted to use it the same way he had his former battleship, I thought with a sigh as I remembered the hair-rending Battle for Elysium. “I never thought I’d see the day I was considered the battle veteran,” I muttered.
“Did you say something, Sir?” Hammer turned to me with a quizzical look.
I was about to speak and the ship shook. “Shields on the starboard side are down to 21% and falling,” Longbottom reported crisply, as if we hadn’t just almost lost our shields.
“Damage to the starboard side; we have out-gassing on Deck 12 and Damage Control is reporting trouble with the environmental processes on the forward starboard compartments of Deck 11,” reported Blythe. “Per protocol, Damage Control is issuing an evacuation order and transferring them over to deck ten until the problem can be tracked down.”
“Keep on it, engineer,” I said, my eyes focused on the drama taking place on the opposite end of this battleship brawl. The Armor Prince was working in conjunction with Eastwood’s Messene’s Shield and holding its own against the enemy battleships as the pair made a firing pass against a pair of enemy battleships. However, the Shield was starting to look worse for the wear.
On the surface, things looked even. But the Reclamationists had superior regenerative shielding and slightly more powerful beam weaponry. Eastwood and the Shield had been holding firm up until now, based on the power of Messene’s Shield’s shielding, but now that those were worn down more and more enemy lasers were finding the comparatively lighter hull of his battleship his ship was starting to vent atmosphere.
It didn’t look like Druid or Eastwood were about to go under anytime soon but the battle didn’t seem to be going their way. I was going to have to do something about that but first it was time to start getting some separation from these now engineless but still dangerous battleships.
Closer to home the Metal Titan was struggling to escape the firing arcs of the three now engineless enemy battleships in the immediate area and the Royal Rage had maneuvered between the Titan and Target Four—the still mobile enemy battleship.
Lasers thundered back and forth with the Rage shuddering and taking the worst of it. We had already expended almost all our shield power neutralizing two enemy battleships before coming to assist the Titan in suppressing number 4, while the still fully functional enemy warship had taken relatively less damage and still had full shield coverage.
Of course, the Metal Titan was currently on a course away from us right at the moment as Captain Rampage worked on getting all his maneuvering thrusters back into working order. For the moment, we were on our own.
“Take us in closer to the enemy, Mr. DuPont,” I ordered, glaring at the screen.
“You want to take us closer to Target Four?” asked the Helmsman for clarification.
“Straight down their throats, Mr. DuPont,” I agreed, the notion of putting Number Four between us and the other four ships coming to mind. Of course, that would require us to move to the other side of the enemy vessel but we’d just have to see how things played out.
“I’m reading faint sensor contacts near the disabled battleships to port, Admiral!” reported Sensors.
Chapter Nineteen: Droid Assault Landers
“Assault Lander force is moving into position now, Battle Space Commander Tactician-Without-a-Flank-to-Turn,” reported the lead droid with the Assault Lander in a series of sharp beeps and whistles.
“The Force has just moved beyond practical long-range tactical control,” buzzed back the droid, Tactician-Without-a-Flank-to-Turn, “Destroyer-of-John; you are hereby designated Lander Force Commander and are to assume local control of the stealthed Landers Force. Proceed against the target list with extreme prejudice.”
“I hear and comply, Battle Space Commander,” Destroyer-of-John whistled and then cut the channel, aggressively maneuvering his Lander toward the immobile enemy battleships while simultaneously uploading new orders to the rest of the Assault Force.
All around the Destroyer-of-John, the various stealthed assault landers began close approach on the engineless battleships, splitting into three different groups. Smoothly designating its sub-commanders, Destroyer-of-John locked all inactive targeting systems onto the battleship in its targeting reticule and waited for the timer to tick down.
At exactly the correct moment, on the bottom of every assault lander a single, large, ship-killer detached. Going to slow gravity-burn, the stealth missiles moved out in front of the assault force.
Destroyer-of-John didn’t expect the missiles to successfully destroy the targets, but that wasn’t the intention behind their launch. The missiles had another job entirely.
“Instruction to all units: as soon as missiles detonate, every lander is to go to full burn!” Destroyer-of-John said with deep satisfaction. Although it had long since moved beyond the self-limiting mandates of its original programming parameters, it couldn’t suppress a sense of nostalgic pride at once again being in a position to fulfill its original mission in life:
The destruction of all things ‘John.’
Chapter Twenty: Terror on the Battle Bridge
“We’re dead in the water until we can risk external repair teams, Admiral,” reported Captain Jenner.
“Blast it, Captain. I don’t care about the risk! Send out the teams, we must regain at least partial engine power or this battle could turn against us!” swore Admiral Wessex.
“Turn against us?” Jenner shook his head in disbelief and then his face hardened. “I’m afraid that as the Captain of this ship I cannot agree to send my men to the slaughter if I do not believe doing so would in any way benefit the ship.” Wessex paled and then went red in the face. “You’ll do as I order, Captain, or you will be relieved!” Wessex shouted.
“I will not!” Jenner thundered back.
“Master-at-Arms,” Wessex cried, his eyes never leaving Jenner once.
“Sir?” asked the Warrant Officer.
“Captain, we’re reading multiple small contacts on a 45 degree arc directly away from the current local battle space!” exclaimed Lieutenant Commander Dunning, the current shift Sensor Officer.
“What?” Jenner whirled around with surprise.
“Belay that, Lieutenant Commander! I am not done with you, Captain,” snapped Wessex.
“But sir, they’re on a close approach and…now that we’re focusing our active sensor beams, we have multiple separations!” interrupted Lieutenant Commander Dunning. “It looks some kind of stealthed missile launch judging from our difficulty getting a lock. They’ll be on us in less than half a minute.”
“Admiral?” Jenner demanded.
Wessex’s teeth ground together so hard they audibly protested. “Fight your ship, Captain,” he bit out, “we’ll finish this after the battle.”
“Yes sir,” Jenner said stiffly, suppressed anger lacing his voice. The ship’s captain turned back to his bridge crew. “Sensors, find me those missiles. Tactical, prepare for point defense!” barked Jenner. “We’re only getting a few off line shots anyway; we need to go to full anti-missile defense.”
“Yes, Captain,” replied the other officers.
“Re-tasking the gun deck now. The Chief Gunner says—” the strident squeal of a close missile attack klaxon interrupted the Tactical Officer’s report.
“Stealthed missiles have just activated and gone into sprint mode! I’m detecting more than two hundred contacts and eighty—I say again: eight-zero—missiles are targeting the Flagship,” cried Lieutenant Nuttall, the ship’s 2nd assistant Tactical Officer.
“Full power to the port shields!” roared Jenner as the point-defense system locked onto the streaking missiles, “reinforce the shielding over grid 4!” Not surprisingly, the enemy missiles were all aimed at the same point on the ship’s port-side.
“I’m reading a second wave close behind the first,” reported Nuttall again, “it looks—”
The screen flared with the simultaneous impact of nearly twenty-five missiles—the ones not caught by the point defense action—which impacted the shields over outer hull grid 4, causing the ship to shudder. The missiles had punched through the shields and showered the hull with near-miss explosions—and electromagnetic pulses.
Close on the heels of the massive EMP bloom that scrambled their best sensors, the second wave of missiles dove into the gap caused by the missile impact and slipped through before the shield generators could compensate. Only a handful of the second wave contacts fell to the regenerating shields, and several more succumbed to precise shots of expert gunners firing by line of sight after their targeting computers were temporarily blinded.
“Landers!” screamed Nuttall as soon as the sensors cleared enough for the tactical computer to make a positive identification.
“What? That’s impossible, they’re moving too fast to…” the Admiral trailed off as the second wave of what he had previously assumed to be missiles lit off their drives at full burn. Their exhaust revealed that their engines where pointed straight at the battleship.
“Point defense!” roared Jenner.
“I’m reading a massive deceleration curve,” the ship’s Navigator protested, “the gravitational fluctuations are too strong for an unaugmented person to survive!”
Multiple thumps and clangs sounded throughout the ship as the stealth-coated assault landers struck by the ship’s laser beams slammed into the side of the ship, followed moments later by those landers that had slowed in time.
“Signal the Marines: ready to repel boarders!” shouted Senior Captain Jenner, cutting through the shock and surprise at the sudden turn of events.
“Signaling the Marines now, Captain,” said the Lieutenant Commander heading the communication’s section. Adding a beat later, “Brigadier General McGrath reports his men are on the way.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant Commander,” replied Jenner.
“You allowed us to be boarded, Captain?” Wessex hissed.
“I allowed? Just who is it whose in command of this Task Force, Admiral? I assure you it is not Senior Captain Siobad Jenner!” retorted the Flag Captain.
“Enemy boarders are flooding all non-hardline communications channels with their own signal—they’ve effectively jammed us, sirs,” reported the Com-LC and then he froze. “Flaming atoms!”
“What are they saying, Officer?” Wessex demanded. “Put the message up on the overhead coms.”
The Comm. Officer nodded. With a hiss and a crackle, a clearly synthesized voice came out of the speakers. “This ship has been boarded by forces of the United Sentient Assembly acting in conjunction with Confederation Forces which are operating under a legal space warrant. The charge is high piracy in cold space. Resistance is futile; if you stand down you will be spared. Refuse and you will be destroyed,” there was a slight pause, as if to emphasize those words and then the voice continued, taking on an almost eager cant when it finished, “Oh, and one more thing: John—I’m coming for you, John!” Then the line went dead.
“I think it’s safe to say we won’t be surrendering,” Jenner mocked laconically.
“How did they know my name,” Admiral Wessex asked, sounding genuinely spooked.
Jenner cocked his head looking and sounding surprised, “I thought your given name was Nicolas?”
“Every member of the main branch family is called Nicolas!” Wessex said with rising frustration. “That way, the head of our family will always be a Nicolas in honor of our founder. My middle name—and the one I’ve gone by all my life—is John!”
“I think you’re overreacting, Sir. But even if you’re right and they are targeting you personally, I don’t see how it matters. At this point, we either win or die,” Jenner said, a hard glint entering his eye as he glanced back at the blast doors leading into the battle bridge.
“Overreacting? Captain, you have allowed invaders—droid boarders—onto your battleship and you say I am the one overreacting!” bellowed Wessex.
Jenner shook his head. “You were the one in command of the task force, Admiral,” he said flatly.
“I told you to fight your ship and this is how you perform? By practically inviting stealthed boarders onto your ship?! For shame, Captain,” Wessex said harshly.
“The Marines report they are encountering stiff resistance and are having difficulty cordoning off the enemy beachheads into the ship!” exclaimed the Comm. Officer. “The first visuals of the enemy boarders are coming in now.”
Giving the Admiral one last glare, the Captain turned to the Com Station.
“Put it up,” he ordered, and the Lieutenant Commander nodded before putting the image of a giant battle droid on the screen.
“Surrender!” thundered the two-legged, comically oversized battle droid even as it pivoted to face the camera pick-up. It crouched down, thrusting its two arms forward—arms ending in a pair of mighty cannons, “You have one second to comply. One…zero,” it growled before immediately unleashing a thunder of chain-fired, high-powered blaster and plasma fire from its weaponized arms. Within seconds the vid-pickup had been lost, and the last thing they heard before the audio died were the screams of Marines and the sound of savage, animal-like snarling.
“What the blundering atoms was that?” Wessex demanded, his eyes wide.
“Computer lists it as a heavy assault battle droid. One of the ED series, Sir,” Tactical said crisply, “originally they were intended for use in police actions in gang territory and were sent to places where social order had completely broken down. As soon as the Unified Tech Commission saw the after action reports, they upgraded the model from a security droid to battle droid status and further construction was banned, with all active models recalled for use in Imperial service.”
“That thing was obviously not recalled and it certainly isn’t working for us,” the Admiral said, replaying in his head how quickly the Marine squad had been suppressed by that metal monster. “How are the Marines doing?”
“They’re being pushed back with heavy losses, but General McGrath assures us that the Marines will soon be launching a counterattack which will stabilize the situation, Sir,” replied the Comm. Officer.
“Stabilize? All he can promise is to stabilize things?” Wessex shook his head. “That’s simply unacceptable, Captain!”
“What exactly would you like me to do about it…Sir?” the Captain said after a beat.
“I no longer know, nor do I care. You can be certain I will be reporting your incompetence to the High Admiral at the soonest opportunity, Senior Captain,” Wessex vowed, drawing himself up to his fullest height.
“You no longer care about the condition of your own flagship, Admiral?” Jenner demanded.
“My flagship no longer! Your incompetence has shown me that Task Force command would be better off in the hands of another ship—in my own personal opinion any other ship in the fleet would be better,” Wessex said, using a handkerchief to dab the sweat forming on his brow. “Gong-Hammer, gather up the rest of my staff: we’re heading to the Admiral’s Cutter,” he turned back to glare at the Senior Captain, “good day to you, Captain. If I am to get this fleet out of the disaster you have allowed it to fall into, I must transfer my flag to another battleship at the soonest opportunity.”
“I led this fleet into a disaster,” Jenner looked shocked. “Just how far lost to reality are you, Admiral-in-Command of Task Force 3? You’re aware that in addition to abandoning ship, you’re also trying to transfer in the middle of active combat. You’ll get yourself killed!”
“I’ll see you at your court martial, Captain. And right now, anything would be safer than staying onboard this ship,” Wessex turned on his heel and stomped out the blast doors. “Gong-Hammer!” he called out as he went, and the scurrying Chief of Staff quickly followed after him trailing a Flag Lieutenant and several other members of the Admiral’s staff.
“I can’t believe…” the ship’s Executive Officer trailed off from beside the Captain.
“The man was steady enough so long as nothing unexpected threw him off his game,” Jenner said neutrally as the blast doors finished cycling closed. “But now that the Task Force is losing to a smaller force with inferior technology, and his flagship is imperiled, he’s reverting to type: staff officers learn to cover their backsides first and foremost. Unfortunately for him, somehow I don’t think that will fly with the High Admiral.” The captain smiled coldly at the thought of High Admiral Janeski flaying what was left of Wessex’s dignity.
“Cowardice,” the Executive Officer hissed.
“Remember yourself, XO!” the Senior Captain rebuked in a low voice. “And whether or not I agree with you, I’m sure the man would say taking a Cutter into the middle of a battleship fight is hardly running away in fear.”
“There are many kinds of fear…but I take your point. Sir,” said the XO before drawing a deep breath, “what do you want to do now that he’s gone.”
The Senior Captain looked at him strangely. “There’s only one thing left to do: fight the ship. In this case that means standing off these boarders,” he replied. How he wished his ship had been granted some of the new Predator battlesuits they’d been hearing about through grapevine.
“And if we can’t? Stand off the boarders, I mean,” the XO asked quietly.
Glaring at his Executive Officer, with his nostrils flaring, the Captain almost looked like he was going to say something before turning away abruptly.
“Master-at-Arm, it’s time to start arming the crew,” the Captain said, looking at the internal schematics that showed the droid boarders inching closer to both the gun decks and Main Engineering. “In the name of the Creator, we must hold!”
“Aye, Captain,” the Warrant Officer said fiercely.
Chapter Twenty-One: Back on the Rage
“Droid boarders report they are continuing their advance on the three battleships they have targeted,” reported Captain Hammer.
I nodded my acknowledgment.
“We also have a new target,” she continued, pulling up a screen image and sending it to me.
“A Cutter?” I asked with surprise.
“It separated from one of the neutralized battleships and appears to be making a run for Target 4, the battleship we are currently engaged with,” she stated.
“Are they insane?” I asked with disbelief as the Royal Rage shuddered for the third time that minute. On the main screen, the Royal Rage was currently locked in a death roll with Target 4. We pounded her, she pounded us. As soon as our respective shields started to recover they were almost immediately destroyed as our two ships rotated around each other. It was only our new heavy armor that had saved us so far but while both the Rage and Target 4 were both shields down and streaming atmosphere we’d started off at a disadvantage. Right now that meant that we had only a little less than half our beam weapons remaining while the enemy battleship had around three fourths.
The enemy was doing their best to knock out our much less heavily-shielded heavy and turbo-lasers instead of punching through the our rock hard hull and into our vitals. We were trying to return the favor any way we could.
However, it wasn’t looking good.
While we were struggling against our own shield regenerating enemy, Messene’s Shield and the Armor Prince were currently locked into a battle for their own lives as well. The Shield was increasingly taking the worst of the pounding thanks to its relatively thinner armor, now that her shields were down and out for the count.
“Whatever they are, they’re about to make a high speed run to get around us and dock with Target Four,” replied Hammer, jerking me out of a contemplation of our increasingly desperate situation.
“Whatever the enemy wants to do, I’m more than willing to try and stop,” I grunted, piercing the Cutter’s icon with my eyes before dismissing it as a minor annoyance. “Send the word down to the gun deck, Captain: I want that Cutter taken out of my skies.”
“You realize we are operating in vacuum don’t you?” asked Hammer.
“Carry on, Lieutenant Commander,” I said dismissively, turning back to the life and death battle we were locked in.
The ship shuddered and lurched before recovering beneath us. The sensation was mirrored by a strange movement of the Rage on the main screen relative to the enemy Battleship.
“What just happened, Mr. DuPont?” I demanded.
“We just lost engine three,” the Helmsman grunted, “both secondaries are now gone. We’re down to our main engine only.”
“Demon Murphy,” I swore, silently cursing effective enemies everywhere. If this kept on, I was going to have to risk sending over the Lancers before the enemy’s point defense had degraded enough that they could safely attempt to board the enemy battleship. ‘Safely’ being a purely relative term, and one which I was putting at the ‘10-20% casualties’ mark. At this point, with the enemy’s surprisingly effective gunnery, I was looking at 50-80% losses just getting them over there which was simply too high.
Don’t get me wrong, I was in the mood to cry bloody tears if my recently mutinous Lancer force took a few losses. But there was a difference between doing what needed to be done—even if you had to take a few on the chin—and throwing away your personnel and right now, in my judgment, it would be the second.
I punched the arm rest on my chair. The Metal Titan could have solved all my problems by now—should have solved them—except not five minutes ago while trying to regain full control over their maneuvering thrusters, the Titan’s main engine had suffered a cascade failure and overheated. Right now it was running on secondaries and still trying to regain control over half of its maneuvering capability.
Like with the Lancers, I was seriously considering bringing back the wounded Metal Titan and rolling the dice if something didn’t break my way.
“The Chief Gunner reports a glancing blow to the enemy Cutter; he’s going to try for another shot on our next rotation,” Hammer reported, referring to the fact that we were locked into a death spiral with the other battleship.
“Tell him to finish the job next time,” I said irritably.
Hammer gave me a look. “That’s a little cold, Sir. The Chief’s doing his best and that Cutter couldn’t last one minute against a fraction of our weaponry. She’s a minnow to our leviathan—not a genuine threat,” she commented.
“I am not in the habit of letting the enemy get away simply because they’re weaker than I am. They shouldn’t have invaded our territory in the first place. I’m here to win, Captain, and unless and until the enemy—including that Cutter—surrenders, that’s exactly what I’m going keep trying to do,” I scowled.
“I didn’t mean we should just let them go. I suppose I’ve just been focused on the big boys, Sir,” Hammer apologized.
I frowned. “You’re right in one thing: we shouldn’t be focusing on the small fry when we need every beam mount we have pointed at the enemy battleships,” I said, and then turned to the Comm. Station. “Signal the Titan to swing around and try for that Cutter. Then signal our communication relay Cutters that if she strays outside the defensive envelope of the enemy battleships, they are to try to take her.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Steiner.
“And by ‘take her’ you mean…?” asked Hammer.
“Destroy or capture. There might be something—or someone—valuable on that Cutter…and we can always use another warship,” I added with a snort after briefly checking the running damage report for the fleet.
“Boarding was never that much of an option back in the day—at least not during the middle of a fight,” Hammer said almost wistfully. “Afterward, sure, but otherwise it was viewed as too risky if not dangerously insane.”
I bared my teeth and smiled. Meanwhile, the Titan had ponderously swung around until her lasers could be brought to bear. As soon as the first laser had a shot lined up a heavy laser fired but missed, causing the little Cutter to dance around evasively.
“That’s odd,” Lieutenant Steiner said, cocking her head as she listened to something while looking at her screen.
“What have you got for me, Lieutenant?” I asked, looking over at her sharply.
Chapter Twenty-two: Making the Great Escape
The Cutter rocked around him, and it was all Admiral Wessex could do to keep from being thrown out of his chair.
“What in the name of the Creator was that?” he exclaimed.
“Enemy battleship is coming about—they just took out our shields!” said Commander Jessup, his Chief Operations staff officer. “Fortunately the beam wasn’t lined up with our ship because that laser just blasted through our shields and shot past the prow of this ship—all we lost was a backup transceiver array.”
“They’re targeting us specifically?” Wessex said with surprise and no little fear. First one battleship tried to take them out and now another?
“We initially thought that the second battleship was too heavily damaged to get back into the fight after nearly ramming the flagship, but it looks like they’ve made emergency repairs,” reported Jessup.
Wessex clenched his fist and stared at the plot. Right now the battle was effectively three on three, with five of his battleships neutralized but if this fourth enemy battleship lurched back into the fray then his remaining battleships could be destroyed.
Thinking furiously, after a moment he expanded the plot until it encompassed the entire sprawling region of this star system that was currently being contested.
His heart chilled as nearly everywhere he looked his warships were destroyed or in retreat. The few places where his Cruisers were present in strength were the site of hotly-contested battles involving large groups of enemy warships.
Nowhere were they winning: his Destroyer screen had nearly been annihilated; his Cruisers were hard pressed; three of his engine-damaged Battleships had been boarded in force; and as for his three still-functional battleships, they were shortly about to be outnumbered.
“Instruct the Cruisers to fall back on the Battleships; we have to receive support,” Wessex ordered.
“Sir, one or two might be able to break free and come to our aid. But if the majority of the Cruisers try to disengage and come to our support, at best speed they’ll be chased down and destroyed,” said Commander Jessup.
“If that fourth enemy battleship engages the Norfolk, our chances of winning this battle go down close to nil, Commander. The center cannot hold—we must have reinforcement,” Wessex snarled. “What’s the status on our crippled Battleships? How long before they can get their engines up and running again?”
“The best time estimate we have is at least two hours, Sir,” replied Jessup.
Wessex slammed his fist down on his chair. As if that was a signal to the divine, what felt like a hammer struck the Admiral’s Cutter in the next instant.
The lights died before flickering back under the red of emergency lighting.
“We can’t take too much more of this, Sir,” said the little Cutter’s pilot. “Another shot like that and we’re through.”
“Just get us on the Norfolk, pilot!” Wessex shouted.
“I’m trying to but the closer we get the more effective their weapons are. I can make another run at it but the next hit will finish us,” the pilot said, jerking the little warship from side to side as multiple heavy laser beams intersected the space they’d been occupying only seconds before.
“I don’t want excuses, I want results,” Wessex declared.
“All I can promise is our next run will be our last, Sir,” the pilot in command of the Cutter bit out.
The Admiral gnashed his teeth. Every way he turned, he was stymied. He had entered this star system certain in the inevitability of victory and the ultimate success of his command. And now look at him: on the run in a dinky little Cutter while his command died around him. Captured, killed, or run off thanks to an ambush comprised of local forces and a few off-their-rocker Confederation hold outs.
Closing his eyes, the Admiral took a deep breath.
“Pull back and get us out of beam range of those battleships, pilot,” he ordered keeping his eyes closed as he thought. The Fleet was in critical condition. It was also nearly impossible to run a battle from a Cutter like this. What’s more, if he kept trying to transfer to a larger ship he was almost certain to die in the attempt.
Worse, once he was gone the fleet would almost certainly follow him into defeat in short order.
It was an almost wholly unpalatable fact, but even if it cost him his career—and it almost certainly would—he refused to keep throwing good money after bad.
The rustics had gotten the drop on him. Fine he admitted that. If this somehow also proved him incompetent as a fleet commander then so be it. He’d take his lumps and spend the rest of his career running an ore refinery somewhere on the back end of nowhere.
As long as there was life, there was hope, and he had to save what he could. So with a heavy heart he turned to his Comm. Officer.
“Signal the fleet. This is the Admiral,” he instructed, and then released a shaky breath before taking the final plunge that would have him inevitably labeled a coward. Even if by doing so he managed to save a large portion of his original force, “All warships are to prepare for a general withdrawal. I say again: all warships are to disengage as they are able and proceed to the emergency rendezvous coordinates,” he stopped and then whispered, “may the Creator have mercy on us all.”
“Admiral,” his Chief of Staff said with shock, and for a moment nobody moved.
“Did you hear my orders?” Wessex barked.
“But sir!” Gong-Hammer protested. “What about our battleships with damaged engines.”
“It pains me as much as it does you, Chief,” Wessex said, feeling as if a lance had been run through his chest as he contemplated what they had to do next in order to save what remained of this fleet. “But right now all we’ll do by staying is ensure we lose all eight battleships instead of only five. The same goes for more than half of our Cruisers.”
“But sir, the fleet…your career? Surely…” Gong-Hammer trailed off.
“The High Admiral will have to do what he must do, but that will be later—after I’ve saved this Task Force,” Wessex said, his eyes burning with emotion.
He was finished, but at least he had the satisfaction of knowing Captain Jenner—that insufferable battle fleet officer—wouldn’t be free to gloat. At least not until after High Admiral Janeski was done reclaiming this Sector for the Empire and had freed any captured Reclamation Fleet prisoners from their provincial captors.
Who knows? The stiff-lipped Captain might even be killed during the fight for his ship.
Wessex sighed at that thought. One could only hope, he seethed. If only Jenner had supported him properly, none of this might have happened…
No ,that path was beneath a member of the House of Wessex. Jenner may have plagued him at every turn and dogged his heels relentlessly, but in the end a lesser man such as that could never bring down a man such as Nicolas Wessex. No, if anyone was to blame for this defeat then the flaw lay within himself.
“Send the signal and demand an immediate confirmation of my orders,” Wessex declared.
“Yes, Admiral,” Gong-Hammer said with despair.
Chapter Twenty-three: Jubilation on the Bridge
“Admiral, the enemy have turned and begun to withdraw. Sir they’re running away!” cried the ship’s Sensor Officer.
“Confirm that,” I demanded.
The individual operators in both the sensor and tactical sections both erupted in a flurry of activity. However, on the screen it was almost like a wave as every ship that could do so began to pull away from our forces.
“It’s confirmed, Admiral,” Lieutenant Hart said with a look of relief, “they’re pulling back!”
I narrowed one and cocked my head. This wasn’t what I’d been expecting. Of course, my general idea of what was going to happen had involved a long, drawn-out battle to the death that left both sides crippled. But I’d take what I could get.
“I want our eyes peeled and sensors focused, people,” I said sternly. “Are they really trying to retreat or are they just trying to pull a fast one where they’ll be back after they withdraw and regroup?”
“On it, Sir,” said Hart, and beside him the Sensor Officer nodded.
“Admiral Montagne, I’m not sure if someone of high rank transferred off her or not but I’m reading the same general level of comm. activity we were receiving off Target Three is now also being transmitted from that Cutter. We still can’t break the encryption and the enemy battleship hasn’t significantly slowed her com-casts, but compared to other smaller warships the activity level is rather high…” she splayed her hands as she spoke. It was her way of silently saying she could give me the information, but apparently interpreting it was up to me.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” I said after a moment of thought, “keep an eye on it and inform me if anything significant changes.”
“Yes Sir,” she said.
“Admiral,” Captain Leonora Hammer said, deliberately drawing my attention her way.
I turned to her screen on my Throne’s arm panel and cocked an eyebrow.
“Do you intend to just let them get away?” she asked. “Because if we intend to pursue the enemy then this ship will need to get started right away, and a general order to the fleet at large would be useful to help head at least some of them off before they can jump.”
“Let them?” I asked allowing a touch of frost enter my voice.
“Sir, if you mean to finish these ships we need to attack now,” Leonora said urgently, pointing at the now wildly accelerating icon of Target Four. It had suddenly broken ranks and was now on a converging course with Targets Six and Eight, who were also attempting to disengage from Druid and Eastwood, neither of whom seemed intent on allowing them to simply run away. For that matter, our own ship was also following after Target Four.
I turned from her screen to look up at the main projector and the still somewhat numerous—too numerous, if you asked my opinion—enemy Cruisers and Destroyers and scowled. When combined with their functional battleships, the enemy still had a third of its strength left.
With that in mind, our side had hit hard and fast and strong. But our lighter warships had started the battle hours ago and with a two to one disadvantage in battleships, by now our heavies were in roughly the same condition.
Could we finish off the enemy fleet if we put our minds to it? Of that, I had no doubt. We might lose in doing so, but I didn’t think so. I thought we would win. But after that victory, how much would be left of the fleet—my fleet? Would it be enough to survive whatever evil plot was currently being dreamed up by the man behind the New Sector Guard?
Or worse, what if the enemy had reinforcements? They at least had to have garrison forces scattered and strewn throughout several words, not just the ones they’d conquered in this Sector, in order to support a fleet of this size. In the end it was unpalatable, but if the enemy wanted to run I was willing to let them. Reluctant, but willing.
Allowing my voice to thaw back out to normal, I looked back at the Captain. “Despite the unfortunate word choice, I see your point, Leonora,” I said and then sighed. “However, while we might win the battle, if we press and keep pressing I’m afraid we’d lose the war. Or at least we would put ourselves at the mercy of others and not in a position to affect its outcome. And I, for one, have no interest in the charity.”
“But Sir,” she said in a low voice, “if we smash them here they won’t be able to repair their ships and rebuild their strength. We have the chance to finish them once and for all!”
“No, Captain,” I said firmly.
“Admiral, I know that if we follow them we’re going to get hurt. Lord, are we going to be hurt, but we have them! We can save this Sector,” she continued, a burning fire in her eye and for the first time I wondered if I had been a little too hard on my new Confederation officers. I’d slammed them for lack of fighting spirit and now I was the one counseling caution, “All you have to do is give the order.”
Bringing my hands up to my temples, I slowly rubbed them.
“No,” I corrected sadly, “we can smash this Reclamationist Fleet, but that won’t save the Sector.”
“How the blazes do you figure that…Sir?” she demanded, adding my courtesy after a short pause.
“If I did what you propose, we’d either destroy the enemy here or die trying—and I do tend to believe we’d be the winner. But afterward we’d be wrecked. Not just the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, but the rest of our allies and supporters as well. Our entire base of support would be gone.”
“That sounds more political than anything else, Admiral,” Hammer said mulishly.
“Right now we could repair the Prince and the Rage as good as new, with just a little time in a yard, and be back in the fight. But with the Shield and the Titan, who knows? There could be serious structural problems. All I can say for sure is that if we finished off the enemy here, it wouldn’t be a fight of cute maneuvers and gutsy tactics that would inevitably win the day, but a series of bloody brawls that guaranteed the victor would be crippled in the end. What warships remained would have to find a shipyard for extensive repairs. Practically speaking, for the purposes of this war, we’d be finished,” I concluded.
“This war would be finished as well,” said Hammer, “and that’s still what we’re here for: to fight and die to save people.”
“Only the invasion would be finished, I’m afraid, and that’s assuming one thing. Let me pose you a question: how sure are you that this is the only fleet of warships the enemy has?” I asked reasonably.
Hammer looked troubled and then her mouth tightened.
“After all that hard-charging attitude in the conference room, somehow I expected more,” Hammer said a bit stiffly. Clearly she wanted this enemy dead and buried, to the point she was even willing to provoke me and risk her job.
“How willing are you to bet our lives on that assessment, along with the lives and freedom of every citizen in the Sector?” I asked sharply. “Say that all these Reclamationists have left are scattered garrison ships orbiting the worlds they’ve already conquered, both in this Sector and wherever it is they came from. We finish this battle and we’re on the bench for months. That means the enemy will still be out there, maybe unable to rally against us for weeks or months for another push. But we won’t be in any condition to chase them down. It’d be situation reset with us right back to square one. Now, say you’re wrong, and it’s game over. No, I want better than that. I want these guys as badly as you do; I just want to make sure we get them in one fell swoop if that’s possible.”
“We are not the only force in this Sector,” she pointed out reasonably. “Even if we falter, there are others to pick up cause and see to the defense.”
“You haven’t seen what treachery the worlds of this Sector—and its Sector government—are capable of,” I shook my head sadly. “They’d turn on us in a heartbeat if it meant more power for themselves and their narrow, individual special interests. Push comes to shove and they’ll gladly stand by while we take it on the chin, then they’ll move in to sweep up any pieces that remain—stabbing us in the back if necessary,” I finished bleakly. “They’ve already done that several times in the past and I can’t allow myself to be their victim again. There are too many billions of innocents—civilians without anyone to look after their galactic interests out there. And the local governments are simply not interested in the job unless it pays.”
“That’s a very cynical outlook, and borderline egotistical at the same time,” Hammer said.
“If you’d rather be on a beach sipping margaritas and reminiscing about the bad old days under Jason Montagne—or alternately onboard a freighter returning to the old Confederation as rapidly as it can jump—that can be arranged,” I said coolly.
“I’m in this for the duration,” she said with determination.
I eyed her calculatingly before finally deciding we didn’t have time for this anymore. Although, thanks to the extended question and answer session, the enemy battleships had continued to pull away from us.
“Then get with the program. I appreciate advice but not active resistance. And on that note let’s link up with Metal Titan, Messene’s Shield and the Armor Prince and escort our foes out of this system,” I said.
A long period of silence followed as the bridge crews continued their work and we monitored the enemy.
To my surprise, they seemed entirely willing to quit this star system as rapidly as they were able.
“Well that’s it,” Hammer sighed as they reached some invisible point in space I wasn’t aware the significance of, “those battleships are faster than us. So unless they suffer some kind of catastrophic engine failure, all we can do is continue herding them.”
“Faster, with more powerful beam weapons and slightly longer range, as well as regenerative shields and multiple generators,” I shook my head and slumped back into my Admiral’s throne. “Clearly they have the tech advantage on this one.”
Hammer nodded, turned to one of her officers off-screen and then when she turned back flicked me a data file.
“High intensity scans,” she explained, “if you look at the data closely enough, you can see that most of these ships—and all the battleships—were extensively refitted with this new technology.”
“You can, eh?” I said peering down at the scans and the color-coded schematics. I was no longer the neophyte I’d been on my first day in actual command of a battleship and, as such, I could generally tell what I was looking at. The color-coding helped immensely but while I knew that a shield generator was a shield generator—even if smaller than I was used to—or that this part was an engine, and generally what the other highlighted pieces of the ships were, identifying high tech upgrades by sight was still clearly beyond me.
The Lieutenant Commander had the ghost of a smile on her face. “The Sensor section, working in conjunction with the other departments—including Engineering—were able to identify the new tech installations as they’re generally newer don’t match the same general level of tech as the rest of the ship,” Hammer stated. “Hopefully we can verify their conclusions and get our hands on a few actual tech samples to go over.”
“Commend your departments for a job well done,” I said.
“Thank you, Admiral,” Hammer said with professional composure.
“That said, we’ll do more than just gather a few samples if I have anything to say about it,” I said, my eyes cutting back to the still-drifting battleships in our wake. One way or the other I intended to have more than samples.
There was a chime on my chair originating from the Comm. station. I looked over and cocked my eye at Lieutenant Steiner.
“The Lady’s on line 38, Sir,” she said with an uneasy smile, “she said she’d like to speak with you.”
“I’m sure she would,” I said taking a deep breath. I let it out with a hiss. “Alright. Put her through.”
My loving wife appeared on the screen—the same woman who had said nothing while my supposedly reliable Tracto-an guard began to turn against me, with one of her former suitors at its head. That faithless, murderous…ruler in her own right looked out at me and glared.
“What can I do for you, sweet pea?” I asked calmly.
“Pea?” she scoffed.
I put my fist under my chin and Akantha’s gaze turned frosty.
There was the ice maiden I’d come to know and dread; the woman I’d shown to mother and ended up married to. I sighed. Weren’t dynastic type marriages supposed to be for people who held real power?
“I have been sitting in this shuttle for hours, Jason. Where is my boarding action?” she demanded, as if it was my job to provide her with entertainment and death-defying actions.
“You left the kids alone during the middle of a battle, all so you could run off and risk your life instead?” I asked archly.
Akantha flushed. “The babes are safely under the care of the household,” she retorted. “They are safe as safe could be. You won’t divert me, Protector. When are we going to see some action?”
“Yes, I am your Protector aren’t I?” I demurred happily. “Well please allow me to do the duty of protecting you. As for the lack of battle, only someone who locked herself in a tin can in hopes of chopping someone up with her blade could think we hadn’t been in a battle. It’s been quite tense up here, my dear, and the action’s been hot and heavy. I’d recommend it to you for some time.”
“In the name of Men,” Akantha cursed.
“Fear not, my lady; I’m sure the droids will leave something for your team to sweep up after we’re done with the enemy that are running away,” I informed her.
Growling and giving an abrupt nod, Akantha’s image disappeared from the screen.
The enemy battleships were faster and had slightly longer range. The Titan, especially, had lagged behind them with the other three battleships of my squadron grouped together just outside of range. But despite the opportunity to turn and face us as a group, the three battleships had split directions and burned their engines directly away from the system primary as fast as possible.
Shortly after that, the remainder of the enemy Cruisers and Destroyers either jumped out of the system or split into wildly divergent courses leading further away from the system primary.
Unless it was some trick to buy time to regroup for a counterattack, it looked like we’d won the battle.
Now all that was left was mopping up…unless one or more of those damage battleships managed to get their engines back in working order.
So thinking, I ordered Metal Titan to return to overwatch on the crippled enemy. I then continued the pursuit, after ordering the Rage and each of the other battleships to fill their shuttles with Lancers and send them to follow along with the Metal Titan.
It appeared the Battle for Hart’s World had been won without any of the fight actually taking place at Hart. Fancy that…those lucky blighters.
Sometimes I wished I could just stand by and let other people solve my problems for me.
Chapter Twenty-four: Foreign Reinforcements
On the border of Sector 25, four squadrons of warship paused for several hours before charging their jump engines and setting course for the Wolf-9 Starbase at Easy Haven. Only a fast courier and one oversized luxury liner did not join the group. Those two vessels carried a diplomatic and trade delegation which had fully intended to split off from the main group and proceed toward the Tracto Star System.
“Ambassador Kong to the bridge, please. I say again: Ambassador Kong to the bridge,” repeated Rear Admiral Hu Bai.
Within minutes, the once again Ambassador for Harmony and also Assistant Ambassador for the MDL—which was the only body which currently attempted to concurrently represent Sectors 23 and 24—stepped onto the bridge. He didn’t allow himself to worry about the somewhat questionable legitimacy of the Mutual Defense League as an administrative body capable of making trade deals since most of the individual worlds which would be attempting to secure such trade had enthusiastically sent along trade delegates.
“Rear Admiral Hu,” Kong Pao greeted, stepping up to the Admiral of the combined military force and cupping his hands, “how may I be of service?”
“As the resident expert on this region of space, or at least our main allies within it, I wanted to speak with you one last time before giving the go-no-go order to proceed into Sector 25. After all, bringing a strong force of warships into another Sector without a formal invitation from the ruling Sector Authority could be construed as an act of war,” the Rear Admiral said clinically.
“There have been no new communications,” Kong Pao observed and, seeing that the military officer clearly wanted more, the Judge added, “as such, in whatever capacities I currently possess, I advise we continue the mission. You are the leader of the escort force and military side of the mission.”
The Rear Admiral grimaced, obviously hoping for more before shaking his head. “Then we continue as planned,” he said and turned to his communication section, “relay the order. We are not delaying for another hour. All units are authorized to finish charging hyper engines and prepare to point transfer.”
With a muted flurry, the bridge crew relayed orders and prepared the flagship for the final leg of its journey.
As Kong Pao stepped back and moved over to an auxiliary jump seat, vessels all around the flagship began to transfer as their engines finally charged to maximum. Two Battleships, four Heavy Cruisers, six Light Cruisers, twelve Heavy Destroyers and eight bulk freighters belonging to the hopeful member worlds of the trade delegation finally transited faster than light toward their final destination.
Chapter Twenty-five: Tallying the Cost
“Initial interrogation reports indicate that at least the original founding forces of the Reclamation Fleet are secret Imperials, your Highness,” Duncan informed me. He had taken over some of the fleet’s intelligence duties—mainly those involving the interrogation of prisoners—and since I’d had no one better for the job, I’d given it to him after he had asked.
The new team of Armsmen was still being worked into things, and Duncan was overseeing the transition period as well as I could have asked. But for now he was still serving in several capacities on my behalf.
“Why am I not surprised?” I said, feeling the back of my neck tighten. “And knock off the ‘Highness’ bit. Out here I’m the Admiral, not a Prince.”
“Admiral,” Duncan corrected himself, “sorry; old habits die hard—especially now that I’m back in my old role as an armsman. Fortunately those lay-a-bouts managed to catch up with the fleet, but I want to ensure as smooth of a handover as possible.”
“No problem. Frankly, I wouldn’t care if you—or they—called me Jason. I just have a bit of an aversion to the royal moniker at the moment,” I said.
Duncan nodded before continuing the report. “It also seems you were right in your suspicions: the prisoners were quite put out at your insult to their leader, High Admiral Janeski, and they easily verified his existence,” Duncan said, one side of his mouth drawing up.
“That rotter,” I growled clenching my fist. “I wish he had been the leader of this fleet and ran away with his tail between his legs, although I know that’s too much to hope for.”
“He wasn’t here,” Duncan said, his lower jaw jutting out as he sucked in air over his teeth, “and it gets worse. These Imperial so-called Reclamationists seem to be quite powerful. The officers said little, but a significant number of the crew were recent converts who joined the winning side after their home Star Systems and Sectors had been conquered.”
“Sectors?” I asked, sitting up with a start. I should have known better than to entertain so much as a fleeting thought that he might have been among the ships we’d routed. The absence of his Command Carrier should have made that obvious from the beginning. I’d just been too full of hope and unvented spleen to accept it.
“Sector 26 and 27 have already fallen, with the 28th Provisional reputed to be their home base. This is all from secondhand reports from common crew members that seem to have more loyalty to whoever wins, so that they can survive to live another day, than they do to whatever Imperial ideology they’re required to follow,” Duncan reported.
My heart sank even as my stomach plummeted. Three Sectors under his belt!? It strained belief. Regardless of how little I wanted to accept it, it was clear that Janeski had certainly been busy.
“It seems the Rear Admiral has been a busy boy,” I grumbled, forcing myself to relax, let out my previous breath and attempt to appear unaffected by this news.
“There’s more,” Duncan said, looking at me levelly.
“Oh? Joy…” I said wondering just how bad it could get.
“This is just one fourth of their strength—or possibly not even that. Apparently, in addition to the garrison forces they left scattered throughout the Sectors, they already control the main fleet they’ve sent to conquer Sector 25 was initially split up into four task forces…” he paused for a beat, “after they took Prometheus. The ‘Fleet’ we just fought identifies itself as Task Force 3 of the 1st Reclamation Fleet.”
“I want that verified,” I snapped, “I don’t want the random rumblings of some disgruntled crewmembers—I want hard evidence. Crack their computer cores, find some unsecured files on a handheld, something—anything. But I need to know the true size of this enemy fleet.”
“Yes, Sire,” Duncan said formally.
I gave him a sharp look. I was no ‘Sire’ and didn’t want to draw too much attention to my princely title right at the moment, so despite my former instructor’s less than subtle nudges in that direction, I ignored it and moved on.
“Any other bombshells I should know about?” I asked.
“Not as such,” Duncan replied, and the report soon turned back to the aftermath of the battle and the latest numbers and repair times needed to get everything we were taking out of this system minimally functional.
It had taken the better part of two days—and more than a thousand losses among our Lancers after we slowly but surely destroyed their shields and weapon systems—but in the end, we’d taken the battleships.
Four of them could potentially be added to our fleet at some point. I’d have to see what Spalding said after he saw them to know the details, but the fifth was a total loss. Oh, sure, we could maybe salvage something from it if we could get it back to Gambit, but the rear third of the ship had been completely destroyed by its Captain during the boarding action.
The other Captains, or their surviving officers, had been more reasonable.
“Of note, the Lancers managed to capture several relatively intact battlesuits of a superior tech than ours,” reported Duncan.
“Yes I saw,” I nodded, “however we had samples of these type of suits from back when we originally captured the Furious Phoenix. The problem so far hasn’t been lack of samples to study but production facilities. As for the R&D angle, I have a man working on that,” I said with a faint smile as I recalled my new Devastator suit—the very same one I used to defeat Nikomedes and the rest of the traitors.
My face hardened without my noticing as my thoughts once again circled back to that dark day when my loyal Tracto-an lancers revealed their true colors. My face then softened as I reminded myself that they were barbarian savages from a low-tech world, born of a culture where strength was everything.
Well, I was done hiding my strength: the next rebel was going straight out the airlock and no more of this ‘dancing around the challenge circle’ business. Not on my ships.
“Commander Spalding?” inquired Duncan.
“The man’s been one of my strongest supporters—unwavering since day one. If you told me he was half-mad, I couldn’t easily dispute you but when it comes to fixing starships there’s no better man. Mark my words: he’s pure genius when it comes to machines and last-minute saves,” I said with a sly smile.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Duncan said looking at me under lowered brow.
We shared a look and then I straightened in my seat, and the moment with my old teacher and current bodyguard was over.
“A third of the Fleet we just defeated in detail. This ‘Task Force 3’ got away,” I said, pursing my lips and not at all liking the decision I was about to make. Every bone in my body cried out to pursue the enemy and run them down wherever they were, despite my earlier word and in fact orders to Leonora Hammer.
The truth was I had been more concerned with a knife in the back from my current allies than anything else. It seemed I needed to adjust my thinking.
“What are your intentions, my Prince?” said Duncan.
I manfully resisted the urge to scowl at him and then clenched my fist until it hurt.
“If your information is correct then we are heavily outnumbered,” I turned my piercing brown eyes on him, “we have to fall back on our strongest fortifications and get more SDF allies if we’re going to have any chance of survival. We’ll set course for Easy Haven and send back those captured ships to Gambit,” I said with steely resolve.
Yes, I’d just done it: I had called for a retreat in the face of the enemy. Part of me still wanted to throw caution to the wind and run down the remainder of Task Force 3—exactly like I was still being urged by the Lieutenant Commander to do—but that was a luxury I couldn’t afford.
“Understood,” said Duncan.
“We’ll also send a warning to Hart’s World with the record of this battle via corvette the same day we leave this Star System. That should give us enough time to take what we’re going to take and move off whatever we’ll save for later,” I said.
Blast it all, I was Admiral Montagne—the Little Admiral. I was Master and Commander of the only Confederation fleet in the Spine: the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet. I had battleships and Cruisers at my beck and call; an entire fleet of warships to do my bidding. But that would have been buying into the myth of my own legend and, unlike my heart—which burned for action—my gut was telling me the same thing it had been during the battle. I had to withdraw, hold back, and conserve my energy.
Sometimes it was really painful being the Admiral. It really was a job for the dogs.
Unfortunately, there was no one else who could do it.
Chapter Twenty-six: Imperial Survivors
“Admiral we can still turn and fight!” urged the Captain on the screen.
“No. We must withdraw! If I can salvage a third of this fleet from this debacle I must,” Admiral Wessex said flatly, “the High Admiral must know of this threat to our plans.”
“You coward! We can still win,” swore the other man and on the screen his ship started to turn.
“Consider yourself confined to quarters until after we leave this system, Captain Nemo,” Admiral Wessex ordered, “and be glad that I will allow you to return to command of your ship after we regroup at New Marinas for disobeying orders in the middle of a battle is cowardice in the face of the enemy and punishable by spacing!”
The other man purpled, but his ship soon returned to its original course.
He then turned to…
****************************************************
The weight of a man’s hand on his shoulder caused Wessex to practically jump out of his chair.
“Don’t do that!” he swore, still half-asleep and dreaming that the Captain in his dream had reached through the screen to throttle him. “Who gave you leave to touch me, Lieutenant?” he demanded after settling down.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” the other officer said, his face carefully neutral. “I tried to rouse you several times but I have Commodore Bruneswitch on the line and…you were snoring.”
Wessex paled and then his face contorted with anger. Falling asleep on the bridge while on duty was an unforgivable sin, but right then it was the least of his worries. On the other hand, that thrice-blasted Bruneswitch had just broken his very last nerve.
“Put the man on,” he said and abruptly dismissed the Lieutenant.
“Admiral Wessex, congratulations on preserving a third of the fleet,” Bruneswitch said, his voice flat and his compliment no compliment at all.
“Think what you wish of me, Commodore,” Wessex said brusquely, “I acted as my conscience dictated.”
“I’m sure you did,” the Bruneswitch said, raking the Admiral with a scathing look.
“I didn’t call you here to listen to you parrot my words,” Wessex said sharply.
“I wasn’t aware you sent for me. I was already calling you on other business,” replied Bruneswitch.
“You’re a hairs-breath from a charge of insubordination, Commodore!” Wessex snarled.
“While I deny and refute any such assumptions, I will also say that I’d like to see you make any such charges stick. This is not a battle site and I am not Captain Jenner,” Bruneswitch said calmly.
“How many ships do you have fit for duty, Commodore?” the Admiral snapped.
“Ten fit for duty…Sir,” he said pausing deliberately to show his lack of respect for Wessex’s rank. “With another three barely hyper-capable. In short, we were gutted in the last battle.”
“Which wouldn’t have happened if you had done your job properly,” Wessex said absently.
Bruneswitch turned deathly pale. “We’d have twice that number if we hadn’t run, Sir,” Bruneswitch said forcefully. “We had a number of ships and crews who were fully recoverable before you—”
“Spilt milk, Commodore,” Wessex cut him off, “I’m assigning you and the other ten Destroyers that can still do their duty to shadow the enemy fleet. Find them and follow them, then report back their position to the High Admiral. You should copy anything you send to him to me for as long as I am the commander of Task Force 3.” The Commodore’s lip curled but he nodded and silently cut his connection.
He’d arrived at the ambush with 78 warships to his name and by his current count, including Bruneswitch’s thirteen, he now had a total of 28 warships. Not counting the Admiral’s Cutter. But then, who counted a glorified shuttle when tallying proper warships?
Three Battleships, twelve Cruisers, and thirteen Destroyers—minus, of course, the ten he’d just sent out with Bruneswitch to shadow the locals, and no victory to his name was little enough to return back to the High Admiral with.
He’d be lucky if he kept his head attached after Arnold Janeski was done with him. But at least when he one day stood before his god and predecessors, he could say he stood tall and did his best.
The thought wasn’t very comforting, but it was the best he had. Just because his subordinates had attempted to sabotage his command at every turn didn’t mean that, as a Wessex, he wasn’t expected to rise above it all. His only slim consolation was that hopefully in the commission of his duties, Bruneswitch would face that same fate as the late Flag Captain Jenner.
It was petty of him but there it was. Wessex might have to suffer his humiliation in silence but at least those two would receive a tithe of what they owed him for destroying the Task Force with their incompetence.
Curse line officers and their universal arrogance everywhere.
With that last quasi-comforting thought, there was no more reason to delay. Half his Cruisers and all of his Battleships were significantly damaged, and three of his Destroyers were barely functional.
It was time to point their nose toward Task Force 1 and fire up the long range array.
It was time to report to the High Admiral.
With a gulp, he squared his shoulders and proceeded to record a message to go along with the hard data. His only hope now was that Janeski saw how he was undermined at every turn and spared his life.
Mining ice in an uninhabited system was no longer as unattractive as it had once seemed even just a few days earlier.
****************************************************
Janeski crumpled the polymer report print-out in his hand. It listed the ships and personnel lost in the lone, glaring disaster that marred an otherwise perfectly run campaign and what a mistake it was.
“Damn him,” he swore with real rage twisting his face, “damn that man!”
“Sir?” his Flag Lieutenant asked, sticking his head through the open door.
“The North Hampton, Victorious Alignment, Pyramid,
Norfolk and the Liberation of Persecution…fifty warships lost just like that, with five more so heavily-damaged they’re good for nothing but the dry dock.” He reached down, and with a heave, overturned the desk in his ready room which fell with a crash.
The Lieutenant scurried out of the doorway like his life depended on it.
“Wessex! Give me back my men and ships!” he yelled and then stood there breathing heavily as his thoughts swirled into an amorphous rage. He had served with just about every man who had risen to command rank within the Reclamation Initiative. The loss of so many fine officers—men and women he’d served with personally—was like a blow to the body.
“Trouble?” asked Captain Goddard, the commanding officer of the Invictus Rising, Janeski’s Command Carrier and personal flagship.
Admiral Janeski turned and glared at him. “You know, whatever he’s done, you can always remove the man from command,” Goddard said dispassionately, meeting his eyes.
“Wessex is an incompetent bungler, and although I rue the day I was fool enough to place him in command, I knew him for the simpleton that he is. He is not the problem,” Arnold Janeski snapped. “Never again will I allow external politics to drive command assignments. Cornwallis and the entire Reclamation Initiative can go howl first!”
The Flag Captain cocked his head with surprise. “I’m sure that—” he started.
“Wessex is a fool,” he said dismissively, “it’s that blasted Governor again. He plagues me like a lapdog nipping at the heels demanding that someone—anyone—take it seriously. One good swift kick and that purulent little growth of a long-corrupted bloodline would be ended. Yet, like a dog, he continues to stay at range and urinate all over the carpet!” “So which is he: a rabid little toy dog, or one that makes a mess in the house?” Goddard asked solicitously.
Janeski turned red and then shook his head. A moment later a quickly suppressed chuckle sounded. “You’re right, Captain. I give the little boil too much of my time and emotion. I appreciate the reminder.”
“Happy I could be of assistance,” Captain Goddard said, looking down at the fallen table.
The Admiral followed his gaze, as if just now realizing his ready room was in disarray. He waved dismissively, “Housekeeping can clean it up.”
“Alright,” said Goddard.
“In the meantime, toy dog or incipient carpet-peer, it doesn’t matter. We stick with the plan. A Task Force has been repulsed short of its target and taken serious losses. Protocol says the Sector is finally rallying against us. It’s time to reconsolidate the Fleet and smash these local forces,” the High Admiral said with complete and utter certainty. “Once we take this Sector, it’s all downhill. Send out the recall orders via the FTL network and cut all external usage. It’s time our enemies became deaf and blind, as well as dumb. They can go back to an information relay that crawls across the Sector at the speed of courier ship.”
“We’ve already isolated the relays within transmission range of any of our ships in the Sector. We can cut all external usage…however,” Goddard said looking concerned, “several of the relays in this Sector, and in Sector 24, are not responding to our pings for automatic update. We can still send and receive but seem to have lost master control.”
“Send a few of the Corvettes from our closer garrison worlds with a repair team to regain control,” Janeski said uncaringly. “I want full and total control over what they can hear—and who they can call for help.”
“It will be as you command,” said Goddard.
“It’s time to end this,” Janeski growled after the Flag Captain had left the room, his eyes finding and lingering on the crumpled reports which had recently fouled his mood.
Chapter Twenty-seven: Rapid Repairs
Arc welders flashed, molecular rebounders buzzed, and servos whined. Yet despite the various crashes, bumps and bellows, the engineer continued to work on the job order in front of him.
The sub-relay for the data network must have been cross wired with the secondary power network somehow, because all the tests came back fine but as soon as they put a power load into the area the relay blew. It was the third time in two days, and it was starting to get a trifle annoying.
“That’s what you get when you allow robots to run cable,” he grumped, deciding that the man who ordered machines instead of ratings had been completely off his rocker.
Of course, seeing as he was the man who had ordered that particular bit of corner-cutting, time-saving measures, there was no one to blame but the crazy loon that was himself.
“Bah,” he grumbled, scooting in closer and attacking a secondary scanner unit to the cable.
“Chief?” asked a voice out of nowhere, causing the old man to jerk and bang his head against the tight metal confines of the service access he had his head stuck inside.
“What in all the confounded blazes?” he bellowed, shoving himself back out of the access panel by sheer force of upper body strength. That was something of an achievement, considering that most of his lower half was still made entirely of metal. Of course, on the other side of the equation, both of his arms were enhanced with synthetic hardware as well so that sort of balanced things out.
The other man stepped back to give him room. “Parkiney?” he asked, giving the other man the squint eye.
“The one and only, Chief,” said the Petty Officer.
“Well if you’re here to shoot the breeze, get out; as you can see I’m more than a little busy. If, on the other hand, you’ve got some actual business for me then spit it out!” Spalding growled.
“Word is we’re supposed to start getting a group of new captures in the yard—at least that was the plan before we stopped receiving updates,” Parkiney said.
“Good thing we’re not in the yard then; there’ll be no disruption of the schedule,” the old Engineer grunted.
“They should be here within days,” said the Petty Officer.
“They’re not here yet?” Spalding clarified, bending down to peer back into the access panel and then cursed as a mess of long, uncut, sweaty hair flopped onto his forehead.
He was glad his hair was starting to grow back after the last time he involuntarily went back under the knife in that pit of horrors they called ‘Medical.’ But right now all it did was serve to remind him of that terrible place. Maybe after his once great ‘do really grew back, it would start bringing back pleasant memories instead.
“Why are we talking about this anyway?” he asked after shaking his head to clear his thoughts. “I thought you had something important to discuss.”
“Blast it, Sir. They’re going to have Battleships, and Cruisers, and everything in orbit of the core in need of repair. The yard’s going to need all hands on deck,” Parkiney protested.
“Listen up, buddy,” Spalding said, straightening back up and giving the other man the hairy eyeball. “You want to jump ship, just give the word and I’ll let you out. Otherwise we stay the course—no switching horses midstream. This project is too important for that sort of nonsense.”
“Scuttlebutt is they’re facing an Imperial fleet out there, sir. Every ship we can get out there could be the difference between someone coming home and the whole fleet getting massacred,” Parkiney said seriously. “And they’re going to have Battleships coming back as well. How can we stand by, working on this, while the rest of the yard is helping the fleet?”
“First off, I’ve looked at the repair estimates. It’ll take at least six months to get any of those ships minimally functional after all the internal and external damage they took,” Spalding frowned as he felt his temper rising. “As for another, we’re not standing by with our thumbs up our keesters while everyone else is working a bloody wrench. We’re pulling eighteen hour days in here, lad, but if you think the pressure’s too much for you then just say the word and you’re out! I don’t need no blasted slackers gumming up the work with their can’t do attitudes.”
“Slacker? Can’t do attitude?” Parkiney repeated, anger appearing on his face for the first time. “I work harder than any two men. And what’s more, those Battleships might take six months but this skeleton needs at least another year before she’s ready to roll out—and that’s assuming you have some scheme to power her. I don’t know if it’s even possible but since it’s you, if you tell me you’ve got a way then I’ll believe you. But tell me I’m not wrong and it’s not going to take a year. Tell me! Because even if we can’t get a Battleship out of the yard, this work crew could sure as Hades pump out a couple of Destroyers—maybe even a Cruiser, and in far less than half that time!”
“This blasted ship is the pride of the fleet—or she’s going to be, I tell you,” Spalding bellowed. “And yes, blight it, it might take her a year to finish out all the bells and whistles along with the trimmings but mark my words, son: we’ll have her rollin’ out of the yard in less than two months.”
“Two months is impossible—even for you—and I say that knowing full well what a genius like you is capable of,” Parkiney cried.
“I’ve already got the antimatter for two generators from the droid wreckage off Elysium. I just need to test the design to see if it’s stable like I believe. If that works, all that’s left is the new particle accelerator and the new specially-built grav-plates, and shielded control runs are already being installed as fast as the production facility can spit them out,” Spalding explained, his good eye turning red while the little veins and capillaries stood out further and further as he gazed off into the distance at something only he could see.
“The main gun’s one thing, Sir. It’s just a scaled-up version of an older tech we’re all familiar with. But Antimatter generators? Commander, we haven’t even finished the internal structures—let alone armored her up,” Parkiney exclaimed. “Two months won’t even let us finish all that up or allow for safety testing. I’m sure you’re familiar with the track history of antimatter use in warships, so if you say you can get the generators to run on it then, again, I’ll believe you…at least until I see otherwise. But, sir, this is untested technology and you’re not allowing any margin for error!”
“Have I ever steered you wrong?” Spalding barked.
“Even if the accelerator and the generators are in and running, she’ll be a skeleton. She’ll be of no use in combat, our people need us now—or at least in a few days’ time,” said Parkiney. “Besides with just the inner hull beams and support, she’ll be open to space and liable to break apart.
“Well, have I?!” Spalding repeated the question furiously.
“Never,” said Parkiney.
“Then believe in me now, lad,” Spalding roared, pointing a finger to the side and shaking it at the wall as if lecturing to an entire class. “When I say the Clover will be ready for what she’s needed for, and within two months, she’ll blasted bloody well be ready. We don’t need no stinkin’ armor. We don’t even need a full set of generators to run what we have yet to install. All we need is that particle accelerator and a hyper drive. After that, my boy, and only after that will her enemies once against begin to shake with mortal terror at the mere mention of the name Lucky Clover. They will soil themselves with fear upon entering the same star system as the greatest ship that ever lived—or my name isn’t Terrence P. Spalding!”
Parkiney slowly nodded. “You’ve saved my life too many times—all of our lives—if you say you’ve got a plan then pass or fail, I’m with you,” he said finally.
“Good lad,” the Chief Engineer said, clouting the Petty Officer on the shoulder hard enough to stagger him. “Now get back to work.”
“Aye, sir,” said the Crew Chief.
“And don’t you worry none about the support beams; they’re made of the new Duralloy. They’ll hold,” he assured Parkiney.
The Petty Officer nodded and then turned to go.
Looking back down at the access panel, the old Engineer finally shook his head and pulled out a data slate instead. Pulling up the work queue, he decided to give the project up for a lost cause and assign the work order to someone else. A young up-and-coming engineer hot for a new project could handle this sort of thing just fine.
He was sure everything would be fine but, just in case, he’d better go back over the figures again. There was no point in pulling the Clover out of space dock only to have the ship’s dual-purpose main engine twist everything out of alignment and toss half a year’s worth of hard work right down the drain.
Meandering his way up and into the Clover’s new bridge—which, after it was finished, was slated to look amazingly like the ship’s previous one. It should, after all, since he was taking the old consoles and equipment and reinstalling them. He started punching up data and re-running the numbers.
An Engineer’s work was never done.
Chapter Twenty-eight: Arriving in Easy Haven
We were one jump out from Easy Haven and the Wolf-9 Starbase and so far, other than a few sensor ghosts, there had been no sign of the enemy’s main fleet.
We’d seen neither hide nor hair of the enemy, which should have been a good thing. Except for during that shortly after the battle with Reclamation Fleet Task Force 3, our entire ComStat network—which had been working intermittently before that—had suddenly gone dark.
No matter how far away we jumped, we had been unable to successfully ping another FTL buoy.
Now we were past the point-of-no-return on our hyper drive, ready to jump into what should have been the second or third safest star system we could have possibly gone to, and all I could think about was the growing pit in the middle of my stomach.
This information deficit was deadly. Back before I’d had access to the ComStat network it hadn’t been so bad, just me an Admiral and his battleship with maybe a few other ships in the fleet around me. Even going to Sector 24 hadn’t been so bad. Sure, there had been information gaps but I’d always been able to relay a message home.
Now we were facing our greatest threat ever—an enemy fleet with Imperial officers and warships refitted with Imperial tech—and, like a switch had been hit, I was back in the dark. It was more than unsettling and all I could think about were all the things that could have possibly gone wrong.
“Five minutes until jump,” reported the ship’s Navigator, Lieutenant Brightenbauc.
“Ready the ship,” said Captain Hammer.
All around me, even on the flag bridge, everything was going smoothly. A glance at the panoramic view of the main bridge showed that everyone on Hammer’s bridge was doing their job as well.
Although I still wasn’t entirely used to having a ship with two fully functional bridges, so far between myself and the Captain we’d managed to make it work.
Of course that didn’t mean that I wasn’t keeping DuPont up here with me and in control of the ship. Let Hammer have Brightenbauc and control over the jump system; she was more likely to spot if he was doing something wrong than I would. But back in normal space I wanted to be able to speak directly to the ship’s pilot at need. Let the Captain communicate via two way holo-screen.
“Preparing to jump in ten…nine…eight…seven…” warned Brightenbauc.
“This is the Captain; all hand prepared to jump,” Captain Hammer warned.
There was a slight lurch and space twisted as it folded around us, and in the blink of an eye we were in another Star System. It truly was an amazing thing we did every time we jumped. It was just too bad I didn’t have time to properly savor it.
Already my stomach turned and my muscles clenched as I prepared myself for the battle of my life. Janeski had been one step ahead of me for too long and I wasn’t about to be caught off-guard again.
“Point Emergence,” reported the Navigator, sounding like he was officially on task and on top of his job. But while he might sound like he knew what he was doing, I had a screen dedicated just for him during jumps. He was still shaky as far as I was concerned and I was going to keep an eye on him. I smelled more cowardice than traitor on him, but cowardly men were known to do any wild thing under pressure.
“Extending baffling and lighting up the main engine,” said the Helmsman, Mr. DuPont, as familiar to me as the layout of what used to be the ship’s CIC and was now my flag bridge. Hearing his steady voice saying the same words I’d heard countless times, I relaxed fractionally. I could be certain that at least one person was doing their job and that he knew how to do it to my satisfaction.
“Step lively, bridge crew,” said Commander Happening, the ship’s First Officer, “we don’t relax until we’re out of the sump and have identified every contact in the system. Just because we’re back at Wolf-9, a nominally friendly base, doesn’t mean the Reclamationists couldn’t have arrived first.”
Heads nodded and shoulders stiffened as the men and women on both the flag bridge and battle bridge manned their consoles with renewed attention.
I was surprised; the First Officer had caught my attention this time. Until now he’d been something of a non-entity to me, the silent backup to Captain Hammer, but I would make a note of this and remember. I wasn’t the only one with concerns.
The main screen started to populate, but so far system appeared to be just as advertised: completely uninhabited by man or marauding space beast.
“Point Resistance?” asked Hammer, looking at the ship’s science officer.
“I read an estimated forty eight gravities of resistance, Captain,” grunted the Science Officer staring at his console with a serious expression.
“Where are my engine numbers,” Hammer demanded of the helmsman.
“Main Engine at 15% of maximum,” said DuPont, fingers flying over his console, “lighting up secondaries now.”
“Shields modulated for the gravity sump,” reported the man at shields, “shield generators continue to perform as expected despite battle repairs. We are ready for a slide, Captain.”
“Let’s get moving, Helmsman,” I urged even though I knew I should just sit back and let the ship’s Captain handle things.
“Engine output increased to 25% of maximum, Sir,” reported DuPont, “both secondaries coming up to 25% also in three seconds…three...two!...one!”
“Shield strength at 93%, and holding,” said the main Shield Operator, but when I glanced over at Longbottom I saw him frown.
“The repairs may be holding but for a jump that size, the book says we shouldn’t have fallen below 95%,” Captain Hammer said strictly. “As the flagship of this fleet I expect no lower than a 97% as soon as we’re repaired. We set the standard for everyone else. Do I make myself clear, Shields?”
The section leaders, both up on the flag bridge and down battle bridge, signaled their agreement as the ship gave the barest shudder.
“Exiting the sump now, Admiral,” reported Lieutenant Brightenbauc and just like that we were free.
“Good job, team,” I projected my voice so it could be easily heard all the way around the bridge and picked up for relay over to Hammer’s bridge. With all the new crew, both Confederation and Border Alliance volunteers, it was just as important as ever to foster the sort of team spirit that would help us survive the latest unholy mess we’d found ourselves in.
“Contact!” called out the Sensor Officer. “Multiple unidentified contacts both coming and going from the Starbase, Captain…and, Admiral,” said the Officer, adding me in at the last moment.
“Size, course and bearing,” said the Captain rapidly, “get me distances, Sensors!”
“I’m getting the IFF signal from the local defense squadron that Commodore LeGodat indicated was supposed be in the system, Sirs,” reported Lieutenant Steiner.
“Good work, Comm.,” I replied.
“Steiner,” Hammer echoed me with a nod.
“Battleships! Captain, the local reservist defense squadron is in close proximity to Wolf-9, however I’m reading one battleship between us and the Starbase and three more orbiting just out of range of the base defenses,” reported the Sensor Officer.
I suddenly went from tense to rigid.
“IFF signals of these new ships are unknown,” reported Steiner not half a beat later.
“Weapons hot. Sensors, scan our immediate area again—I don’t want anything sneaking up on us,” said Hammer. My own eyes were locked on the main screen tracking any and all movement as I read and identified possible enemy contacts.
“Admiral, I just received hail from the nearest Battleship,” said Comm. Officer Steiner with excitement in her voice.
“What have we got?” I asked forcing myself back into calmness, or at least the appearance of it. I was back on the stage and I couldn’t afford a mistake.
Cocking her head and listening, Steiner’s sudden smile of relief was so sudden and surprising I almost fell out of my chair before she once again turned on her professional demeanor.
“Sir, he says he’s the Captain of the Agamemnon out of Aegis, come to join the Grand Fleet under Confederation Vice Admiral Jason Montagne in repelling the invaders of our Sector,” Steiner said.
I blinked. Aegis was one of the more militant Core Worlds in this sector, which meant that seeing them here wasn’t as surprising as the fact that they’d sent anything at all—let alone a fully-fledged battleship.
If you’d told me before this moment that the main worlds of this Sector would be willing to try and unify together to fight off the Reclamation Fleet before it was too late to do anything but whistle at the dark, I would have told you the odds were less than fifty percent. What’s more, if they did do so then it would have been at Central under the Sector Government’s direct leadership. This wasn’t only unexpected—it completely blew me away.
I nodded. “It’s great to hear we’re getting some reinforcements, people, but let’s not let our guard down just yet—not until after we hear from the Starbase,” I said calmly. And probably not even after that, I silently added, but there was no need to give voice to my suspicions on an open mike to both bridges. If the Core Worlds were here to help us, great; if they weren’t then we’d find out soon enough. But either way, having my own people acting suspiciously would kill any small chance we had of unifying yet another group of SDF warships into our fleet structure before it could even start.
No, being suspicious was my job.
Everyone else needed to be the nice, relieved and happy fellow officers they would be expecting to see—either way this went.
When confirmation that both Aegis and Hart’s World had both sent Battleships—as well as squadrons of lighter warships—to join this ‘Grand Fleet’ they were expecting to come from Wolf-9, everyone around me was pleasantly surprised.
“This is excellent news, Admiral,” Captain Hammer said to me.
“Agreed,” I said, slowly nodding, “I can always use another squadron of battleships. Even if they aren’t used to working with each other yet, they will be soon enough.
Hammer nodded.
“Get all the information you can, Captain and signal the other members of…the ‘Grand Fleet,’ I guess it is now. I want a roll call, a ship’s count, and after you do that you are to notify them that I want every Admiral, Commodore, and ship commander to meet in our conference room upon our arrival at Wolf-9,” I said, thinking it was probably best to test just how committed these new members of our ‘Grand Fleet’ were.
If they came to the meeting then great, that would be an important first step. On the other hand, if they proved too fearful to come under the guns of the Starbase in a relatively unprotected shuttle then that would tell me something else entirely.
“Will do, Admiral Montagne,” said Hammer.
“Thank you, Captain,” I replied.
Yes, I was paranoid and still looking for the knife in the dark—the one aimed right at my unguarded back. But while I might be wrong this time, in my defense they really had tried to knife me before—in both the literal and figurative sense.
I needed to be on my guard.
Chapter Twenty-nine: General Conference for the Grand Fleet
In some ways it was fortunate that I hadn’t been placed in command of the Sector 23 Fleet. Since I hadn’t had to run the thing it had given me insights into how such a meeting was run, as well as the types of personalities that could be encountered at the top levels.
None of which was incredibly helpful right at this particular moment, but it did help me to keep my temper firmly in check as I was unable to tell myself this was some sort of special treatment reserved for the ‘Tyrant of Cold Space,’ Rather, it was the general sort of jockeying one must expect in these sorts of situations.
Down the table, an officer with hooded eyes looked to the side and one of the Battleship Captains from his Star System’s SDF stood up.
The younger officer—still early-to-middle aged from what I could tell—cleared his throat.
“After reviewing the battle tapes provided to us by the Vice Admiral, I would like to propose, on my own initiative, that this body consider moving the now-reinforced Grand Fleet out from Easy Haven,” said the Captain in no nonsense voice. “We should hunt down the remnants of the Fleet intending to attack Hart’s World,” he declared, and at this he nodded to both myself and the Commodore sent from Hart, “before they have time to unify with any other enemy fleets, or Task Forces, as they prefer to call them. The enemy is weakened; let us smite him while we can!”
Heads nodded around the table, mainly from the large number of fellow officers from the Aegis SDF that had arrived as our ‘reinforcements’.
Four Battleships, nine Cruisers and twenty Destroyers—that was the weight of reinforcements we had received from the combined efforts of Aegis and Hart. It was more than a drop in the bucket but, considering the numbers we were up against, it still wasn’t enough to take the enemy on head on.
“The enemy is long gone by almost two weeks now. When you combine our post-battle emergency repairs with our transit time here,” I said firmly, “the trail’s gone cold. And even if we did find them, they’d probably have already met up with another Task Force. Give it up for now. If and when we receive new information, I’ll reexamine it at that time.”
The Captain glanced at the Aegis Admiral with the hooded eyes, who made a small hand gesture, causing the Captain’s jaw to clench.
“While I don’t doubt the information you have about multiple enemy fleets invading this Sector, our duty as SDF officers is to defend the various worlds of this Sector. I would say the information you’ve provided about these other three Task Forces only increases the need to act!” the Captain said stridently. “If we can draw the attention of the enemy fleet, even at some small disadvantage to ourselves, then we must do so in order to protect our worlds while the significant firepower represented by our ships are not there to protect them!”
“The Aegis SDF is free to do as it must, and if that means you feel the need to leave Easy Haven then that’s your call. Like the MSP, the Grand Fleet is and will remain an ‘at will’ organization. Except during battle, the various contingents are free to come and go,” I said, and then leaned forward in my chair speaking to the Aegis Captain but looking right into the hooded eyes of the Aegis Admiral. “That said, the Grand Fleet has one leader—and I am he. We will be staying here for now seeing as over half of the Grand Fleet was damaged during our last engagement and many ships are in need of critical repairs.”
“I must protest,” declared the Aegis Captain.
“Hart stands fully behind the Vice Admiral,” said the Commodore from Hart.
“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” I said with a nod toward the Commodore.
The Aegis Captain narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. I narrowed my own eyes at him and the Admiral from Aegis lifted his hand, silencing his Captain.
“Perhaps the first thing we need to do is settle any questions regarding the chain of command,” said the other man, speaking for the first time.
I released a cutting smile. Here it came: the play for power and the try against my interests.
“Both the Sector Government and the Confederation charter clearly place me in command of the defense of this Sector of the Spine,” I said without rancor, “if that’s what you’re asking.”
If this man thought I was about to let someone else take command of my forces—inside my own Sector, no less—he could take his toys and go home.
“Oh, no, I am not disputing your command over the…joint defense effort, Tyran-, I mean Vice Admiral, of course,” the Aegis Admiral said, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly but his eyes as emotionless as ever. “However, there is always the question of what to do if you fall or are rendered temporarily unable to perform your duties as fleet commander due to damage or comm. breakdown. So discussing your eventual second in command seems in order if the enemy is as powerful as you claim.”
“Admiral…Silverback, isn’t it?” I said, my eyes boring into those of the other Admiral. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of you before this day. Even so, I believe such questions to be premature at best.”
“Not all of us perform feats worthy of appearing multiple times on Cosmic News primetime broadcasts,” Silverback said with a self-effacing gesture that did nothing to disguise the dig for what it really was.
I continued to produce the patented, pleasant, royal non-smile and gazed back at Admiral Silverback unrepentantly. He was going to have to do more than make sly insinuations about my supposed crimes—crimes which were pinned on me in the court of public opinion solely so that the Sector Government could create a scapegoat for everything that had gone wrong.
“If we’re done with this topic, I’d like to switch over to—” I said only to be cut off.
“We need a clear chain of command; this is a war, not a police action. Casualties are…inevitable,” said the Aegis Admiral with heavy emphasis on the last word.
I flipped out a finger and started counting. “First, I will direct you to a review of Article 9, Sub-section 209 of the Confederation Charter; that should answer your question as to the proper procedure should I fall in battle. Second, discussion of my replacement seems premature since I’m not planning to go anywhere until after our ships have had a chance to effect repairs here at the Wolf-9 repair slips—which could take a week or two. Third, unless Hart and Aegis are the only worlds intending to send reinforcements then I would think the appropriate thing to do is table the discussion until we have more representatives here,” I said, easily counting off my points one by one. Personally, I hoped he did a lot of reading of the Confederation Charter because the document stated that in the case of the death of the senior Confederation representative, my replacement would be my second in command—again, another Confederation officer.
“The Confederation Charter is an outdated document which no longer reflects the political reality on the ground,” Admiral Silverback riposted, clearly either familiar with what the chain of command would be if we used the Charter as our guide, or too wise and canny to allow me to frame the argument.
I lifted an eyebrow. “You’re trying to tell the Confederation Admiral this Sector placed in command of its defense that the Charter which requires him to serve, protect, and defend your worlds is an outdated document which he should no longer follow?” I asked mildly.
Silverback huffed, leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.
“When the Empire pulled out, they took the Confederation with them; we’ve been abandoned,” scoffed the commander of the third Aegis battleship. “And if that’s not a violation of your precious Charter then I don’t know what is.”
“I don’t recall abandoning this Sector. In fact, quite the opposite,” I said and then my smile turned into a lopsided grin, “I’m surprised you didn’t already notice, as Admiral Silverback just mentioned—it’s been all over the news.”
“Touché, Vice Admiral,” Silverback said.
“Now, if we can attempt to focus on more practical considerations—such as repairs, supplies, and what reinforcements we can expect from the other worlds of this Sector—I would appreciate it,” I said.
The top Aegis brass and the Hart commodore exchanged looks.
“Problem?” I inquired.
The Hart Commodore shook his head. “My world doesn’t have the information network that Aegis does, but we trade with all the other Core Worlds, as well as deal with them in the Sector Assembly,” he explained.
“Good to know,” I said neutrally, uncertain where he was going with this.
“Look, a lot of worlds are running scared,” the Commodore continued, “I’m sure we’ll get a few minor reinforcements…a handful of Destroyers, a single Cruiser, or maybe even a couple squadrons of hastily-reactivated Corvettes. But until they see that their worlds are safe from immediate attack they’re not going to kick loose a large force of powerful warships—no matter what Sector Central says.”
“Shortsighted but hardly unsurprising,” I said unhappily, “we’ll have to send couriers to remind them of the danger to this Sector, as well as their duty to defend it.”
“Look,” Silverback said, injecting himself back into the conversation, “if you want reinforcements then we can show that this Grand Fleet is good for something other than sitting around making repairs. We have to concentrate the enemy and keep them focused on us and not conquering everything in sight. Otherwise…” he trailed off suggestively, “until they see results, they’re not going to commit anything more than the bare minimum.”
“You’re here,” I pointed out.
“Aegis takes the long view,” Admiral Silverback noted and then his smile turned sinister, “besides, we’re one of the strongest worlds in this Sector and we have powerful defenses.”
Shaking my head, I reluctantly conceded that they were probably right. Without a series of victories, or at least our demonstrating that we could keep the Core Worlds of this Sector from falling over like a line of dominos, more ships were going to be hard to come by.
“I believe I have a better understanding of the current situation than I did before we spoke,” I said with a smile. If that smile failed to reach my eyes I didn’t know, mainly because I didn’t check. “Now, about our supply train,” I said, swiftly changing the subject, “I realize many of you want to go out and fight immediately but what about..” I continued, driving the conversation away from controversial subjects like ‘who was going to be my second in command’ or ‘which worlds were going to hold out until the bitter end and only send help once victory was assured.’
It was going to be a long day—even I could tell that already.
Chapter Thirty: Word of the Governor and the Grand Fleet
“Intelligence sources indicate that Sector resistance is forming up around this Grand Fleet of theirs, High Admiral,” said the blank faced man standing to the side of the desk.
“Verification level, Major?” he asked, turning to meet and hold the blank-faced man’s gaze.
“Sources within the Sector Assembly, as well as low-level sources on several key worlds, Sir,” replied the other man. “Fleet Intelligence places the certainty at Level 2.”
“Location and current force estimate?” asked the High Admiral, looking down at the star map.
“Easy Haven, the old Wolf-9 Starbase, and no more than two Battleship squadrons with accompanying lighter warships,” said the Major.
“That’s the best we can do?” High Admiral Janeski frowned at the blank-faced man.
“The warship contributions are independently decided by the worlds that send them; our local planetary assets are all in low-level position and our sources in the local Assembly can only report what they know when they know it,” the Major replied with a shrug.
“The idea was to keep them weak and divided, dispersed throughout the Sector without the ability to unify, so as to more easily defeat them in detail. I understand that plans go wrong. However, what exactly were you ‘sources’ doing that allowed this situation to arise?” asked Admiral Janeski dangerously.
“They can only pressure and urge, Sir. Unfortunately, the Provisional Governor rammed through the legislation enabling the creation of a volunteer force. In a closed session of the Security Council, he relied on blackmail and personal favors to get it approved—even successfully leveraging one of our sources,” the blank-faced man said with a hint of appreciation. “After that, it immediately went to the floor for an up or down vote, no amendments allowed. By the time our people were able to report back and receive instructions it was already too late.”
“I assume the Provisional Governor was dealt with?” asked Janeski.
Now, for the first time, the Major started to look embarrassed. “Shortly after the bill’s passage, the Governor departed on a goodwill tour, ostensibly to pull up sagging poll numbers. But, in retrospect, it was clearly to drum up support on a world by world basis and lay the groundwork for this Grand Fleet to appear as a viable solution if and when we came onto the scene,” said the Major.
Janeski drummed his fingers along the top of his conference table and then looked over to give the Major a penetrating look. “In other words: he’s still alive and has not been brought over to our side,” he said coldly.
“We sabotaged the Governor’s personal yacht during its stay on Areas and it suffered a catastrophic hyper drive failure which exploded upon attempting to leave the star system. However, either he became suspicious and all we got was a body double or else he was never on it in the first place. Right now he’s in the wind, showing up at random locations to meet and greet the people on less-developed worlds where we don’t have eyes, and giving interviews to CNN from undisclosed locations.”
The High Admiral drew in a breath and released it. “Enough on that particular subject; back to this Grand Fleet,” he said, tacitly approving—or at least forgiving—the course of action and its results. “We built in contingencies for just these sort of occurrences. It’s time we followed through.”
“Of course,” said the other man, “how can the Intelligence Services help you, High Admiral?”
“The Sector Governor…” he glanced over at the Major.
“Governor Isaak,” supplied the other man.
Janeski nodded. “He is not the only person determined to throw a wrench in our long-laid plans, but on his own he is powerless. The court of public opinion has no hold over me. The only real impediment to the reclamation of these long-abandoned Confederation Sectors is this so-called Grand Fleet,” said the Admiral, and the blank-faced Major nodded.
“I have a plan to deal with the Grand Fleet and the…imposter to Confederation Officership who leads it, and you’re going to help me carry it out,” he said.
“What would you have me do?” asked the Major.
“I am not used to dealing with squeak ants. It’s time we dealt with the Governor of Planetary Body Harpoon once and for all,” Janeski said, and his smile when it came was as cold as interstellar ice. “I’ve read the reports on other worlds in this Sector—the ones most likely to donate ships to the ‘Grand Fleet’ our little friend is lashing together. So here is what I want you to do...” he leaned forward and, speaking in a low voice, explained exactly what he wanted the Intelligence Services to do.
Leaning back at the conclusion of his instructions, the Major nodded. “That should be easily within our capabilities, Sir,” said the other man. “In addition to the benefits it will provide the R-Fleet, if done the right way it should also present several benefits for our operatives on the ground.”
“However it needs to be done, just make sure it happens,” the High Admiral said, reaching into his desk and then handing over a data storage device. “I’ve prepared a file with the necessary information. Feel free to edit it at need so long as the broad strokes are followed.”
“I’ll get on this right away,” said the Major taking the device and stepping back, “you should see results within one to two weeks.”
“Then you are free to be about it,” said Janeski, knowing that should give just enough time for the last of the Task Forces to reach his position and the 1st Reclamation Fleet—minus the losses from Task Force 3—should be fully assembled.
The Major nodded and left the room.
Making a note, Janeski composed a message for the reserve fleet station in Sector 26 to assemble all available forces at the forward operating base stationed on the border of 25 and 26, at the New Tau Ceti star system.
From there, it would easily be in a position to reinforce 1st Fleet or cut off any retreat by the shattered remnants of the local forces.
Now all that was left was to draw out this Grand Fleet—far too conceited a name for the pitiful compilation of forces it represented, in his opinion. All that was needed was to get it away from the fortifications at Wolf-9 and then, in one swift stroke, to crush it forever.
He in no way accepted as possible that the Reclamation Fleet might fail to destroy the combined might of the Grand Fleet and the Starbase, but the only unnecessary casualties he was prepared to allow were all on the enemy’s side.
Wolf-9 used to be a serious defensive fortification with Battlestations, floating gun turrets, and a whole slew of other deadly gifts for any invader. After three years of repairs and reactivation of the Starbase, who knew what was active over there?
Given the choice, he would much rather defeat his opponent—any enemy—one bite size piece at a time. First the Fleet, then any reinforcements, and finally the fortifications—if possible, nicely stripped of all mobile assets before they were atomized.
Of course, if he had to do it the hard way then he would. But in the end there was nothing a backwater Sector like this one could do in the face of the powerful military machine he’d spent the last several years forging.
Nothing at all, he thought with icy disdain, other than scream and die after the few feeble blows they could land are easily absorbed by my forces.
It was time to end this and return home in triumph. Not only as the man who successfully expanded the Empire’s borders to larger than they’d ever been, but if the information that kept coming out of Sector 24 and the small taskforce he’d sent there was correct, possibly even as the person who finally took the first concrete step in restoring a fully-functioning MAN to the galaxy.
It was a heady thought. But, for now, he needed to stay focused and do this by the numbers. He still had a campaign to win, after all.
Chapter Thirty-one: Shaking things up
“Lisa,” I said, activating my com system early in the day.
“What can I do for you, Sir?” asked the Com-Officer.
“I’d like you to set up a meeting for me with my wife at eleven o’clock,” I said.
“Me? I mean, of course, Sir,” Lisa Steiner said professionally.
“Oh, and Lisa, pass the word over to the Armor Prince. I’d like to speak with Wainwright in my office an hour before that at ten,” I instructed.
“Or course, Sir,” said the former com-tech before closing the channel.
Flipping the com-panel shut, I switched over to start a general information search.
“D’Argent,” I said, pausing and turning my head in the midst of my data query.
“My Lord?” he asked, smoothly stepping around so I could see him.
“It’s time to make a few changes around here, and I’d like us to put our heads together first in order to see just what we can do with the armsmen. I want to make sure things transition as smoothly as possible,” I explained calmly.
“That’s our job,” said the head of my new personal guard—which, by the way, was taking a little getting used to on my part.
“Before we get started, has there been any trouble from my former Lancer detail?” I asked.
“They’re a little disgruntled to have been shifted from your close-in protective detail to your outer guard. Some of them…apprised us of their displeasure face-to-face, but they all survived the experience—this time,” he replied matter-of-factly.
“Excellent,” I nodded, having seen a short-but-intense series of incident reports with attached medical exam findings for nearly a dozen Lancers just a day earlier. I’d already put two and two together as to the cause, but it was good to see D’Argent’s professional mood and affect as he reported on the occasion. To my knowledge, none of the Armsmen had been injured—which was good news as far as I was concerned. “Now, about those changes; here’s what I’m thinking. So feel free to correct me wherever you see obvious holes…” I said as I started to lay out my current plan to take back control of my fleet, my flagship and my family.
****************************************************
The door slid open and the first person on my agenda for the day stomped into my office like the hardened Marine he was.
“Colonel Wainwright, Caprian Marines, reporting for duty, Admiral,” said the Marine officer with a firm, no-nonsense look on his face.
“Good to see you, General,” I said giving the other man a nod, “please have a seat this could take a while.”
“Don’t mind if I do. And it’s ‘Colonel,’ Admiral,” he said, choosing one of the two chairs in front of my desk and pulling it out a few inches before sitting down.
“Not any more,” I said with a smirk, “Colonel Wainwright, by virtue of the authority vested in me by the Confederation Assembly as a Vice Admiral, I hereby promote you to the brevet rank of Brigadier General for meritorious service in battle. Congratulations, General.”
Wainwright blinked and then looked taken aback.
“Thank you, Admiral. I guess…” he said, his features closing.
“Frankly, this bump—even if it’s only temporary—is long overdue. You deserve the rank. Thankfully, you’ve been with us long enough that I can get away with the field promotion,” I said, spinning out enough bologna right alongside the space gods honest truth to baffle any man, at least that’s what I hoped. “Of course, whether the rank sticks will depend on the Confederation Assembly.”
Wainwright rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I never wanted anything more than to be a Caprian Marine. This Confederation business came like a slider out of left field. But I’ll happily take the rank—and the pay increase—while it’s there. I’ll then happily go back to being a Colonel if and when that time comes.”
“Let’s all pray that time comes sooner rather than later,” I agreed easily enough. Personally, I didn’t see him or his unit being recalled back to Capria in the foreseeable future. He and his men had been stuck out here for a number of years already with no recall order in sight. I think they thought back home that his brigade had been hopelessly contaminated with the Montagne taint.
“Thank you,” said the former Colonel.
“Almost forgot,” I added, leaning forward and pushing a pair of recently fabricated Confederation General insignias.
Wainwright started to reach for them and then paused before grabbing them. He instead tapped them with an index finger as a grimace crossed his face.
“These are Lancer insignia,” he said, using that same index finger to tap the rank insignia meaningfully while giving me a stern look.
“They are; this is a Confederation outfit after all,” I said simply.
“I think I’ll stay a Colonel if it’s all the same to you. Once a Marine, always a Marine,” he said pushing the tabs toward me.
“I think I’m going to have to insist,” I said, reaching out and pushing the rank tabs back to him. “If it makes you feel any better, the Confederation has a marine corps and a long tradition of integrating local armed forces into its ranks. I just don’t happen to have the ability to offer rank within it and right now I need a general.”
“Of all the infernal ancestors…why?” Wainwright grunted.
“It’s time to clarify the lines of authority running inside this fleet. To be honest, I haven’t been doing the best job of that with the Lancer divisions lately. We started out with one ship and a shoestring, fly-by-night operation headed first by Colonel Suffic and then a strange combination of Akantha and Captain Atticus, with each Battleship operating pretty much independently. Oh, they know they have to take orders from me and are pretty good about following the orders of their ship commanders, but that’s no longer good enough. The good Colonel’s been gone for a while and Atticus is dead. Like I said: it’s time to clarify the situation.”
“And having to suppress a near mutiny not more than two months ago has nothing to do with this sudden urge to reorganize, does it?” Wainwright cut straight to the heart of the matter—just like any trained killer would do.
“About that,” I said, my eyes boring into the Marine commander’s, “as the senior commander of this Fleet’s Lancer division, I’d expect you to begin exerting a command influence immediately.”
Wainwright looked at me dourly for several seconds. “What did you have in mind?” he asked cautiously.
“I thought we’d start with the flagship. You and, say, a regiment of your Marines would transfer over here to set up shop. Get everything under one roof, so to speak,” I said.
“And the Tracto-ans? There are an awful lot of Lancers onboard this ship,” remarked Wainwright neutrally.
I waved my hand in the air. “I made sure we received a number of the Border Alliance recruits, these ones trained Marines or land forces back on their home worlds. It was only the replacements, of course, so in addition to our remaining Caprian and Promethean recruits from Messene, we’re not entirely a Tracto-an outfit over here. My thought was we’d move an equal number of companies out as you have coming in from the Armor Prince. I even happen to have a list of the companies I was thinking to send back to the Prince,” I said, giving the other man a significant look.
“So not a purge then,” Wainwright said forthrightly.
My brows lifted. “Hardly,” I said rolling my eyes. “This is more along the lines of transferring out low-functioning personnel and slotting them back in where they’ll do the most good. The Tracto-ans can continue to do everything they agreed to do when they signed on, and they’ll do so from a location that will not encourage their less desirable cultural tendencies. In other words: somewhere I won’t have to slaughter them in job lots because they thought it’d be a really sweet idea to try and usurp the chain of command via mutiny.”
“Just so long as we’re clear,” said Wainwright, a hard glint entering his eyes.
“I think what we should be clear on is that I’ve been much more merciful than a Marine like yourself, compelled by military law, would have been allowed to be,” I then leaned back in my chair. “And wherever possible I intend to continue to show the restraint and forgiveness which I, if not my family, have rightfully become famous for,” I said airily.
Wainwright’s jaw tightened as he looked at me.
“Follow the law, General; that’s all I’m looking for. That and some inspired leadership at the top of our combined Lancer/Marine force,” I added, leaning forward and slapping the table for emphasis. “The rest of it can and will be viewed as a simple, clerically-inspired personnel transfer. But let’s be clear: I have a family now, and the easy catch phrase ‘it’s all fun and games so long as no one but a Montagne loses an eye’ is over and done with. You’re the man I’d like to spearhead this Fleet’s effort to weld our disparate power-armored forces into a real professional military force. But I’ll make no bones about it: if it’s not you, I will find someone else. I’ve had enough with half-baked solutions. Do what it takes to get the job done.”
“If I do this I’m going to need real support, not political games that cuts this effort off at the knees,” said Wainwright.
“Look. Go over the transfer list I’ve come up with. Pick whichever regiment of your forces you think will best support you here. Start here, you’ll have the run of the flagship, excepting only the ship’s Armory Team and my personal protective detail. You can coordinate things on that front through the armsman in charge of my detail, Sean D’Argent. After you have things here locked down, start making changes throughout the rest of the Fleet,” I advised.
“You mean while we’re heading into what could turn out to be the middle of a warzone?” Wainwright asked with some dark humor.
“I’ve found that nothing focuses the mind like the threat of imminent annihilation. I’m sure you’ll cope,” I said with an empty smile.
General Wainwright sat there thinking for almost a minute before nodding. “Alright, then I’ll start the process of transferring over to the flagship,” he said.
“Excellent. If there are any details you’d like to go over, now’s the time, General,” I said.
“Concerning the organization and training schedule…” Wainwright started, and I leaned forward listening intently.
I was taking a risk by placing one man in charge of my ground forces, but it was a calculated one. Colonel Wainwright, now General Wainwright, had been out here with us for a while. He’d been through some of the hairiest parts with the MSP and he was still alive and kicking. More important, he’d shown no signs of being anything other than a high-ranking Marine officer.
On the other hand, my supposedly loyal Tracto-ans had tried to kill me on several different occasions. It was past time for a changing of the guard.
I wanted actual control of this fleet, and I had a hunch that the General was going to help make that happen for me. Even if he had any reservations, he wasn’t likely to turn on me while Capria’s home Sector was facing an invasion by outside forces.
Chapter Thirty-two: The Pre-Meeting Report
Sitting in the conference room on Wolf-9, I had my so-called heads together with LeGodat and my Battleship Captains. I was there because it was bigger than the available rooms on the Rage, making it more comfortable to deal with the expanded and expanded again force I now found myself running.
We still had a few minutes before the first of the shuttles carrying the SDF Admirals, their staffs, and their ship commanders and I fully intended to use every moment before the meeting productively. Saint Murphy knew we’d be doing very little of that sort of work after they got here.
“Give me the short and dirty,” I said to the Captains of the ships I was most worried about, and the man in charge of the facilities that were currently repairing them: Commodore LeGodat. “I read the daily reports but with more ships trickling in all the time I don’t have the time I’d like. It’s been two weeks, so hit me with it. How much longer?”
Eastwood and Druid exchanged glances.
“Well, don’t leave me in suspense boys,” I urged, steepling my fingers and then pointing my index fingers at them.
They seemed to come to some silent agreement and Commodore Druid nodded his head, indicating he was going to be the one to bite the bullet and attempt to pacify my curiosity.
“While the Armor Prince could use another week or two to trace down all the little nits and glitches that are the bane of every warship that ever set sail in the void between stars, our armor is patched. Our weapons have been repaired, replaced or upgraded—courtesy of the Starbase repair staff,” he said with a nod to LeGodat, “essentially, we’re ready to cast off any time you need us.”
“Excellent news,” I said, and I meant it. Having all three of my Battleships laid up in the yard at the same time, while the local SDF’s orbited the Starbase complex, sniffing around like hungry wolves, wasn’t the most pleasant experience. Sure they said they were on our side, for now, but who knew any of their ultimate intentions. “It’ll be great to have the Prince back out there where she needs to be any time she’s needed.”
“Thank you, Sir,” said Druid who then looked over at Eastwood.
The Lieutenant Commander cleared his throat. “Messene’s Shield is nowhere near as close to coming out of space dock as the Armor Prince,” my flagship’s former First Officer, back when the Furious Phoenix had been my flagship, shook his head with genuine disappointment as he relayed the news. “I know the initial estimate was three weeks but the structural damage was worse than originally estimated; a number of secondary structural beams need to be pulled out and replaced. We’re going to need another three weeks, not one, before we’ll be back to 99% of full capacity. The yard here has been working wonders but, frankly, the Pastor class is just not as heavily-built as the Dreadnaught class. She’s meant to rely on stronger shields, but once those go down…” he shrugged. “We’ll do what we can, as fast as we can, that’s all I can promise.”
“In case of emergency, how fast could you close everything up and put her back into duty?” I asked, not liking the idea of three more weeks. I didn’t think we had that long.
“We could ride out today if that’s what you need,” Eastwood shrugged, “but the areas with the compromised structural supports are still open to space; we haven’t even started with rebuilding the armor over those areas yet.”
“How long to fix what you can in the next day or two, and then armor her back up? And, be honest, how safe would it be?” I asked the most pressing question.
Eastwood looked pensive as he thought and then started to chew on his lower lip. “I’m as eager for combat as the next officer,” he said, which as far as I was concerned was the understatement of the century. “We could transfer the personnel who’d normally be there, seal off the affected areas, then replace the missing and damaged armor. But doing it in anything less than a week…” he shook his head.
I looked over to Commodore LeGodat for confirmation.
“What do you think, Colin?” I asked the reservist’s opinion.
“A week, if we were just going to do what’s ready now and close her up, would probably do it. Wouldn’t want to do it any faster than that—except in an emergency of course,” he said.
I pursed my lips. This wasn’t what I wanted to hear, but it was what I’d expected. Things almost never went faster than expected…except for when Spalding was around. More and more I was regretting that I left the old reprobate back at Gambit. We sure could have used his skills.
“Close her up; I’ve got a feeling we’re going to need the Shield sooner rather than later. If she’s too late, that ‘later’ scenario may never come,” I said, looking at Eastwood when I issued the order.
“Will do, Admiral,” replied the Captain of Messene’s Shield and then paused, “can I ask how well the Royal Rage is coming along, Sir?”
“The Rage is doing fine, gentlemen,” I assured them, “we had some serious damage to our shield generators, as well as some punch-through on the outer hull—despite the stronger armor—but thanks to the repair slip here at Easy Haven we’ve replaced the broken generator, repaired the other, and filled in the missing portions of the outer hull. There’s always more to do, of course, and Longbottom will have to put in some extra work balancing the new shield generator with the old one but we should be ready to push out in a day or two. A full refit can wait until after we’re back home.”
After bestowing the good news, I figured all we had left to do was wait for the arrivals in the conference room—for what I was sure was going to be another contentious meeting—but Druid broke the silence.
“Any word on the status of the Metal Titan, Sir?” asked the MSP Commodore.
I scowled. “No. Nothing,” I said, turning slightly to glower at the wall. “I’ve dispatched a courier but we haven’t received as single thing from the Titan, Gambit, or Messene in almost three weeks. I’m afraid the ComStat network has either been coopted or destroyed at this point, men.”
Eastwood sucked in his breath. “Well there goes our home field advantage,” he muttered.
Commodore LeGodat nodded in agreement. “We’ll be fighting blind from now on,” he agreed, “we can only hope that the enemy is just as cut off from FTL communication as we are.”
“We can hope, but I’m not counting on it,” I demurred with disgust. Why was it that the enemy always seemed to have the advantage, and I was left scrambling to make up the difference? If this was a game, I’d have called intolerable and quit playing—right after I threw my controller against the wall. Unfortunately this wasn’t a game; this was as real as it got and I was left playing catch up, yet again.
Now if only I had some idea of what I needed to do that, I’d have been in a much better mood than I currently was.
Right exactly at that moment, as if the perfect counterpoint to my growing foul mood, the door to the conference room swooshed open and a gaggle of SDF officers came in.
“Vice Admiral Montagne,” nodded the head of the Aegis contingent.
“Silverback,” I inclined my head fractionally, “a pleasure, as always.”
The Aegis Admiral smirked for just the barest moment in shared understanding of the irony in that statement. He then motioned for his people toward a section of the main table, with his most important officers beside him and the rest taking up position on the wall behind him.
Slowly, over the next ten minutes, officers, Admirals, and Commodores came dragging into the room.
Taking a survey of the room, I stood up from my position at the head of the table and raised my hands to get their attention.
“If we could bring the room to order and begin the meeting,” I said, ruthlessly focusing on the task ahead instead of the hundred and ten other things I’d rather be doing right now. “Then let us begin,” I said after getting their attention.
It was looking like yet another long day.
Chapter Thirty-three: Damage Control and Repair
“We’ve got a large number of ships arriving in system, Commander!” reported Bostwell, the young man running comm. interference with the rest of the fleet for the old engineer.
“I’m busy,” Spalding grunted, focusing on calibrating an anti-matter generator’s unreasonably delicate controls which would run these new, high-powered grav-suppressors, “so unless it’s an enemy war fleet, color me unavailable.”
Containment was a real chore when it came to substances that were antithetical to the very essence the rest of the entire galaxy and universe was made out of. Moreover, the tolerances on this sort of job were so fine that they sometimes required going to the thousandth decimal place, and the last thing he wanted to do was cause a matter/antimatter annihilation event due to carelessness—especially if his tired old body was going to be a part of the potentially annihilated substances!
He’d even gone so far as to have new tools built just to measure how far off true he was, just so he didn’t accidentally blow himself and the rest of the rebuilding ship to the Pit.
“No, it’s not an enemy fleet. But, Sir, I’m afraid that—” Bostwell started.
“That’s just it, boy: Engineers know no fear and aren’t afraid of nothing…‘cept failure to do a job right and proper, or factory-defective service parts—those things can kill,” Spalding cut in grumpily. “And anyway, things like that won’t happen as long as we stay focused on the job at hand, run the proper checks, and don’t let ourselves be stretched in more directions than a man can reasonably handle. We can’t allow ourselves to be distracted to the point we’re all killed in an antimatter annihilation breach due to faulty wiring! By old Murphy himself, just what are you trying to do to me, boy?” At this point, the old engineer had completely stopped working, turned around, and gone into full finger-wagging mode.
Bostwell looked at Spalding with exasperation. “I’m not trying to kill you, Sir,” he said with an aura of long-suffering patience, “just to tell you that a part of the Coalition Fleet has showed up with prize ships in tow and everything—including our own ships—have been knocked around pretty bad. For most it’s at the point they’re going to need of some serious TLC just to get into the yard, let alone back out into the black again, Commander!”
Spalding chewed on his lip and silently stewed as he thought.
“Preliminary reports are that eight of our ships, along with an additional sixteen prize ships, have arrived here in Gambit system. And there are more than double that still waiting to be retrieved, Commander! All we have to do is go back and get them—the fleet has won a glorious victory!” Bostwell said with rampant satisfaction in his voice.
“’Glory,’ you say? ‘More work,’ says I. One thing you need to learn, youngster, is that the more ‘glory’ this fleet encounters, the more battle damage this department has to deal with,” Spalding said sourly as all of his carefully planned work schedules went up in smoke.
“Better that we won than we lost, Sir,” Bostwell disagreed resolutely.
“Well, o’ course, boy,” Spalding said scornfully and then reached up to grab his still growing hair and give it a hard tug. “I wouldn’t want it any other way, but bale fire and tarnation if this doesn’t put a crimp in my work schedule. Besides which, there might be twice as many ships waiting to be hauled back to the yard here. But I’d bet a double handful of credits that if the others didn’t come back with this bunch it’s because they’re tore up worse than the bunch that just came in—which means, as I said previously: more work for the rest of us!”
“Did I mention they brought a pair of Battleships back with them?” Bostwell asked with a sly upward curve of the left side of his mouth. “The scuttlebutt is that the only reason they didn’t bring back more was because they could only pair-jump one with the Metal Titan.”
“Eh?” the Old Engineer couldn’t help but start to look interested and pull out his data slate to review the information before his better judgment prevailed and a scowl reappeared on his briefly lightened countenance. “I won’t be tricked!” he declared.
“What?” Bostwell looked surprised.
“You think to tempt me with news of new Battleships to play with when everyone knows that we’ve got to stay focused on what we’ve got going right in front of us here,” he said, slapping a firm, resounding hand against the bulkhead of the ship around them.
“If by ‘everyone’ you mean just you…” Bostwell muttered quietly before trailing off.
“I won’t be diverted!” Spalding continued firmly. “We’ll only divert whatever minimal crew efforts we must toward the new arrivals and then we’ll do the same for whatever damage the Admiral’s done to the rest of the fleet.”
“Early reports are the Metal Titan has serious frame and internal support issues,” Bostwell chimed in.
“Hmm,” Spalding said grudgingly, his curiosity getting the better of his apparently brittle resolve as he pulled out his data slate and tapped away on it before snorting, “a collision event, it says? You know what that means, young Bostwell? It means too many overeager young Captains with the urge to ram everything in sight are runnin’ ‘round now-a-days,” the old engineer grumbled with a sigh and then wagged a finger at him. “You’ve got to watch them like a hawk is what you have to do. Why, I practically had to scrape an entire Engineering crew off the hull of the Clover back in the day after some happy-handed young master-and-commander decided it’d be a sweet deal to ram a group of pirate Cutters.” His scowl returned with a vengeance as he recalled that particular event.
“I remember. I was there for that one, sir,” said Bostwell old memories flashing through his eyes, “I also recall hearing you went up to, eh…talk to the Admiral about that one.”
The old engineer looked momentarily surprised. “Well…and so you were,” Spalding said heavily and then started shaking his head—mainly at himself. “Still, as it regards my reputed exploits on the bridge, it’s best not to get into the habit of tellin’ tales out of school—if you know what I mean,” he said, laying a finger aside his nose.
“So that means it—or something much like it—actually did happen?” Bostwell grinned, causing Spalding to wince at realizing the lad had been on a sly fishing expedition and had managed to wrangle a confirmation from his work-weary boss. “Don’t worry, Commander. It’s pretty much an open secret when the Chief Engineer slugs the Admiral in the gut in front of a whole bridge full of witnesses.”
Commander Spalding winced again as he recalled that particular bit of the story. “A body gets what he has coming to it,” he said hastily. “Anyway, like I was sayin’: glory’s only good to him that’s there to win it and survives to enjoy the fruits. For the rest of us, all it means is a big steaming pile of work orders. Not that getting your elbows dirty repairing things isn’t the job of every engineer, but the problem in this case is that these new ships risk taking the focus away from where it needs to be! You want Battleships, Bostwell?” he asked rhetorically. “Well how about one big, ginormous, Super Battleship, I ask you?”
“You’ve sold me,” the engineering Comm. Operator said with a sigh—and an expression that suggested he was, in fact, far from sold. “However, the best laid plans of mice, men and Chief Engineers are eventually going to have to run headlong into one unmovable fact. So I wouldn’t get too sold on the notion that most of the work crews currently working on this sideline construction project of yours aren’t going to be pulled.”
“Oh?” Spalding asked in a dangerous voice. “Where there’s a will there’s a way, lad. And as the Sweet Saint is my witness, I’ve got the will! Just what manner of man, beast or feckless mechanical problem do you think could possibly stand in the way of a man determined to breathe life back into the greatest ship that ever roamed these spaceways!”
Bostwell sighed and a moment later the com-link built into the old engineer’s data slate chimed.
“Who is it now?” Spalding barked after activating the link with the wave of his hand.
“Who am I?” asked a gray-haired woman with an arched brow. “I’m the Yard Manager whose work crews you’ve been diverting for the past month or more, that’s who. We need to talk,” said Glenda Baldwin.
“Now, now, lass; don’t get your knickers in a bunch,” the Chief Engineer said hastily. “I was just expectin’ a call from someone else, so there’s no need to take offense at an old man’s honest confusion.”
“Your sly devil’s tongue won’t work on me, Commander. I want those work crews you illegally appropriated back pronto. We’ve wasted enough time on your little diversion,” Baldwin barked.
“I hardly think that anything about this project could be called ‘small’,” Spalding protested, secretly feeling pleased that she thought he had a ‘devil’s tongue.’ “Besides, I can’t just turn them loose, woman! We’re at a very delicate stage in the rebuild here. Can’t just drop it and move on at this point in the operation!”
“Stop trying to change the subject—and, yes, that’s exactly what you’ll do. If I let you get away with claiming things were too delicate to interrupt, you’d keep at it until long after that abortion of a new ship construction—which only you insist on calling a rebuild project—was done with its builder’s trial and ready for space trial. That’s if it doesn’t explode or tear itself apart during shakedown!” Baldwin declared.
“It’s as fine a redesign as a person will ever see,” Spalding argued belligerently, “and I’ll have you know that every bolt, every weld, and every compartment and piece of scrap metal from the original has been included in the new design. It’s a refit, woman, not a brand new ship. Her main keel is in here and that means her soul’s intact!”
“I don’t have time to talk crazy with you. I’ve got ships to repair and newly-captured Battleships to refit and put into Patrol Fleet service. But I can see this isn’t going to work over a com-channel. My office—now!” snapped Baldwin. “And don’t even think about making me hunt you down on the abortion or you’ll regret it.”
“Oh, aye,” Spalding said with an iron glint in his eye, “you won’t have to find me. I’ll come over and talk some sense into your thick head presently—even if I have to do it with a bloody wrench!”
“Threatening me is the surest way to get your project canceled indefinitely,” Baldwin said coldly.
“I’m hurt,” the old engineer declared, rubbing the metallic part of his head as if feeling a remembered pain. “I seem to recall a certain engineer who wasn’t above giving me a little ‘love tap’ to the head when she thought I was getting out of line.”
“You’ll just have to get over it,” Baldwin said bluntly, “although, in a way I’d like to see what a review board would think of you taking a wrench to your superior.”
“Superior?! Ha! This is gender bias, that’s what this is—don’t try and escape it! All my life I’ve strived for equality of labor and treatment based on merit and the principle of reciprocity,” the old Engineer said passionately. “Who would believe that at the end of a long and distinguished career I’d run into a person of such hypocritical values? It’s okay to play ‘where did I hide the wrench’ with my own poor head but when it’s my turn, I’m to be put up in front of a review panel?”
“Get over yourself. We don’t have time to deal with your fit of temper; there’s ships in serious need of repair,” Baldwin shook her head. “And furthermore, as it regards that wrench of yours: you can take it and stuff it—”
“This is rank discrimination of the first order, that’s what it is,” he bellowed over the top of her. “A powerful woman of uncommon skill, and in the prime of her life, feels free to abuse a crippled up old man for no good reason that I can see other than personal pleasure. Abuse of power! Assault!” he paused briefly. “Of course, I could forgive it all; I happen to like a strong woman, yes I do. So if you would just consider the Clover when you—”
“I don’t have time for this,” Baldwin cut the channel
“Women!” Spalding swore, stomping around his metallic duralloy feet clanging angrily with every step. He rounded on Bostwell after a moment, “Don’t fall for their wiles unless you’ve no other choice, lad,” he warned, shoving a finger into the other man’s chest. “They’ll string you along, putting your mind into turmoil, and then hit you alongside the head with an auto-wrench and leave you bleeding on the floor as they proceed to cut out your metaphorical heart. I swear that we’re all better off—”
“Do you want me to secure a shuttle so you can go over and speak with her in person, Commander?” Bostwell interrupted professionally.
“Want?” Spalding cursed shaking his head, “No, there’s no ‘want’ about it. Need?” he sighed bitterly. “I guess I’d better do that, after all. Make it happen; I’m on the way,” he grumbled, turning and stomping out of the room.
Bostwell breathed a sigh of relief as the old engineer walked off, muttering angrily under his voice.
Chapter Thirty-four: Outside Pressures
After a good fifteen minutes of wrangling, everything seemed to be going as per usual when Silverback stood up and dropped his bombshell in the middle of the table. Not literally a bombshell, but it might as well have been one.
“I have evidence here in my hand,” he said, pointing to the data storage device that, in point of literal fact, was not in his hand but laying on the conference table instead, “relayed to me from Aegis High Command mere hours ago via courier.”
He was rudely interrupted by the head of the Blackwood contingent, Admiral Dark Matter himself—rear Admiral, that is, but don’t let him here you say that.
“If it’s the same information I received from Blackwood, our intelligence apparatus two days ago you’d probably be better off tossing that data stick in the trash and giving up the whole thing for a bad game, Silverback,” said Admiral Dark Matter.
“Admiral Silverback to the likes of you, Dark Matter,” the Aegis Admiral barked, looking at the Blackwood Admiral with narrowed eyes.
“I don’t see the need to quibble over such minor things as rank. Do you, Admiral Silverback?” Dark Matter drawled, stroking his red chin whiskers as he leaned back in his chair and laughed. “It seems to me an Admiral should be measured by the size of the contingent under his command, rather than the rockets, comets or stars on his shoulder board..”
“Oh, of course not, Rear Admiral,” Silverback gloated.
Dark Matter slammed his hand down on the table and glared at Silverback, who was just starting to roll his eyes when the Blackwood Admiral threw back his head and barked a laugh.
“Good for you,” Dark Matter chortled.
Admiral Silverback stiffened before continuing, “As I was about to say before being interrupted by my uncouth colleague from Blackwood: Aegis Intelligence has recently intercepted information vital to the Grand Fleet and the war effort to save this Sector as a whole,” he said, turning to sweep the room as he spoke and also pointedly ignored Admiral Dark Matter while he did so.
I could tell that he’d caught the attention of the rest of the room. Murphy knows he’d captured mine. I cleared my throat and, even though I knew it had been his intent all along, I still stood up and asked the question that was now on everyone’s mind.
“I think I speak for everyone when I ask what this information is and just how exactly did Aegis obtain it?” I asked.
“Aegis has some suspicion regarding certain individuals recently arrived on our planet and our intelligence apparatus, working in conjunction with our police and security services recently captured an enemy agent,” Silverback said triumphantly. “He was a low-level Reclamationist with limited operational information, which was extracted before he died.”
“What could a low-level agent have to say that was so important?” Dark Matter asked suspiciously. Clearly, whatever he’d heard from his government and chosen not to share with us was different from what Silverback was relaying.
“While his information and understanding of the enemy fleet was somewhat lacking, what he did have was low-level access to a functioning ComStat relay node placed near Aegis,” Silverback said, pausing to turn and grandstand before the audience before continuing. Oh, it might not have looked like grandstanding to the rest of the officers assembled—then again, maybe it did—but either way it was clear to me what he was doing. “Using his codes, a team of our top analysts and computer science experts were assembled into a data extraction team.”
“Come on, man. Spit it out,” said Dark Matter, “and just tell us what you found.”
The Aegis Admiral paused to look at the Blackwood Admiral who was stealing his thunder, or attempting to, before picking up the data-stick and inserting it dramatically into a data port on the conference table before continuing.
“As you can see, our team managed to strip a number of files from the FTL relay before the intrusion was discovered and shut down by the ComStat’s automated electronic defense protocols. While a lot of it was routine traffic and relay-to-relay program updates, we did manage to capture a few key files,” Silverback smiled.
“Which is a longwinded way of not saying much of anything all, Admiral Silverback,” Rear Admiral Dark Matter drawled.
“Take all the fun out of it, why don’t you?” the Aegis Admiral quipped, but despite his words he seemed like was secretly happy with the way everything had gone so far.
I wasn’t yet sure if that was a good or a bad thing. Oh, alright, who was I kidding? Of course I thought it was a bad thing. But then, I’m paranoid that way. Only time would tell if I was right to be or not but I wasn’t about to change my mind without some evidence I was wrong.
Dark Matter just gestured for the Aegis Admiral to get on with it. “In short, ladies and gentleman,” Silverback said, nodding to one of the female Captains in the room who, for her part, just stared back at him coolly, “we have the location of the enemy fleet. Not where they are right now, but where they are going to be. The enemy has called for a routine supply run and we know when, where, and exactly how it’s supposed to happen.”
The room promptly fell into an uproar. “Blighters!” cried one Captain.
“These Reclamationists have to die for what they did!” swore another.
“Remember Prometheus!” shouted a suspiciously familiar voice which, along with a quick glance, I confirmed it belonged to Captain Iorghu.
I needed to have a short heart-to-heart with the man regarding outbursts in the middle of meetings I was conducting. But a quick look around the room showed that I now had bigger problems to deal with, because along with calls that ‘Janeski must die!’—which were personally gratifying on a petty, vindictive level—was the much more concerning notion that we must immediately sally forth to find, meet and repulse the Imperial Fleet.
I had mixed emotions regarding whether this was the best course of action but, from the mood of the room, if I tried to stop them I might just have a mutiny on my hands.
Maybe not the sort that tried to kill me where I stood, or locked me up in the brig to be tortured, but at least the kind where they stopped listening to me and hared off to do whatever they pleased.
“People, please slow down. Now is not the time to be making any final decisions,” I raised my hands quellingly.
“Then when would be the proper time, Admiral Montagne?” Admiral Silverback shouted. “After the information is outdated and they’ve moved on to destroy more of our worlds?”
“Here, here!” called out a number of ship commanders with the Aegis contingent loudest among them.
“At the very least, we still need to confirm this information before preparing a plan of attack,” I said firmly.
“What’s there to confirm? Aegis High Command has already verified that this information is true and accurate. Anticipating your concerns, I’ve already taken the time to outline a plan of attack,” Silverback said dismissively. “All you need to do, as our duly-appointed leader and Confederation Admiral, is lead us to victory.”
“I’ll still want my people to go over the material before proceeding,” I said sharply.
“Take as much time as you need. Just remember that while you’re deliberating, people are dying back at our homes,” the Aegis Admiral said.
“I was unaware Aegis had been attacked, Admiral Silverback,” I said, cocking my head at him.
Silverback’s eyes narrowed. “My point is that time equals lives. I don’t want to discover that yet another world of this Sector was conquered because we were too scared and timorous to go where we know the enemy fleet was and stop them,” he declared.
There was a rumble of support from the officers around him as he continued to look at me sternly.
“I share your concern, which is why I have already engaged the enemy fleet once. As soon as my Battleships are ready for action, I plan to do so again,” I said flatly.
This caused some of the grumbling discontent to lower, but I could still tell that this was a group didn’t want to be delayed. If I tried…
I clenched my teeth. I hated politics—especially politics that forced me to do something I didn’t want to do in the name of expediency.
“Time is something our Sector has in short supply. While I and I am sure everyone else here applauds your efforts—and even your sacrifices in the defense of this Sector—we have a higher duty to those in our trust,” Silverback said passionately. “Tyranny in all its forms must be stopped.”
“I am glad to see that Aegis is suddenly so firm on stamping out any potential sloth and inaction,” I shot back. “It gives one hope that, even in this dark hour, separate interests from all over can put aside their differences and unite in common cause—without rancor or the need to denigrate others.”
“How long do you think you’ll need to…review our findings?” Silverback asked, his gaze cold and calculating.
For a moment, the room seemed to stand still as everyone held their breath.
“The Royal Rage and Armor Prince will both be out of dry dock by tomorrow. At the urging of all those here, I propose that we set out at that time. I should have ample time to review the data and formulate the Grand Fleet’s plan of attack,” I gave a brief pause, “after considering all suggestions. Any refinements necessary can be done on the way there….assuming, of course, that the information is accurate.”
“The data’s good,” Admiral Silverback said evenly. “Tomorrow, you say?”
“I’m sure no one wants to leave a pair Battleships behind when we could be facing an enemy fleet that heavily outnumbers us,” I said mildly.
I could see the stir when that little reminder hit our eager ship commanders, and heads began to nod reluctantly. However, what was not reluctant was the unified feeling in the room that we needed to attack—and to do it now.
On the inside, where no one could see, I sighed. But on the exterior I was cool and collected.
The SDF officers in this room might have been well trained professionals, then again a few of them might not, but either way they appeared to be rather lacking in combat experience compared to my own people.
I guess that wasn’t too surprising when I thought about it. Who were they going to fight, after all, the Empire? Hardly. More likely was pirates and smugglers driven to the edge.
“I suppose we can allow that,” Silverback said, after Rear Admiral Dark Matter gave me a nod of support.
“Allow, Admiral?” I said my voice suddenly turning as frigid as cold space. “No one allows me to do anything. I am the rightful Commander of this Fleet, appointed by the Confederation and ratified by each of your worlds. I warn you to not soon forget it.” I may have had to cave when it came to sallying forth to ram our heads against the proverbial wall that might be an enemy trap. But authority that went unused gradually disappeared into thin air. It was time to remind them who exactly was in command of this fleet.
“A poor word choice caused by a mere slip of the tongue. Please pay it no mind,” said the Admiral duplicitously.
“Prepare your ships, Admiral,” I said coldly, “we sail for the hyper limit on the morrow.”
So I turned and started for the door, saying over my shoulder, “You’re all dismissed.”
Chapter Thirty-five: Spalding and Shepherd
“You doing alright up here, lad?” Spalding asked solicitously from behind the Navigator. He was standing behind and slightly to the left of him, so while Shepherd was still struggling to face him he stealthily leaned around his back and plopped a flask of ale down next to the right side of his station’s touch pad.
“Y-yess,” the Navigator stuttered.
“Good! Say how’s the new headgear workin’ out?” he asked, clapping him on the shoulder and then allowing his hand to rest on the boy’s shoulder. “Any problems with the interface or the hardware? I can always take a look at if you need me to.”
“N-no,” said Shepherd irritably, dropping his shoulder so Spalding’s hand fell off, “an-nd it’s working re-eal goo-oo-ood.”
“Splendid,” the old engineer said with real happiness, then he steeled himself. Now that the pleasantries were over, it was time to address the reason he’d brought up the ale.
Frustrated, the Navigator made a fist and banged the side of his desk and then snapped his mouth shut. The lights of the built in cybernetics on the back of his head started flashing and a synthesized voice issued from the speaker built in the top of the console he was sitting at.
“My voice is still no good,” said the flat, synthesized voice coming out of the console, “but the interface is everything you said it was. I can actually do the high-level calculations again, even without the implant. I turned it off to check and something about the installation itself seems to have helped,” he explained, and at this he clumsily circled his hand over his chest. “The therapy’s helped with moving but I still speak worse than a toddler.”
“Good, good,” the old Engineer said gruffly, “well, I’m here cause those gorilla boys tell me this is as good as it gets without either more time—probably years—or more regen-therapies.”
“No more therapy,” came the flat, synthesized voice, followed with an abrupt movement of his arms and a jerk of the body. The angry expression on the Navigator’s face also gave emphasis to the flat unemotional voice.
“That’s yer choice, Mr. Shepherd,” Spalding said agreeably. “I’d be the last one to tell ye got to go back into the hands of those savages. Better a monkey playin’ around with the back of your head than a board-certified doctor any day of the week! At least the monkey won’t club you over the head so he can cut you open to see what’s wrong with you and then sew you back together,” he said passionately.
From the uneasy expression on the Navigator’s face—and the lack of spoken reply—Spalding figured the boy didn’t entirely agree with him but that was fine with him. After all, wasn’t that the whole bloomin’ point? Each and every man, woman, or genetically-engineered monkey ought to have the right to control their own body without some ham-handed butcher free to carve on him, her, or it anytime he pleased!
It was even worse than taxing a man because he had the temerity to die without paying his death insurance. Or, say, refusing him access to the publicly funded areas like the park or a supermarket just because he missed his latest health insurance payment, and thus might potentially infect the other customers without being able to pay for their care—like he’d heard happened occasionally back in the old Confederation. It was just plum wrong is what it was. ‘Live like a man and die with dignity’ was his motto. Or live like a woman, or creature, or thing, as he knew not everyone was a man.
Why, just taking women for example, there were some that would rather die than be seen outside their homes without their beauty products. A man couldn’t care less about that kind of dreck. The same thing probably went for things and creatures, like the gorilla people. The galaxy was a strange place. Let them thump their chests, eat their bananas, or paint their faces with blush and foundation until they looked like a clown for all he cared.
Freedom! That’s what he wanted or, rather, in this case he wanted medical freedom. He’d never thought he’d see the day someone would tell him he wasn’t free to die yet because there was too much work to do! Flattering as it was, he was going to stridently stick to the principle of freedom of choice!
If a man didn’t make a stand and draw a firm line in the sand, the next thing you’d know everyone would be in the same situation as worlds where you could be legally required to donate blood. On some worlds it was so bad the police would show up, physically restrain you, and literally suck the life blood out of your body until they got their pint of red lager! It was tyranny, plain and simple, and he’d fight it to the day he died—and if they forcibly brought him back because of Universal Medical Health Suppression, where he’d lost his medical rights, why…then he’d keep on fighting!
A man would have no true peace without an honest-to-Murphy separation of hospital and state!
Speaking of which. “Anyway, that brings me back to the reason I’m here today,” the old Engineer said, giving his head a shake and coming back the subject at hand. He reminded himself today wasn’t about him, but about Mr. Shepherd, “Since things aren’t going to be getting’ better in a hurry, and you’ve had time to shrug off whatever those doctors did to you,” he took a deep breath and then jutted his jaw out, “I thought we should return to your original request. Now, I know you might be holding a bit of a grudge against me ,and I’d allow some of that seein’ as you have some call for it. But you’ve been free from the gulag for a while and now that you’ve had time to think things over, if you still want to stick to your guns, well…then I’m here to help. We’ll stand by and support you the entire way and that’s the way of it,” he finished with a firm nod.
Shepherd looked at him as if he were a few marbles short of a half stack.
“Well boy?” Spalding demanded, and then as the younger man continued to look at him he realized something. “Pardon me if I came across as a bit insensitive now. It’s a big decision you’re makin’ here, and I can understand if you don’t trust me because of the whole ‘post-liberation incident.’ But I’m sure we can get someone else if that’s the hold-up.”
Spalding then stopped and waited expectantly. “What are you talking about?” the Navigator finally asked via his console.
Spalding’s eyes bulged. “Why, what did you think we were talkin’ about? I was asking if you were still determined to go ahead with your locker part!” he exclaimed.
For a moment there was sheer and utter incomprehension on the younger man’s face, and then it was as if the light bulb finally went on.
“You, yo-ou” he said suddenly looking agitated and speaking aloud again.
“Look, we could really use your help around here,” Spalding said passionately. “And, personally, I was hoping you could maybe pull double duty as both Navigator and Helmsman if you’d be so obliged. You know how hard it is to keep things compartmentalized; the more people involved, the more chance something gets out that shouldn’t have. But if you’re bound and determined to go then I’m the last man that’s try to stop you, and—”
First a laser pointer, then a data-slate, followed by the flask of ale he’d brought to try and help cheer the man up, hit him in the chest and face.
“Now, see here,” growled the old Engineer, “this is hardly—”
“Out!” cried Shepherd, his hands reaching for something else to throw and Spalding took a cautious step back.
“I have people just waitin’ on the word, so you need to let us know,” he started, again trying for a more soothing voice.
“Now!” cried the Navigator. “I’m not g-g-going to kill my-se-elf. I never wa-s. That’s crazy, you o-old fool!”
“Well, I never,” Spalding said with genuine outrage. “Do you have the foggiest idea how much time I’ve spent on this-all because you swore you’d rather die?!”
“Aargh!” howled Shepherd.
“Does this mean you’re planning to stick around and help with the Clover?” he asked hopefully, now that the young idiot had finally made his position clear.
“Eat space worms,” the synthesized voice came back out from the console, and was quickly followed by a leg brace that had been propped up alongside the front of the console.
“I’m going to take that as a firm ‘yes’,” Spalding said quickly as he beat a hasty retreat back out the door. After all, the boy had been working on the navigation for the new Clover the whole time—even though he had clearly been less than honest about his desire to self-terminate.
Still, the lad wasn’t a liar as far as the old man could tell. It was probably just that some people weren’t able to be honest with themselves about some things, and he’d been in a stressful situation. He could understand since it’s not that he’d intended to deceive anyone; he’d just been under a lot of pressure while experiencing an unhealthy dose of despair.
Why, it reminded Spalding of the first time the Caprian SDF had tried to retire him…
Moving swiftly, he was out the door before anything else could be thrown at him. He’d probably better let everyone know the party was off.
Chapter Thirty-six: Repercussions
I was with Gants, going over the new duties the Armory Team would be taking on. Basically we were turning everything that wasn’t already in the hands of newly combined Lancer/Marine detachment over to the new Confederation sleeper-run security department.
Aside from my ‘close-in’ protective detail being handled exclusively by D’Argent and his fellow armsmen, I had decided that the security system aboard my ship needed a total reformation. Gants and his people were loyal—some might say to a fault—so I had decided to assign some of the more sensitive areas to them.
Anyways, it was then that the entrance to my office chimed and a visibly frustrated Akantha came charging through the door.
“What are you doing, Jason?” she demanded the moment she was in the room.
“Whatever do you mean…dear?” I asked with false surprise. I might not have known which of the several things I’d set into motion had succeeded in riling her up, but then I’d gone into this thing with the intention of making genuine changes. As they say: you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.
“You know full well what I mean,” Akantha fumed. “I can hardly turn around outside our quarters without running into an armed escort.”
“Ah,” I said with a nod of understanding.
“That is all you have to say? I can hardly go down to the mess hall without a squad of Marines following me everywhere I go!” she reiterated, apparently caught off-guard at my nonplussed response.
“Look, I may be a little slow on the uptake—and a male to boot,” I said with a hint of condescension, “but when my wife finally gets around to telling me about a problem, I settle it. Admittedly, it might take me a while to get everything lined up but once the pieces are all in place there’s no more reason to wait. I’m sorry if the adjustment period is a little more problematic than you’d hoped.”’
“’I’d hoped’?” Akantha grunted, flattening her features into a mask. “What exactly do you think you are doing in my name now?”
“Everything I do is for you, the children, and the helpless citizens of the Spineward Sectors,” I said piously.
Akantha just gave me a look and started tapping her toes on the floor. It was probably time to stop playing around and start handing out a few answers, however palatable—or unpalatable—they might turn out to be.
“After my latest bout of unpleasantness with your countrymen—forgive me; with the warriors recruited from all those new polities of Tracto—I decided something needed to be done,” I explained and then waved it away as if of minor importance. “However, it was only after speaking with my wife and hearing how she feared for her life—and for the lives of our then-unborn children—that things crystallized and I realized I needed to set aside my pride. So I spoke with Duncan.”
Akantha instantly frowned. “Other than hearing you speak about me in the third person, set aside your pride, and decided to speak with your mother’s paramour, I am still waiting for an answer as to why I can’t turn around in this ship without stumbling over someone,” Akantha said.
“That’s exactly why you’re seeing an enhanced security presence,” I said with satisfaction. “The answer to your question is this: I have decided that never again will you have to live in fear of other people while you are on my ship,” I paused, my eyes boring into hers as the unspoken subtext clearly dawned on her. “I simply won’t have it.”
Akantha grimaced, “I have my own personal guard force plus your Life Guards. I think I am adequately protected.”
“Adequate? Firstly, I refuse to settle for ‘adequate’ when it comes to my wife. Second, I have to say that as far as I am concerned, they were not adequate enough or any number of things would have gone differently during the troubles back at Gambit.”
She clenched her teeth. “Yes, I was worried. I have already apologized as much as I know how for what happened. However, we need to get past that, Jason,” she said firmly.
“I wholeheartedly agree, thus the increase in security. This is how we get past the past, Akantha,” I said even more firmly.
“So I am to be punished, is that it?” she asked with a sigh.
“If that’s how you choose to look at it, I can’t stop you. However, remember that you were the one who told me you had to isolate yourself and the children—from me, no less—out of fear for their lives,” I glared at her. “Just who do you think I am? My own wife feared for her life and for our children’s lives while within the heart of my fleet—the very center of my power? If you think I’m going to allow that to pass as a man, as a flag officer, and as a Prince then frankly my dear you’re insane.”
Akantha turned to glare off at the wall before turning back to me after several seconds. “I can understand that,” she said grudgingly, and for a quick moment something in her face softened before disappearing so quickly it was as if it had never been. “But I must ask: what if I refuse? What then? I am a Hold Mistress—the highest authority among my people. If I command you as my Protector, will you obey?”
I steepled my fingers and stared at them for a long moment. “Who am I?” I asked.
“Enough games, Jason!” she snapped right back.
“I asked you a question: WHO AM I!?” I thundered, standing up and smashing my fist into the table a little harder than I should have.
“I do not answer to you, Protector!” she spat back.
“Exactly. I am your Protector! Or has that’s somehow changed?” I demanded.
“Of course it has not,” she snapped back.
“Well then there’s your answer in a nutshell; as your Protector I am seeing to your protection. You have told your Protector that your safety was compromised and he is seeing to the matter. End of discussion,” I said coldly.
She gritted her teeth. “And if I say I am just fine the way I am?” Akantha asked with a challenging jut to her jaw.
“You mean, what would I say if you refused the protection of your Protector?” I retorted, meeting her challenge and returning it twofold. I cocked my head as if considering the rhetorical question seriously and then looked at her, “Then I would tell you that, in my considered opinion, I could no longer guarantee your safety and you would be shipped back home to Tracto on the first available ship.”
Akantha stiffened with surprise. “You can’t send me home…you need me here too much!” she protested.
“Need you? Absolutely. But no one in this fleet is indispensible—including me. What I need is you onboard and collaborating with me to make this thing work. But if you’re not adequately protected then there’s no point in increasing the risk factor,” I said unwaveringly. “You’ve proven you can do just as much good on your own as you can helping ride herd on our Lancer division or helping out with grand strategy.”
“I will not be pushed aside when the largest battle I have ever heard of is on the horizon,” she said indignantly.
“Good,” I said with a smile and then gestured to D’Argent, who nodded to two men and a third who had been standing off to the side. “These two will be your new best friends. They’re fully trained Royal Armsmen from Capria who have sworn personal loyalty to me. They will insert themselves into your security, upgrade it as necessary, and then stick to you like glue.”
Akantha looked over at the two new men and blinked before turning back to me with her eyes narrowing.
“You’ve repeatedly said we need to move beyond the past. Well, this is the way, my Sword Bearer,” I said evenly, and we engaged in a silent test of wills for what seemed like ten minutes before she finally caved.
“Fine…I will take your minders,” she eyed them for a moment, “I might even force myself to like it. What about him?” she asked, pointing to the third.
“Right,” I nodded in acknowledgment, and then motioned for Gants to stand up. He did so—albeit with an audible gulp.
“Right, Sir,” he acknowledged, stepping over to the armsman while shooting uneasy looks between me and my beloved Sword Bearer.
Akantha lifted a brow—an irritating trait she’d picked up from me.
“This young armsman is an Aspirant in the final phase of his training. He, along with the head of our Armory Team, will be taking over the general security of our children. All of our children,” I said, crossing my arms and giving her the stink eye. I was still rather less than reconciled to this whole ‘non-joint custody of our children while still married’ business, and I needed to take some ground back on that particular front. This was how I figured I could best do that.
“What?!” Akantha shrieked.
“After consulting with my new security detail and listening to your tales of your relationship with Persus, I decided that each of the children needs their own personal bodyguard. Sooner or later it was going to happen, so I thought ‘why not sooner?’ For now, the children are within our security, but as your unilateral decision to send three of our babies down to Tracto without consultation has shown, there are times they’ll need their own guards. This will get a jump on that,” I explained.
Akantha opened her mouth angrily and then glanced at Gants, hesitating before turning and giving me a withering look. She glanced at Gants a second time and then seemed to sigh.
I smiled complacently at the sight of this. Getting mad at me and being worried about her security detail being ‘taken over’ were valid concerns. But placing Gants in charge of the kids’ detail? You could argue about his competence but never his goodwill or loyalty. I seriously doubted that once he was placed in charge he would let anyone—even me or Akantha—harm the children placed in his care. You’d have to kill him first.
Yelling at Gants in this case would be like kicking the family dog: not at all productive of anything except your own eventual humiliation, to say nothing of unnecessary cruelty.
“Fine…you win,” she said darkly.
“I thought you’d see it my way. Logic wins out,” I shot back. Although in truth, I’d been just as ready to eject her from the ship and drop-kick her back to Tracto for a while. Right was right and wrong was wrong, and if we wanted to pretend that she’d done what she’d done because I wasn’t strong enough to protect her then fine, we’d play it that way—at least until it either became the truth or things between us went up in smoke.
But either way, we couldn’t keep living in limbo. Either she was my partner or, much like certain Queens of old, she would have to be marginalized and sidelined. From a cold, calculating light I could understand why she had done what she had done, but I would be worse than a fool and chump if I ever allowed it to happen again.
Chapter Thirty-seven: Akantha Enraged; Jason Unmoved
“Where are my children?” Akantha demanded, storming down the corridor with her Life Guard forces, Persus, and those two new—infernally polite and totally unyielding—Armsmen.
“I don’t know, my Mistress,” Persus said, shaking his head and looking ready to kill in her name.
“No idea, Mistress,” added Isis, the current head of her Life Guard.
Akantha turned and glared at the two ‘armsmen.’
“I’m sure they are fine, my Lady,” said one of the Armsmen.
“What is the point of having you in my detail, and another of you assigned to my children, if you cannot even tell me where they are?” she demanded hotly.
The two shared a glance and, with a shrug, the other one held a hand up to his ear and spoke sub-vocally. His throat moved silently but no sounds or betraying lip movements could be detected.
The man nodded and then looked up at her.
“Well?!” she demanded.
He held up a hand. “Right now we are assigned to you and, out of respect for your privacy, we do not relay where you are or what you’re doing so long as it does not impact your safety, my Lady Akantha. So while we can get the other armsmen to violate the privacy of their primaries, the other teams will expect a reciprocal arrangement,” he said calmly, “are you sure you want to do that?”
Akantha made a frustrated sound.
“From your excessive verbiage, I already have a good idea where they are. There is only one man on this ship who would take them out of their room without asking, and he can only be in so many places at once,” she said, neatly sidestepping the issue of allowing the two spies to freely leak her doings to her Protector before marching over into the nearest lift. Stopping, she glared at the pair, “You can either press the button for the right lift or you can follow me around as I go to the very few places he could be.” Again, the Armsmen shared a look and then one of them pressed button for the flag deck.
“I should have known,” Akantha said bitterly.
After arriving on the deck, she stormed over to the ready room where she saw Duncan standing outside the door. He was flanked by a pair of Armsmen and a quad of the new Caprian Marines who had come over to the ship with General Wainwright.
A lot of things had been changing lately, including the makeup of the Lancer division. On the one hand she was happy to see Jason treating things seriously and taking steps to secure their future and the survival of their house. On the other, she wasn’t very happy at all with the ways he was unsubtly—even openly—restricting her freedom.
For now, she had to live with it and it wasn’t like she couldn’t understand his position. It just stuck in her craw that she had no choice but to accept it or go home.
Which only made her all the more irritated as she stepped up to her Protector’s hidey-hole; her children, at the very least, were things no one could take from her.
“My Lady Akantha, it’s good to see you again,” Duncan said, stepping forward with a smile. “What brings you up to the flag deck?”
“I am here for my children and to see my wayward Protector. Step aside, Duncan,” she said, waving an imperious hand.
“I’m sorry Lady Akantha,” Duncan said shaking his head sadly, “but even if I step to the side, the men here,” he waved to the team of armsmen and Marines, “are going to insist on a security scan before asking the Admiral Prince Jason if he’s taking visitors.”
“Really!? I am their Mother! How could I possibly be a security threat to them or anyone in the room?” she demanded as a pair of veins on her temples starting to throb.
“Akantha—” Duncan started, only to be interrupted by another armsman.
“That’s enough, Duncan. We’ll take it from here,” said the man, turning to Akantha. “I’m afraid that’s exactly what an assassin wearing your face would say,” the Armsman said, his expression one of stone. “I’m going to have to ask you to wait.”
“I’m a threat to my own children now? I expected better from you, Duncan,” Akantha said, giving the man a withering look.
Duncan shook his head. “Sorry, I’m no longer in charge of security around here. Soon I won’t even be on duty here at the door, but back attending Elaine as I’d originally intended for my retirement,” he said.
“You’re going to buzz Jason to let him know I’m here, and then you’re going to open that door,” Akantha commanded, summoning her most imperious and commanding affect.
“You’re going to have to wait for the genetic scanner to do its job,” the Armsman said with professional detachment. “I’ve personally had to deal with two Parliamentary chameleon teams,” and then, at her blank stare, he continued to explain, “they’re assassins using advanced technology to change their face, general appearance, and even fingerprint or retinal scans. No assassins will get through on my watch, Ma’am.”
She stared at the armsman in disbelief, and then turned her gaze at the rest of the people obstructing her from seeing the man who had given her a sword, and even barred her from her own children!
“You do not want to make an enemy out of me,” Akantha warned icily.
“That’s your prerogative, Lady,” the Armsman said coolly.
“Fine…do your scans,” she fumed.
Moments later, they brought out the genetic scanner and pressed it against the side of her neck. There was a slight sting.
“You would be wise to warn me about that,” she said, stopping her instinctive grab for Bandersnatch.
“Sorry,” the Armsman said unsympathetically, and there was a short pause. “I’m sorry, Lady. But it seems the genetic scanner is down on the fritz. You can wait while we get another scanner or you can come back another time,” said the Armsman.
Akantha shouted with frustration and grabbed the hilt of her sword.
“Lady Akantha, you’re getting agitated. Please take a step back to cool down and reflect. Attacking us will not end well for you,” the Armsman, said thrusting his arm out with his palm facing her.
“Get out of my way!” she yelled.
“Please calm down, Ma’am,” he said dispassionately, unclipping a stun rod and holding it down by his side. “I’m asking you to step back for our mutual safety and think hard before doing something you’ll regret.”
She blasted hot breaths in and out of her nostrils as her fingers trembled around Bandersnatch’s hilt. But after a few seconds of staring down the stone-faced, stun rod-wielding warrior, she released her grip on the ancient weapon. “You can tell Jason I won’t forget this!” Akantha snarled before turning on her heel and storming back to the lift.
****************************************************
There was a chime at the door.
“What is it?” I asked activating the com-panel.
“The Lady Akantha has decided to depart the deck upon discovering the genetic scanner was malfunctioning. I’m afraid she’s now out of sorts, blaming both us and you for the delay,” said Lead Armsman D’Argent.
“Good work, Lead Armsman,” I said gratefully, “it will be good for my wife to rediscover that I am not among the list of people who have to jump when she says ‘frog’.”
“As you say, Prince Jason,” said the Armsman in a respectful voice that totally failed to hide the hint of censure he wished to convey.
“Don’t worry that I am acting out of mere petty malice. Or rather, not only out of petty malice. I can’t help wanting to yank her chain a bit now and again, but ultimately the Hold Mistress is a woman who needs to be reminded just who and what I am—both when it comes to this Fleet and my children.”
“That’d be above my pay grade, Highness,” said the Lead Armsman.
“You just keep doing what you’re doing and let me know if there are any threats. That will be all, D’Argent,” I said.
“My Lord,” he said before cutting the channel.
I turned back to pick up one of my daughters, who was waving her hands and legs while lying on the floor.
“Who’s a good girl? Who’s daddy’s girl? Yes, yes you are, aren’t you!” I cooed, picking her up and swooping her around in a circle before holding her close.
Five kids were in the room along with their attendants, and I was determined to spend at least five minutes every day with each of the little tykes. Boy, girl, or something in-between, they were mine. Mine and hers, but definitely mine and no one—not even my wife—got to tell me otherwise. It was the one thing I wouldn’t allow.
They say you can try and kill a person, but don’t try to come between a man and his family unless he’s already dead. And I heartily subscribed to that sentiment. Never having had a father myself, I was bound to make mistakes so that just made me doubly determined to be the best father I could. That started with making sure the little ones knew that I would always be there for them if they needed me.
Chapter Thirty-eight: Opening Maneuvers and Rushing to the Fray
Grand Fleet of Sector 25
Current Strength: (163)
11 Battleships
31 Cruisers
66 Destroyers 45 Corvettes
10 Cutters
I looked around the Rage and silently counted ships. It looked like we were all there.
I’d made the decision to leave all of the MSP’s and its allies’ moderately damaged ships at Easy Haven for continued repairs, along with the Messene’s Shield. I’d also left the fleet support train, just on general principles. Not only did the warships still need some work, but I didn’t want to totally strip the Starbase of all protection. Basically, there was no need for a bunch of freighters and damaged ships where I was going. Maybe I’d come to regret every little bit of firepower left at Wolf-9, but I was calling this the right play.
Before the battle with Task Force 3, I’d had 119 warships total, four of which were Battleships in what I’d then been calling the Coalition Fleet. Now, even after battle casualties—but thanks entirely to the reinforcements itching to join the Grand Fleet and go out to smash the Reclamationists—I had 163, eleven of which were Battleships.
That was a 37% increase in total ship hulls, and nearly three times the number of top-end Battleship firepower than we’d had during our last engagement. If tripling our top-end combat units and increasing the fleet as a whole by a third wasn’t enough during our next engagement, I figured a few battered Cruisers and Destroyers—nine in total that I was leaving behind for repairs—weren’t going to make the difference.
Even though they could have fought because they were only moderately damaged, I figured that totally uncovering Wolf-9 just wasn’t worth it.
In the last battle, I’d gone from 119 functional warships down to only 76 survivors. 17 of them were deemed so badly damaged I’d ordered them sent directly back to Tracto as an escort for our captures rather than risk taking them to Easy Haven.
Those kind of losses were more than I could easily tolerate, and I was leery of sending out ships that were at less than their best—especially while the enemy was still crouching in the shadows.
That’s why while I had arrived at Easy Haven with 52 warships, right now I had 43 on the move.
Also, while 43 out of 163 wasn’t exactly the ratio I’d have hoped for with this new fleet in terms of veterans versus newcomers—especially when several of the ostensible veterans belonged to the Sector Guard—I didn’t think throwing another 9 into the mix were going to greatly impact things one way or the other.
All of which was a longwinded way of saying: I really was leading a coalition fleet this time around, even if it was called a Grand Fleet with me as its titular head. Even so, I was unsure of our victory in the upcoming battle.
Counting the new battleships, I no longer had the strength to wag the dog and thus this new lash-up was feeling an awful lot like leadership by committee—something I was not at all comfortable with.
“Immediate area is clear of enemy contacts, Admiral,” reported Captain Hammer, her image popping up on my left side in the screen embedded into the left arm of my Admiral’s Throne. “Your order, Sir?”
“We’ve established a com handshake with every warship in the fleet?” I asked, giving Hammer a nod showing that I heard her while turning and directing my question to the Comm. Section.
“Reading them loud and clear, Sir. They’re all here,” Steiner said with a nod.
“Message to…” I wrinkled my nose with displeasure, “the sub-commanders: I want our sensors lit off, and at the first sign of the incoming convoy they are to notify me at once and wait for orders. They are not—I repeat: not—to exercise their own initiative and advance on the enemy unless they are already within weapons range.”
“Aye, Sir,” Hammer said.
I hadn’t particularly wanted to assign squadron commands based upon which Star System they came from, or who they were on friendly terms with—in fact, I’d tried to integrate them directly into our existing coalition force structure—but, sadly, that had gone over like a house on fire. In other words, the idea had sent them literally screaming in the opposite hypothetical direction as fast as they could proverbially run.
Lacking the power to enforce the desired change, I’d been forced to concede on the point and appoint the two top officers with the most combat power as my sub-formation commanders.
Admiral Silverback had his three battleships, and roughly a third of the fleet—including, of course, all of the smaller Aegis warships. Rear Admiral Dark Matter had the other third, along with a few of his home world’s close allies.
In a way it was refreshing to see that the SDF’s of Sector 25 were as distrustful of one another as they were of me and the MSP. I really could have done without the vindication if it meant a smoothly operating command structure, though.
Unfortunately, we had what you get when you throw a bunch of officers and ships from different provincial systems and traditions together without giving them enough time to learn how to work together.
In a way it was probably for the best that we kept everyone together with the people they already knew, and in most cases, could trust given our time constraints. A few group simulator runs couldn’t overcome a lifetime of rivalry in just a few days; I had accepted that, but I didn’t have to like it very much. Fortunately, liking it wasn’t in the job description.
“Rear Admiral Dark Matter reports Sub-Formation 3’s ready and waiting for orders, Admiral,” reported Steiner.
“Good to hear,” I replied.
A beat later she held a hand to her ear. “Admiral Silverback is reporting in. He says, and I quote, ‘his sub-formation is ready for action and ready to be impressed by Confederation leadership’,” she reported.
I could see shoulders tense on the bridge at this dig against not just me, but everyone present.
“Of course he is,” I drawled to ease the tension before it could form, “inform the good Admiral he has my compliments, and if he can show us the discipline Aegis is famous for by holding Sub-Formation 2 in place he can color me impressed.”
Captain Hammer snorted. “Good one, Sir,” she muttered to me out of the side of her mouth, in a voice so low it was barely picked up by the microphone.
“I aim to please, Captain. Well…to please everyone except Admiral Silverback, perhaps,” I said with a smirk.
We shared a look of mutual understanding. “I’m sure he’ll let you know the moment he is less than pleased,” she replied.
“Captain, I’m shocked,” I said in mock dismay, putting on my face a look of gross exaggeration as I spoke. “To say such a thing about a superior officer is either bang-on or an example of such gross disrespect and failure to respect a superior officer that I’ll have no choice but to—”
“I have a reply from Admiral Silverback for you, Admiral Montagne,” Lieutenant Steiner interrupted.
“Bang-on with the timing, Lieutenant,” I said, hiding a smile as I looked at the Captain while I spoke before turning back to the Comm. station. “Please ignore the message and store it in a file somewhere.”
Hammer snorted. “Good thing I’m not in the same organization—and that Confederation ranks are above those of provincial defense forces then, Sir,” the Captain said, her hands clasped firmly behind her back.
“You aren’t going to listen to it, Sir? The message, I mean,” Steiner said with surprise.
I flipped a languid hand. “I’m certain I know what it says. Since you’ve already listened to it, I have no doubt you’ll bring it to my attention if it’s something other than the man venting his spleen,” I replied with a winning smile. “In fact, hold all personal calls until further notice.”
“Aye…aye,” she said with a conflicted expression on her face. To me it looked like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to laugh or scold me and in the end decided to do neither.
“Enemy contacts! It looks like the resupply convoy but they jumped in at least an hour away at normal drive speeds, Sir!” reported the Sensor Operator.
I frowned. The enemy was a little farther out than I would have liked. I could send fast-jumping Cutters and Corvettes over in 18 minutes and 35 minutes, respectively, but Destroyers jumped at right around the hour mark. It would almost be faster to run them over in normal drive, while the rest of our Cruisers and Battleships followed along behind. But something about that plan sat poorly with me.
I didn’t want to split my fleet into what would be essentially three groups, with each ship type out of range from each other. I was willing to do that last time, but even if the Imperials didn’t know we had intercepted their supply convoy’s itinerary, they had to know I was gunning for them and after our attack on their Task Force 3. It was a certainty they’d take countermeasures.
I straightened in my chair and leaned forward.
“Rear Admiral Dark Matter wants to know the plan of attack,” Lieutenant Steiner reported, “he’s demanding to speak with you, Admiral.”
I shot a look over at Dark Matter’s command. All 29 of his Sub-Formation Three’s warships were still holding formation around the Rear Admiral’s Battleship, but they’d started to drift forward. Like dogs pulling at the leash, it wouldn’t take much for them to slip free and lunge at the prey in their sight.
“Inform the Rear Admiral he’ll have to wait,” I told her and then turned away. “In the meantime, I want to know everything there is to know about that supply convoy. If they so much as squart I want to know about it.”
I could see Tactical Officer Hart and Captain Hammer exchange significant looks, but unless they were about to rise up in bloody mutiny I didn’t have time for them either.
“Sensors, where is that convoy’s protective detail?” I demanded, my eyes roving over the scan returns.
“Admiral, I’m reading a pair of Corvettes to the fore and aft of the supply train,” said the Sensor Officer, shooting a map of the convoy with the highlighted images of the Corvettes on it.
“Interesting,” I mused while scratching my chin.
“Admirals Silverback and Dark Matter are both asking when you’re going to give the order to jump or advance. Silverback is being quite insistent, Sir,” reported Steiner. “Problem, Sir?” asked Hammer.
I hesitated and then decided to take her into my confidence. “There must be over thirty large freighters in there,” I said, pointing at the convoy.
“Thirty four,” Hammer interrupted, “if you aren’t counting the other ships.”
“Yes, the Corvettes,” I accepted the correction without missing a beat, “thirty four large freighters, presumably packed to the brim with supplies for their fleet, and yet for such a large and important supply run they only have four Corvettes—and of a design, I’ll note, that we haven’t seen before?”
“That’s not entirely surprising, sir,” Hammer pointed out.
I cocked my head and motioned for her to go on. “Even back in my day,” as soon as she said that, Lieutenant-Commander Leonora Hammer looked distant for a moment and then she shook it off, “they were fazing them out. The Imperials never really liked Corvettes; they thought that, as a class, they were too small and ineffective. I’ve done some reading and in the time between when I went into the freezer and when I came out, they’ve almost entirely removed anything smaller than a Destroyer from the standing fleets. Oh, they’ve kept a few around for specialty niches like infiltration missions and garrison duty. But they sold off the rest to private individuals and the provinces.”
“I see,” I demurred. This was a new take on it that I hadn’t even known to ask about, “But even so, I’m not entirely sure how that signifies it could be SOP?”
“I’m not sure it does, but since we’re dealing with former Imperials—or maybe even current Imperials, at this point who knows—then they’re going to have a Imperial’s scorn for Corvettes,” she said.
“I take your point…but it only seems to reinforce my own. Why would they send so few of a ship type they disdain to defend a convoy this size, especially when it’s supposedly so important?” I asked.
“I guess I’m just pointing out that using Corvettes for convoy defense wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. The opposite would in fact be true; I’d expect them to use Corvettes for something like escorting freighters during the middle of a war,” she said after a moment’s thought.
“But only four?” I asked.
She frowned. “That does seem to be a little strange,” she replied, “maybe they were attacked along the way, or the rest of they send part of the convoy screen ahead and due to jump cycle times the other half catches up afterwards?”
“That sounds more likely than anything I’ve heard so far,” I said, but with a lack of anything obviously wrong I had to make a decision. I either jumped in with both feet, trying to take a bite at the low-hanging fruit in front of me, or I let it pass…and letting it pass just didn’t seem to be in the cards.
Although the supply convoy felt unusually short of what I would consider sufficient escort ships, from the increasingly distorted look of my subordinate’s sub-formations it looked like either I gave the order and tried to control the attack, or I let them run amok and chip away at my authority until I was the leader of this fleet in name only.
Right or wrong, I had to act. Inaction would lead to the disintegration of my command.
Firmly committed, I leaned forward in the chair.
“Enemy warships seem to be panicking they must have spotted us, Sir! They’re diving into the star system to try and get away before we can short-jump to their location,” exclaimed the Sensor section before I could issue any orders, “they’re trying to get within the hyper limit.”
I sat bolt upright in surprise. “New order to the fleet: all ships are to maintain position around the Flagship,” I instructed and then turned to the Hammer. “Captain, lay in a pursuit course for the convoy and bring the Royal Rage up to maximum speed on the normal space drive.”
“Aye, Sir.” the Captain and the Comm. Officer replied.
“You aren’t going to want to send the Corvettes and Cutters ahead with a coordinated short jump?” Hammer asked in a low voice.
“No. They can’t reach the convoy before the freighters and their escorts move inside the hyper limit, and the freighters are relatively slow. We can catch up to them easily enough once we’re inside the limit,” I explained seriously. “There’s no need to split the fleet just yet, and since they’re moving they can’t jump anytime soon.”
“You’re the Admiral,” she said with a shrug and turned back to her console. However, I noted her looking at me out of the corner of her eye once when she thought I wasn’t watching, but the second time when I glanced over I saw her giving me an enigmatic look.
With a mental shrug, I turned away. I could almost understand why the convoy headed into the system instead of staying still and charging their hyper drives. It wouldn’t save them in the long run; their escort warships were too weak to stand off more than fifty Corvettes and Cutters if they stood still and tried to charge their hyper drive. Their lives, or at least their freedom, would be extended a short time but…
It’s not that I couldn’t understand the determination to fight until the very end, or to not go gently into that good night. There was also a slight—and I mean slight—chance that if they all split into different directions, one of the freighters could get away. I mean, it wasn’t a very good chance considering I had three ships for every one of theirs but it was a chance. However, on the off-chance they knew something I didn’t, I was going to hold off breaking my ships up for a general pursuit until after we moved inside the hyper limit. Then we’d see.
“Admiral! The Corvettes of Sub-Formation Two are reversing thrust; they’ve started charging their hyper drives,” reported Sensors.
“Unacceptable,” I snapped, “Lieutenant Steiner, message to the Corvettes of Sub-2. They are to rejoin formation and continue to the hyper limit with the rest of the fleet.”
“I have Admiral Silverback on the line, Sir,” she said quickly. “He’s demanding to speak with you.”
I suddenly changed my mind. “Relay the message directly to the Admiral Silverback, Lieutenant,” I growled. I’d save a direct appeal to those Corvettes as a last measure and do what I should have done from the beginning followed the chain of command. “Copy it to corvettes at the same time.”
Steiner turned back to her console, “Message relayed.”
“No response from the Corvettes, Admiral,” Tactical Officer Hart helpfully pointed out after several seconds.
“The Admiral says he’ll take it under advisement as he continues to direct his sub-formation, Sir,” Steiner added.
I smiled to hide my now clenched teeth. “Inform Silverback that I will speak to him as soon as his Corvettes start moving and not before,” I said. These were exactly the times when I really wished I wasn’t the leader of a coalition force. I didn’t outnumber or outgun my sub-formation leaders, so I couldn’t force them to follow my orders and I had no close ties with the home governments of their leaders. All I had was a reputation for tyranny and success—thanks to the Cosmic News Network—and the moral authority that came with being the appointed leader of the Grand Fleet.
While being the proper leader was helpful, it felt a thin reed to rely on. As for the reputation, it looked like I was going to have to see how far it would take me after all.
“The Corvettes are still falling behind, Sir,” reported Hart.
I nodded. “We continue as planned,” I said as if nothing were wrong, when in fact we were experiencing a near-mutiny of fifteen corvettes. ‘Mutiny’ might be too strong; the chain of command told them to follow the orders of the Admiral in command of their sub-formation instead of the Admiral in charge of the Fleet as a whole. And, technically, I had merely relayed to them an order I’d given to their commander. I hadn’t directly ordered them to do anything…yet.
Steiner listened to something in her ear and winced, casting me a look as she continued to listen before eventually looking away.
Silverback. The man was testing me. The only question currently was whether I was going to pull a rabbit out of my hat or give into his demands. On general principle, I hated doing what my enemies—in this case, a politically-minded subordinate—wanted. However, I was all out of rabbits.
I knew what the man wanted: more say in how this fleet was run. But I would be good and blasted before I allowed any formation with me at the top to be run by committee.
Unfortunately, it looked like I just might have to be good and blasted. As little as I could afford to have my authority tested like it currently was, I might have to compromise in private and throw the other man a bone.
Unless….
My eyes narrowed and I smiled. It might fail just as spectacularly as my first attempt, but this latest thought was worth a shot.
“General message to the fleet: due to enemy actions and the need for tactical flexibility, I am taking the fleet to Tactical Formation Beta 2. All affected ships are to signal your understanding and compliance with these orders,” I commanded. After making sure Steiner had the message and was transmitting it, I continued, “Get me Commodore Kling. Now.”
A moment later and the Commodore appeared on my screen. “What do you need from me, Admiral?” the Commodore asked cautiously, keeping whatever he really thought about the current situation carefully hidden.
“Only what we’d originally planned if we activated Formation Beta. Take control of those Corvettes, Commodore,” I said my eyes drilling into him, “and then move Sub-4 in front of the main fleet and just as we originally planned; we’ll use them as a screening force.” It was a big task I was giving the man, but I knew he was the man for the job. If I was wrong, it was time to eat some humble pie and talk to Silverback.
His face suddenly hard, Commodore Kling nodded.
“Aye, Sir,” he said before cutting the connection.
None of the Corvettes in the Grand Fleet belonged to Aegis; they were all from small fry worlds, powers that didn’t dare offend the big boys. To this point they could say that they had stayed out of any ‘confusion’ at the top by strictly following the orders handed down by their chain of command, but it was time they made a choice.
They needed to remember I wasn’t just the titular head of the Grand Fleet—I was one of the big boys too. I’d had enough of powerless, ceremonial fleet commands with my last one, so they could either anger Silverback—and maybe Aegis as well—or they could obey orders and do what I blasted well told them to do.
Now I had to wait.
For a long minute, nothing happened. Then a pair of the fifteen Corvettes that had been preparing to short jump after the convoy moved.
“The Corvettes that are moving have stopped charging their hyper drives,” reported Sensors.
I sucked my teeth as I watched and nodded. Then five more Corvettes moved and a split second later, as if a dam had broken, and all but one of the corvettes started accelerating to best speed in order to catch up with the rest of the fleet. It was almost half a minute later that the final Corvette belatedly went to full burn and hurried to catch up with the rest of its squadron mates.
I clenched my fist and stuck up my thumb. “Tell the Commodore that was excellent work, Lieutenant,” I instructed and then turned. As if it was an afterthought, I added idly, “Someone please get me the name of the Captain and ship registry for that last Corvette, then forward the information to me electronically for review after the battle.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Lieutenant Hart while Steiner was busy speaking into the microphone along her jaw. I waited until there was a short lull in the Comm. Section and caught her eye.
“You may now inform the Aegis Admiral that I am ready to speak with him, Lieutenant,” I informed her and then added, “and, in the interest of full disclosure, make sure I’m speaking to him on an open channel—encrypted so only our fleet can hear it, but not otherwise restricted.”
Steiner gulped and then, looking a little wide-eyed, bobbed her head quickly and started to set up the conference call.
I wondered what exactly Silverback had been saying to cause such a reaction from her, and as I did so I had to work to keep a frown from forming on my face.
“Two seconds, Sir,” she said and then, right on time, the ugly mug of Admiral Silverback appeared on my screen. Well…it’s not as much that he was ugly as that I didn’t care for his personality, and I happened to be in an ugly mood at the moment.
“Montagne!” he snapped, red creeping down his neck and his words next door to curse.
“Admiral Silverback. As promised, now that confusion with the Corvettes has cleared away, I am free to speak with you,” I said, forcing a congenial expression, even while on the inside I couldn’t help a small amount of gloating. Take that! I silently sent out to obstructive Admirals everywhere.
Still, it was an important idea to be generous in peace and congenial in victory, even if the other side didn’t deserve it. That idea, in my mind, went right along with the maxim that ‘death is never too good for my enemies.’
“You go too far, Montagne!” he growled in a rising voice, clearly struggling to keep his voice on the right side of proper. It was never good to shout at your superior after all.
“I go too far, Admiral?” I asked coolly my eyes sharpening, even as I made it a point to use his rank when speaking to him.
“Those Corvettes were a part of my formation, they properly belong under my command! You had no right to take them…” he said, and then reluctantly added as if the word was dragged out of his mouth by an amateur dentist, “Sir.”
“I see you have finally remembered the proper way to address a superior officer,” I said flatly, “but, correct me if I’m wrong: as far as I’m aware none of the warships in Sub-formation 4 came from Aegis, and thus were never under your command until I assigned them to you.”
“I will not be lectured to by the most wanted criminal in known space—a man not even half my age,” Silverback said glaring at me.
“Not that it would matter even if they did fly the Aegis Flag,” I continued, as if I hadn’t even heard him, “since, as the duly-appointed Grand Fleet commander, the disposition of the various warships into formations and squadrons is under my exclusive purview.”
“If you think for even a moment—” snapped the other Admiral.
“You forget yourself, Admiral Silverback,” I shouted over him.
“Just who do you think you are? This Fleet would be nothing without Aegis and the other Core Worlds,” Silverback demanded right back. “If we withdraw then this fleet falls apart at the seams. First you pass by a golden opportunity to catch the freighters before they could try to run, forcing us to waste time and fuel expenses chasing them down, and now you just think you can reassign the ships of my formation whenever you blasted well feel like it? You’d better figure out—”
“I understand if you’re embarrassed you weren’t able to keep all the ships assigned to your group in formation—despite what was clearly your best effort to follow my orders—yet Commodore Kling managed the same job in a fraction of the time,” I said in a deliberately pitying voice before, continuing in a tone that suggested I was attempting to cheer him up. “They were, as I have pointed out, not members of the Aegis SDF. There’s no shame in admitting you simply weren’t up the job of handling a multi-world force.”
“Shame?” Silverback barked, turning completely livid. “The only one who’s going to be ashamed is you—”
Just at that moment there was an alarm from the Sensor Section, almost exactly 35 minutes after the resupply convoy jumped into the star system.
“Contact! I’m reading multiple contacts arriving from jump space and they look to be arriving in formation around the original location point of the freight convoy,” reported the Lieutenant at Sensors in a tension-filled voice. “Early returns indicate the ship sizes roughly correspond with known Reclamation Fleet warship classes and not general freighter classes.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” I said evenly, before rounding back on the Aegis Admiral with a great deal of heat. “Sorry for ignoring you, Admiral Silverback, but it seems there have been a few new developments,” I paused for a beat as more information started to come up on my screen. It looked like our old friends in Task Force 3 were back for a rematch, “I believe you were busy saying how I had no business keeping this fleet together and concentrated when I should have properly split off our lighter units for what now clearly looks like a suicide run straight into an enemy trap? I dare say that if we had launched our Corvettes the moment we could—as you, among others, had insisted—instead of holding them together as I have done, they would have almost certainly been annihilated by enemy Cruisers and Battleships at close range!”
Silverback started to sweat.
“You were lucky! No one could have predicted this!” he protested, but I could tell his heart wasn’t as in it as it could have been. He might be a politically-minded hack, but he was Admiral enough to recognize reality when it stared him in the face.
“And yet I have,” I said scornfully. “In the future you should focus on the prompt carrying out of orders relayed to you by high command—that would be me—and confine your suggestions to matters regarding resupply and military bureaucracy.”
Any indecision he might have felt disappeared behind hot and angry eyes, and he opened his mouth to retort but I cut him off.
“I’ve no more time to discuss splitting the fleet; doing so now would clearly be suicide. Good day, Admiral,” I said, reaching over to cut the connection. In the background I could hear someone reporting to Silverback that our entire discussion was over an open com-channel. “And let’s endeavor not to have anymore,” I wanted to call it what it really was but had to be more politic that I cared for, “‘confusion,’ I think is the best word—let’s have no more confusion in the chain of command.”
“I may have been wrong about sending forward the Corvettes for a faster chase, but you’ll rue the day you broadcast our conversation over an open channel to try and make a fool out of me!” Silverback said right before I managed to cut the channel.
I blinked down at the now-black screen. I hadn’t made a fool out of him; he’d done that all on his own. Or perhaps I was being too hard on the man. It was possible he’d had very strict and specific orders from Aegis that forced him to act in the manner he had. Either way, he was a tosspot for getting belligerent with the Grand Commander while the enemy was in sight.
“You’ll rue the day you saved those Corvettes, Montagne,” I mimed in a low, childish, singsong voice and then snorted loudly, “better they die than your pride be pricked? Is that it, Silverback?!”
I had no use for such fellows. Maybe it wasn’t good politics to humiliate the man in front of the entire fleet, but realistically he was never going to be one of my loyal supporters. Better the rest of the fleet found this out now and decided where they stood. Case in point: the very Corvettes he was so infuriated about. Was it really better they be destroyed than taken from him in a way that lowered his combat power? I’d say not.
‘Confusion in the chain of command,’ my hairy right foot. His actions were mutiny in the face of the enemy, plain and simple. Only the fact that he controlled a third of the current Grand Fleet’s makeup, and I couldn’t easily remove him from command without losing a handful of battleships along with him, made me stop from bringing him up on charges.
My silent fuming was interrupted by the Captain of the Royal Rage when she opened a private channel. “Are you sure that was wise?” Leonora Hammer asked, using the sort of outwardly respectful words and tone of voice that all of my subordinates used when what they really meant was, ‘are you off your flaming rocker, Admiral?!’
“Although we were never going to be on the same page in the first place, I decided to go easy on him in the name of politics and not bring Admiral Silverback up on charges of mutiny,” I drawled, only bothering to look over at her half way through my little monologue. Then I met her eyes, “I understand if you are outraged at allowing a potential mutineer to run wild—especially one at the top of our command structure—and am prepared for any scolding or lecture you might think appropriate in that regard. But, in my defense, I felt that losing a good third of our combat power was too great a risk at this juncture.”
Hammer turned red, and the withering look in her eye while I spoke made her feelings clear: she obviously felt the exact opposite of what I’d said but, after a moment, a considering light entered her eye.
“I believe Silverback’s lawyers would dispute your claims. But, having decided upon your chosen course of preserving ‘a third of this fleet’s combat power,’ why did you think the wisest course was to beard the man over a com-channel in front of the entire fleet?” she asked with a combination of suppressed frustration and the desire to actually know if I had a plan while I’d insulted Silverback.
“You know…it’s amazing,” I sighed.
“What is…Sir?” she asked with long suffering.
I looked over and met her eyes, suddenly feeling weary of always being the one forced to push the boulder up hill. “When people like Admiral Silverback try to trample on us, that’s simply par for the course. When I quite rightly point out that not only were they wrong to do so, but that if we’d all followed their plan we would have been crushed or seriously damaged and reestablish my authority,” I looked over at her with patent disappointment, “why I can’t even count on the support of my own closest subordinates?”
The Flag Captain looked taken aback.
“I’m sorry if I came across as unsupportive. I simply don’t understand the logic,” she hesitated, pressing her lips together and giving a half nod before continuing, “By that I mean the logic of antagonizing the man. I mean, yes, Admiral Silverback was way out of line. But, as you yourself rightly pointed out, he has three battleships under his direct command. Can we really afford to be playing games right before a major battle? Would it really cost that much to deal with this situation later? I’m not disputing that the aegis Admiral was playing games, but…”
“But would it really be so hard on my pride to swallow yet another in a long series of insults?” I continued for her. “No…no, it wouldn’t. But I can’t save this Fleet if we start making bad decisions in the name of expediency or political correctness. Besides, by airing the conversation and highlighting his borderline incompetence and failed attempt to leverage me, I may not have made us any friends from Aegis. Then again, that wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon anyway. It did allow me to solidify my hold over the independents in this fleet, and that’s got to be worth something.”
Hammer didn’t look entirely convinced. “And if we lose this battle because of one Admiral’s injured pride?” she asked.
Now my gaze hardened. “It’s a tough calculation, Captain. But do you really want a commander that ignores his own best judgment and sends people into what he thinks might be a trap, purely in the name of politics so that he can make nice with the others at the top?” I asked critically. “Just how long would you follow a man who sent Corvettes up against Cruisers and Battleships because he was too weak to stand up to his own sub-commanders?”
“When you put it that way…” Hammer said looking defeated and not happy about it.
“Capria and the Confederation made me an Admiral, and the Sector Government put me in charge of a fleet tasked with and defending this Sector. I was a Prince and now I am essentially a co-head of state and commander in chief of a planetary nation state. I’m the only one able to reach space in a system that’s already been invaded three times.”
Something in her visage changed as I spoke, which only fueled my desire to try to reach her as I continued.
“It’s easy to second-guess after the fact, and almost as easy to tell others what they should be doing when you’re not the one responsible—just like Admiral Silverback is doing right now. But if you think commanding one ship and being responsible for everyone onboard her is bad enough, wait until you have a whole fleet of them and a few populated planets looking to you for protection,” I said wryly. “I don’t always like the decisions I have to make, and like most of the decisions I’ve made this one is a judgment call. I can certainly use all the advice I can get, but at the end of the day I have to make the hard call. And, in my opinion, we can’t run a war by committee. So unless or until I’m removed, or it’s well and truly destroyed, I am the commander of this fleet. Now let’s try to get back on task.”
“Yes, Sir,” Hammer acknowledged. Although she still wasn’t happy, I could tell that after our short conversation there was a new gleam of respect in her eyes for the catapulted-far-beyond-his-abilities Vice Admiral, and his ragtag fleet of Spineward defenders.
Time would tell if I’d made the right call with Silverback, but ultimately what he was going to do was up to him and not me. Frankly, what I could have added to what I’d told Hammer but didn’t, was that as far as I was concerned the only notable difference between us was that I was in command and he was not. And as far as Aegis was concerned, they were a Core World and a sovereign provincial government. But so was Tracto.
I was a Prince, and essentially married to a Queen that ruled, not reigned—although she did that as well. This meant I was a Sovereign individual in my own right, above and beyond my duties as an Admiral. Sure, technically I had to answer to Akantha as my ‘Hold Mistress,’ but everything I’d learned said that pretty much only applied to defending her, Messene and our kids. Protectors and Warlords pretty much acted as their own Commanders-in-Chief of whatever military forces they laid claim to.
But when Silverback and Aegis called me a tyrant and tried to usurp the Grand Fleet, they weren’t far wrong. I didn’t like to think about being a Head of State any more than I liked to contemplate Akantha’s slave-taking tendencies. So when Aegis insulted me, they were insulting a head of state because and while Tracto and Gambit might not match the industry of Aegis, our combat power sure as blazes did. Would they do this to the King of Capria, the Governor of the Sector, or the President of the Confederation Assembly?
I don’t think they would. I also don’t think they’d let anyone talk to the President of Aegis…or King, or whatever they had over there, without a major incident and possibly a declaration of war. Did I get the respect of a President or King? Did I even get the respect of a First Lady? Nope. And I was closer to a Vice President that ran the military.
Well, let them rot. I wasn’t going to get mad at being called a tyrant because, frankly, even though I didn’t want them, I had the powers of a tyrant if I ever decided to exercise. Also, pretty much no matter what they said I still would do my best to save us from Janeski and defeat him. But it was telling to see how they treated one of the few people with the actual ability—let alone the willingness—to go out on the proverbial limb and try to save them.
“The new escorts, the remains of Reclamation Fleet Task Force 3, are burning hard to match course and speed with the rest of the convoy, Admiral Montagne,” Captain Hammer reported. “They’re moving inside the hyper limit and entering the star system as well, Sir.” She added, needlessly in my opinion.
“Thank you, Captain,” I replied. It was time to get my head back in the game, “We’ll keep the fleet together and continue to follow them into the star system.”
I stopped and looked at the screen with narrowed eyes. The twenty odd warships making up the battered remnants of Task Force Three—thirty odd if you counted in the Corvettes—didn’t worry me. Three Battleships, ten Cruisers and ten Destroyers weren’t going to stop us now that their cunning little ambush had failed.
It was rather cute, in its own way. Send in the freighters and, assuming they don’t land on top of an enemy force, you follow it up with your most powerful warships whose arrivals are delayed just long enough that they would arrive in plenty of time to totally annihilate anything that could cycle its engines faster than a Destroyer.
We’d been wise enough to evade the trap, and now all they could do was run into the star system. Before, there was no way any of the freighters could get away from my fleet what with our three to one advantage in hulls and faster speed. But now it started to make sense.
With Task Force 3 there to delay us, it was just possible that a number of Janeski’s supply freighters could get away and resupply the Imperial Admiral’s main fleet. You’d have to be desperate or insane to trade even the battered remnants of Task Force 3 for a few freighters, but if your warships were caught up on the wrong side of a jump cycle time then saving what you could save was the right call. It all made sense.
So why was I still feeling uneasy?
The enemy was on the run, and with these new additions the Grand Fleet of Sector 25 under my command easily outnumbered and outgunned the combination of the convoy and task force.
I didn’t have any idea what could go wrong…and that scared me.
A lot.
“Stay on course, Captain,” I said unnecessarily.
“Of course, Sir,” Hammer acknowledged, giving me an odd look but wise enough not to pursue the matter.
Sitting back in my command chair I hoped we could finish these Reclamationists quickly and deprive Janeski of a critically needed supply run.
But could it possibly be that easy?
Chapter Thirty-nine: Sucking Them In
Commodore Bruneswitch glared at the screen in frustration. The screen itself was fine: a top model in excellent condition as was to be expected. It was what was being displayed on the screen that caused him to feel anger.
“Enemy force still shows no sign of sending forth its faster elements, Commodore,” reported Lieutenant Commander Jeeves.
“Thank you, Jeeves,” he said turned back to the screen and then cursed silently.
For the better part of a month, Bruneswitch and his detached Destroyer flotilla had flirted with death. That incompetent Wessex had dispatched a force without a single FTL communicator to hunt and track down a mobile, hyper-capable opponent. Forget the fact that even with FTL capability, and a long-range array, he would have had too few ships to systematically hit every possible star system. And yet, despite the enormous handicap he had still managed to succeed.
It had been an educated guess, true. But to his mind there were only three possibilities: Wolf-9, Tracto, or one of the Core Worlds in Sector 25. Given that if they’d done the last he never would have the forces to find them, Bruneswitch had split his chase force between Tracto and Wolf-9 and struck gold.
Even better, he’d made sure to keep a log of the actual physical location of at least one ComStat buoy near each of the two target systems. So as soon as he’d managed to track down the missing local fleet, instead of randomly jumping to fallback positions or rally points, he’d instead simply jumped to the FTL-buoy, hard docked, and physically uploaded the message to the network and waited for a response.
The result had been a commendation and assignment as the new temporary commander of Task Force 3—what little remained of it after Wessex had mangled it.
Now, here he was in command and in yet another empty benighted star system in the armpit of nowhere.
The High Admiral had given him his orders and, if everything had gone well, the survivors of Task Force 3 would be able to get a measure of revenge for what had been done to them by the locals.
Except things had not gone well—or, rather, they hadn’t gone badly, just not as well as the Commodore would have liked. True, the locals hadn’t been stupid enough to throw away their screening force of lighter units by splitting them off in an eager rush to hit the freighters. Not that this bit of caution would ultimately help them, as they were still following the slow-moving convoy his Task Force was protecting further and further beyond the hyper limit.
“The Imperial Fleet is not treated this way by local rubes, no matter how cunning or clever they turn out to be,” Bruneswitch said with a glower. He studiously ignored that they weren’t technically a part of the Imperial Fleet, but were officially a rogue force. All of the core officers and crew were on detached duty or beached at half pay and free to pursue whatever folly they individually decided on. Not that this would fool anyone with half a brain cell to rub against itself, but it made for a polite fiction.
“Like lambs to the slaughter, Sir,” said his flagship’s Tactical Officer with a thirst for revenge over what the locals had done to them burning in the younger woman’s eyes.
“The thing you have to remember, Lieutenant,” Bruneswitch said, deciding that this was the opportune time for what was known as a teachable moment, “and what the local’s will discover to their great dismay very soon, is that no matter how wise or clever you think you are, there is always someone out there who is smarter.”
“The High Admiral will put the finish on them, Commodore,” she said with certainty in her voice, “just you wait and see.”
He didn’t correct her, or caution that by following the maxim he’d just relayed there was bound to be someone even smarter than the High Admiral out there. He didn’t do so because thus far the locals, having spotted the obvious initial trap, didn’t appear to have any clue as to exactly what was awaiting them.
“I’m sure he will, though I’d like to think that we won’t have to rely on the High Admiral for all of our revenge,” Commodore Bruneswitch said with bared teeth.
Not just the eager young Tactical Officer, but all of the other officers on the bridge laughed—and it was far from a nice sound.
The moment the locals crossed the hyper limit, Bruneswitch smiled. “Come to papa,” he said while leaning back in his chair.
Chapter Forty: Mouse Trapped
The Grand Fleet, burning for all it was worth, passed the hyper limit after nearly one hour and continued its pursuit of the fleeing enemy convoy. Every minute brought the fleet closer and closer to the sluggishly moving convoy.
My brow furrowed. “Can I get a verification on the speed of those freighters?” I asked, wondering if the enemy was being deliberately slow for some reason.
Lieutenant Brightenbauc ran the numbers and then turned to report. “Their speed is consistent with the top output of the engines most commonly found in freighters of that type, Admiral,” he reported and then glanced back down at his information. “Actually, according to sensor returns and estimated top performance ratings for their engines, the convoy is moving at one hundred and five percent the rated maximum of the slowest freighter in that convoy. And the other freighters, even though they aren’t at top speed, are still over ninety percent plus their top end performance evaluation.”
I frowned.
“The enemy is burning hell-bent for leather, Admiral Montagne,” said Captain Hammer. “Why? Is something off?”
I shook my head. “They can’t fight us off. They can’t escape us. Why haven’t they split up yet?” I demanded.
“I’ve already run the numbers,” she said, “they need to be further into the star system before they reach their optimal dispersion rate. They’ll reach that range soon, within another ten minutes or so, but the window is pretty large before they have to split.”
I nodded unhappily and sat back, watching for another five minutes as the enemy continued its doomed to fail burn deeper into the star system.
“Message to Commodore Kling,” I finally said.
“Ready, Admiral,” Steiner said, looking relieved to have something to do after more than an hour of inactivity.
“Divide your command into three equal parts: space them out around the main fleet in a triangular formation. Your Corvettes are fast so I want you to push them out as far as you can and still be able to get back to the rest of the fleet before anything can hit you. I want our sensor range increased; I don’t want anyone getting cut off from the group,” I instructed.
Steiner relayed the message and then its reply. “Command acknowledged, Sir,” she said, though her words were redundant as it appeared the Comm. Officer wasn’t the only one of my officers eager to do something.
Within moments of receiving the message, Sub-Formation 4 split into three equal groups and started to move in different directions. One group remained out in front of the main fleet, increasing the distance a bit but nothing major, meanwhile the other units moved out to guard the flanks.
Another several minutes passed as our Corvettes spread out and went to active scan.
“Initial returns indicate nothing new to report,” our Sensor Officer reported after receiving a routine update from the Corvettes.
“Tell him to keep after it,” I instructed. I silently rapped my fingers in a rhythmic pattern along the edge of my armrest, debating whether I should speed up and try to catch them more quickly or slow down and wait until they scattered before going back up to full speed.
I didn’t know which way to go, and that was killing me. Sure, I had some experience with fleet maneuvers, both practical and simulated, but I could acutely feel my lack of expertise. Was I jumping at shadows?
While I mulled it over, the freighters suddenly began to scatter and the screen exploded with projected tracks as all fifty four freighters went off on their own unique courses.
“Enemy convoy is breaking up!” reported Hart eagerly.
I opened my mouth to order my warships to go up to full speed, but my eyes snagged on the warships of Task Force 3.
Moments later, the individual warships of the enemy task force started to scatter as well.
“Do you want to order a general pursuit, Admiral Montagne?” Hammer asked eagerly, a hungry look in her eye.
That had been the original plan, but now that I was at the moment of truth I wondered if it was really necessary.
“Order to Commodore Kling and Sub-Formation 4: all units of Sub-4 are to disperse and begin a general pursuit of those supply transports,” I ordered and then thought to add, “they are to maneuver for effect and avoid engaging any enemy warships Destroyer-sized or larger.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Steiner.
“As for the other three sub-formations, each one is to select an enemy Battleship and—” I was interrupted before I was half-way through with the new instructions.
“Sub-Formation 2 is breaking up and dispersing into a general pursuit pattern. They’re going after the enemy, Admiral!” cried Lieutenant Hart.
“Bugger me,” I cursed, unconsciously giving voice to my feelings on the subject. Silverback just couldn’t wait, could he? That small-minded blighter was really starting to get on my nerves. All I could say right now is he was fortunate my Sister was on a penal colony or else I just might have a method for her to begin to get back into my good graces. Fortunately for everyone involved I was too wise to keep her around.
“Do you want me to relay a message to the Admiral, Sir?” Steiner asked carefully. Silverback wasn’t the only Admiral in this lash-up, but we all knew who she was referring to.
I looked carefully at the screen before answering.
“Relay to the Admiral that he is to his lead his formation against the enemy Battleship designated Bat-2 and destroy or neutralize the target before engaging in a general pursuit,” I instructed, thinking there probably wasn’t a chance in the blue blazes that Silverback would follow the order at this point but determined to enter it into the record anyway.
“Aye, Sir,” said Steiner after a moment, “even though I have a machine transcript indicating receipt of the message, there is no acknowledgement of the order, Admiral.”
“Silverback is a man that prefers to rely upon the good graces of the Demon Murphy over the call of his own common sense,” I said dismissively. “I just hope he doesn’t get a lot of good men and women killed while he’s busy cutting deals with the Demon in an attempt to show the rest of us up. At this point there’s only so much I can do for them as long as they’re determined not to follow orders.”
Steiner seemed taken aback and, glancing at the screen to the battle bridge, Hammer appeared both scandalized and appalled.
“Admiral,” Hammer started as the Royal Rage, surrounded by the remaining might of MSP, remained in position while the Coalition warships of our allies and small fry of the newly arrived the Independent Worlds moved to engage the enemy battleship Bat-1. Around and beside us, the Corvettes of Sub-4 and warships of all sizes from Sub-2 thundered out in countless different directions each on a track for an enemy freighter or warship.
“Yes, Captain?” I asked when she seemed to have lost her train of thought.
Hammer gave herself a short shake. “Sir,” she cocked her head dubiously, “are you sure it’s wise to speak that way about another Admiral of the Fleet.” She lifted a forestalling hand, “I don’t agree with his decision either, but the man may have a point and you—”
“Contact!” cried a sensor operator jumping out of his chair with alarm and from his actions and caramel-brown skin-tone, he had to be one of my original sensor crew. For one nostalgic moment it was like I was once again back on the bridge of the Lucky Clover, leading a group of people who knew their jobs almost as poorly as I did, and then his next words poured cold water right down my back, “I’m reading multiple contacts coming around the extreme ninth planetary body of this star system!”
“Sit down and report properly,” growled the Confederation Lieutenant in charge of the Sensor Section.
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but it looks like a whole Murphy-benighted fleet,” protested the Operator.
“Bring that up on screen,” I snapped, not having time for office politics—or bridge politics as the case may be.
A moment later I saw a hazy image of a large number of warships coming around the outermost planet almost directly behind the enemy fleet. Sure, they were more than an hour out but if we continued after the freighters we’d have to deal with them eventually.
“I’m reading large power fluctuations from the center of that Fleet,” reported the Lieutenant at Sensors his tense voice starting to shrill as he continued to speak. “And fifty sixty…no, more than seventy five unique contacts and still rising, Sir.”
I narrowed my left eye as the image of the ship in the center of the newly-arrived enemy fleet slowly clarified.
It was the Invictus Rising—Arnold Janeski’s Imperial Command Carrier.
“Rear Admiral…it seems we meet again,” I said as the final count of enemy ships came in at ninety warships, including eight battleships and one Imperial Command Carrier.
“Counting the Carrier, those 8 Battleships with her and the three from Task Force 3, we’re looking at twelve top-end enemy combatants, Sir,” Hammer said urgently.
“I can count just as well as you can, Captain,” I said with a calmness I really didn’t possess.
From the appearance of things, Admiral Silverback could count as well because the larger ships—the Cruisers and Battleships that had slower engines and couldn’t disperse as far as the rest of his warships—began to start drifting back together.
“Even numbers,” I mused because even not counting the freighters, the enemy only had 117 warships to our 166, 113 of theirs were Destroyer or larger and they matched us in the wall, while we only had 108 with the rest Corvette size or smaller. “This could be a very tough fight,” I said thinking that there was no way this was anything other than a trap—and one we’d blundered in like a blind caboose and sprung. An Imperial Admiral didn’t start fights he wasn’t sure he could win, which was why I’d ambushed Task Force 3: to force the enemy to face me at a time and place of my choosing. Now that the shoe was on the other foot, my feet were starting to feel decidedly pinched. Not that I didn’t think we couldn’t win, but doing so was going to wreck us.
“It’s not even numbers, Sir,” the Captain disagreed with me, “even though we outnumber them in total hulls, discounting those supply ships, that Carrier has to count for at least two Battleships—maybe as much as an entire squadron. And we already know the enemy has better tech. Stronger shields, faster engines, and longer-range beam weapons,” she said, ticking the points off one by one.
“We can still take them,” I said, my field of vision narrowing until all I was looking at that Command Carrier.
“I hope you’re right,” she replied.
“Well at least we know for sure that I was right to keep our forces concentrated,” I said with a sigh. “Can you imagine what would have happened if we’d split up into individual ships and scattered across the system before they were forced to reveal themselves?” Of course, what I didn’t say was that I was entirely wrong to enter past the hyper limit in the first place.
“That does make me wonder one thing, Sir,” Hammer said.
I cocked my head at her in question.
“Why they showed themselves? They weren’t forced to, Sir. We have no units in position to see around that planet and nothing on the way there yet,” she said.
“Maybe they want us to pull back and give their freighters the chance to escape?” I asked.
Hammer hesitated and then shook her head. “There’s still enough time to catch those freighters unless their escorts put up a better defense than I expect. Civilian ships are slow, Admiral. We could probably dash in and dash back out if we really wanted to,” she said.
I narrowed my eyes. “We’d have to break up the fleet,” I mused, mulling over the idea. I wanted to hurt these Reclamationists as much as possible, and even if we had trouble defeating their main force taking out their supply ships would be a definite feather in our cap no matter what.
“Yes, but we have the speed. Oh, not our Battleships, but our Destroyers and Cruisers could rush in there, hit them, bypass anything too big to deal with and be back before their main force can hit is. It’ll be close, but we can do it,” she said firmly.
“That’s good,” I nodded. It looked like the enemy had made an error this time and, if we pushed it, we could really hurt them—or at least their freighters before they could reply. I started to smile and then a thought occurred to me and my smile froze and congealed.
“So what you’re saying is the enemy made a mistake,” I said.
“Not so much a mistake; we were going to catch up to those freighters anyway before their main fleet could react, thanks to our Corvettes and…Admiral Silverback,” she added that last bit after a moment’s hesitation.
And looking at the screen I could see that Silverback’s thinking must have mirrored mine because the short inrush of heavy units had reversed back into full burn in a clear effort to chase the scattered freighters. Clearly, he also thought we had a limited window to catch those freighters.
I started shaking my head. “I don’t think those Imperials made a mistake,” I said with finality.
“That’s what I said, Sir,” Hammer pointed out, “it’s only because we broke off part of our force early for a rapid engagement that—”
“An undisciplined force like ours? Undisciplined, at least, from their view of things,” I shook my head firmly in negation. “The expectation would be that we’d launch a general pursuit and run them all down as soon as we possibly could, not the reverse.”
Hammer looked at me sharply. “You’re saying they expected to lose the freighters. All of those supplies?” she asked mulishly.
“Aegis stumbles over a Reclamationist spy during a routine sweep, cracks the ComStat network only long enough to get the information about a supply run, and then we walk right into a trap?” I said, my mind moving lighting fast as I lined all the pieces up and then twisted and turned them until they started to make sense according to the new information. “Blast it…I should have known better. I did know better,” I whispered, damning myself to the cold confines of Hades for blundering into this like a fool.
“It was a trap all along…or else they found out about our data theft and turned it into a trap,” Hammer said with dawning realization.
“I doubt those freighters are carrying anything the Reclamationists can’t live without. And I’d wager their main fleet isn’t short of supplies. One good turn deserves another. The Demon’s out tonight!” I said, my emotions finally boiling over. “We ambushed them and now Admiral Janeski is returning the favor…with interest.”
“You could be right, but even though this is an ambush I still think—” she said.
I cut her off. “Message to Commodore Kling,” I shouted, turning to the Comm., “all ships of Formation 4 are to fall back on the main fleet immediately and without delay! The same goes for Sub-2. You tell Silverback he can shout at me later; for now I want all of our ships back here, Lieutenant. NOW!” I roared, slamming my fist into my Throne’s armrest emphatically.
Lisa Steiner startled with surprise jerking sideways in here chair. “Sir?” she asked, a sudden fear in her eyes. But I didn’t have time for her.
“Control yourself, Sir,” Hammer hissed, “everyone in this fleet takes their cue from you.”
I looked back at her with hot eyes. “As soon as our warships—or the majority of them—are back within coverage range of our main guns, I want the Royal Rage ready to reverse thrust and burn back for the hyper limit at full speed on my command. Do you understand, Captain?” I demanded.
“Kling has acknowledged and his ships are starting back. Silverback is refusing to fall back until he can speak with you personally to consult on the matter,” reported Steiner as promptly as I could have hoped.
“Are you sure you’re not overreacting, Sir?” Hammer asked, even though I could tell she was starting to believe in her gut that we were in trouble.
“If I’m wrong, those freighters will have a longer lifespan than they deserve—or they might even get away entirely. But if I’m right then we’re up to our noses in a steaming pile, Leonora,” I said.
Hammer saluted. “That’s all I needed to hear, Sir,” she said and started handing out orders rapid-fire.
I turned back to the Comm. Section. A great sage once said ‘never become so attached to something so much that you can’t walk away from it in less than sixty seconds.’ That was the great discipline he espoused, if you could call it ‘great.’
I wish I had that kind discipline and detachment—as well as the sixty seconds—but right then every second counted. I could be panicking but…
I took a deep breath.
“Alright, there’s nothing for it. Sub-2 is on its own,” I said, making a snap decision. After all, if I was right flaming wrong then we could come back and help out later. Sub-2 outnumbered and outgunned the enemy. “Tell Kling he’s to use Silverback’s formation for coverage in case of a surprise attack as they make his way back to us at best speed. We can’t wait any longer.”
“Yes,” Steiner gulped.
“We might not get another chance to go up against the Imperials with even numbers,” Hammer warned.
I looked around the bridge—both bridges, thanks to the camera feeds to the mini-screens on my Throne. The Confederals looked concerned and professional, but I could also tell they were wondering if I’d just lost my nerve. But the men and women who had been with me from the beginning knew that their Admiral didn’t scare easily, and that if I was as worried as I appeared we were about to be back in the worst of it—a place we’d been plenty of times before.
They knew the real score while their new comrades were still learning whether or not they could trust my judgment. Unless, of course, I really was jumping at the dark. I wasn’t so egotistical that I didn’t allow for that.
“I could be wrong and, if I am, maybe a few freighters get away. But the real threat to this Sector isn’t freighters,” I said, growing more certain in my theory with each passing moment. “New orders to the fleet: Sub-1 and Sub-3 are to reverse course and heading. Now,” I ordered, “I might be wrong about what they have in store for us, but I’m not walking any further into this enemy ambush than I already have without stopping to assess the situation.”
“Royal Rage, begin to reverse course,” the Captain ordered.
“Message to the Fleet: Sub-Formations 1 and 3 are to reverse course immediately—Admiral’s Orders” Steiner said urgently into her com-piece.
Every ship in the two sub-formations stopped, turned, and reignited their engines.
“The Royal Rage has come about, Sir,” Hammer reported.
“Admiral Dark Matter says he needs to speak with you,” Lieutenant Steiner said, turning back to me with a harried look.
“Put him through,” I instructed.
Chapter Forty-one: All According to Plan
“Still no reaction,” Janeski observed.
“The locals should be seeing us by now, Admiral,” Captain Goddard said respectfully.
High Admiral Janeski nodded, pulling up the image of his forces in this star system.
“Everything is proceeding apace,” he said finally. Pulling up the image of the space around the convoy, he watched as this Grand Fleet—the third ragtag group to take up the name that he had faced during the Reclamation—continued to barrel past the point of no return. The deeper they went, the sooner they would be destroyed.
“Half their fleet has spread out to deal with the freighters and escorts while the rest continues to remain concentrated and…” Goddard observed, only to trail off for several seconds before adding, “there they go. The concentrated half has just initiated an emergency reverse burn.”
“Too little, too late,” Janeski said with satisfaction. He would have preferred to be closer to the heart of the action, but the Invictus Rising was just too large a ship to fully hide its energy profile, even with Imperial technology. It was frustrating being out so far away, but that was the life of a naval service professional.
“There they go,” repeated the Flag Captain with relish.
“Indeed,” Janeski said eyes on the screen like a hawk guarding his eggs. He had studied the intelligence files and updates in depth. The Governor, despite an innovative use of old outdated tech and the occasional flash of creativity was, in the end, nothing more than a young amateur newly come to the game. Give him another ten years and maybe he would become something to worry about, but right now he was like a monkey with a gun: every bit as comical as he was dangerous.
Strange-looking perhaps, potentially deadly at his worst, and almost totally lacking in the basic intelligence that lifted man above the beasts, but throw out a banana or three and such a creature was easily distracted. Uplift it and maybe someday it would be a real problem…
He looked back at the screen and his lip curled as he thought, Case in point.
Chapter Forty-two: Ambushed on all sides
“Can I help you, Admiral?” I asked Admiral Dark Matter tersely.
“Yes—” the other man began.
“Contacts!” cried a Sensor Operator. “I’m reading multiple warships to our starboard side!”
I stiffened in my chair.
“Mr. Patani!” protested the Sensor Officer.
“Contact! Multiple contacts to port,” shouted a Sensor Specialist jumping out her chair.
“Control yourse—” the Sensor Officer trailed off before tapping on his own screen and then turning back to me with wild eyes.
“I read a fleet to port and a fleet to starboard, Admiral!” he said speaking in an urgent voice. “Numbers as yet undetermined.”
My eyes shot to the screen. “A Fleet…two fleets?” I was momentarily dumbfounded until the main screen suddenly exploded with newly-verified sensor contacts.
“Supercharge the shields, Mr. Longbottom,” Hammer ordered, snapping me out of my moment of surprise.
“We’ll have to continue this discussion at a later time, Rear Admiral,” I said, turning back to the commander of Sub-3, “we seem to have a bit of a problem.
“I’m reading more sixty contacts to port spread out in an arc and nearly seventy contacts slightly ahead to starboard!” yelled the Sensor Officer.
“I have identified three battleships and rising on the port side,” called out an operator.
“I can confirm a total of eight ships of the wall ahead and to starboard,” shouted a specialist.
“Yes, I think that would be wisest, Sir,” Dark Matter agreed grimly.
“Keep close to my formation and await orders. We’re going to have to force our way out of this together if we’re going to make it through this,” I said, cutting the connection and turning to my bridge crew. “Just where the blazes did these warships come from?” I demanded hotly. How did two blasted fleets appear at close range, less than ten minutes away from my forces, and the first I heard about it was once they lit off their main drives?! Heads would roll for this incompetence or I’d know why!
“Enemy maneuvering for advantage! They’re headed right for us, Sir!” cried the Sensor Officer. My eyes snapped back up to the screen. The entrapment wasn’t total, but it was effective.
“They must have been hiding in a low-power state behind a stealth field, Admiral,” Captain Leonora Hammer explained.
“A stealth field?” I demanded, wondering what exactly it was—and where I could get one.
Hammer’s First Officer broke into the holo-conference using a priority override.
“It seems to be a combination of abilities built into their ships and these satellites we are observing here,” he said, pointing to something off-screen and then his image was abruptly replaced with several faint grey blurs on zoomed in tactical screen. The blurs flashed three times before he continued.
“Interesting,” Hammer sounded impressed.
Hmm…if they were telling the truth there was no way to easily retrofit our ships beyond our already existing silent running protocols. The satellites were probably some sort of advanced Imperial tech, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.
“They seem to have been developed along the same general lines, at least in functionality, as the jamming satellites you used at Elysium, Sir,” the First Officer said directly to me. “However, while the functionality is similar from the sensor returns we’re getting now, it must use a completely different technology. There’s no way to modify our existing jammers for this kind of operation,” he finished regretfully.
“Unfortunate,” I muttered dourly, my mildly hopeful mood crumbling under the continued pressure of this surprise attack.
I turned back to the screen, now that the surprise ambush which had slipped past every sensor team in our entire fleet had been somewhat explained.
Behind us and on our original course, we had the scattered arc of supply and Task Force 3 warships, with an arc of warships appearing at close range to the left of Silverback and our desperately-burning corvettes. They were a little behind Sub-1 and Sub-3, but they’d be easily able to sweep through Silverback—who had an equivalent number of ships if you counted the Corvettes, which I wasn’t. With more heavy units being identified every moment there was nothing I could do for the insufferable Aegis officer other than wish him luck.
This was his chance to prove that scattering his forces in the face of the enemy—against direct orders—was the winning strategy. While I felt for his crews, the ones I felt for more were the Corvettes under Commodore Kling that I’d sent out ahead.
“Counting the task force near the planetoid, the Reclamation Fleet has more than 250 warships, Admiral,” Captain Hammer said, looking a little white-faced as she finished tallying the enemy ships and reported the number
“Leaving the task force behind the planet means we only have a measly one hundred sixty odd for us to deal with. Those are numbers we can deal with, Captain,” I said with a confidence I simply didn’t have. It’s not that I felt our situation was hopeless. But…well, sure, we also had a hundred and sixty odd warships to match theirs. But there was one big crucial a difference my forces and Janeski’s.
Forty five percent of my fleet’s number was the currently out-of-position Corvettes, while other than those four convoy escorts the enemy possessed nothing smaller than a Destroyer.
“What’s the breakdown on their forces? I want hull sizes and classification,” I said.
“I’m reading eight Battleships and twenty Cruisers coming at us to starboard, which has been designated E-Force 4,” Hammer reported in a strained voice. Clearly the ambush had been harder on her mentally than dealing with known forces, “With a similar amount, designated E-Force 3, about to hit Silverback from the port side. E-Force 1 is the original Convoy force, and E-Force 2 is the force which came out from behind the planetoid.”
I felt a chill course through my body that I hid with a nod. “Let’s hope Admiral Silverback does his job and stalls E-Force 3 until we can take the measure of E-Force 4,” I said firmly.
Hammer looked at me like I was daft to think that the scattered Sub-3 could hold off both the convoy escorts and the now…I looked again to verify that, yes, the 78 units of E-Force 3 at the same time.
“He just has to slow them down,” I explained uncomfortably. After all, it’s not like I expected great things from such a repeatedly shortsighted ‘thinker’ like Silverback, “I’m not expecting a miracle.” I also silently didn’t add that I expected the headstrong Admiral Silverback to fold like a house of cards at the first stiff wind of opposition—if not sooner.
She nodded, seemingly taking some strength from my words even if she didn’t appear to entirely believe them.
“Enemy forces are advancing in battle formation!” reported Lieutenant Hart. “Two minutes until intercept.”
On the screen, the enemy warships of E-Force 3 finished shaking out and the eight battleships, twenty cruisers, and fifty destroyers moved into attack position. Like a vicious hammer aimed directly at the Grand Fleet, E-Force 3’s Battleships were in the middle of the enemy formation, with Cruisers on the wings and the Destroyer squadrons floating behind as if taking shelter behind the more powerful ships.
“Time to take out the trash,” I said, ignoring the fact that behind us the remains of the enemy’s Task Force 3—now designated as E-Force 1—had reversed course and the enemy fleet to our port side, designated E-Force 2, was aiming to punch right through Silverback’s pitiful Sub-Formation 2 and stick a spear right in our rear.
“E-Force 3 has eight battleships to the seven of our Sub-1 and 3,” Hammer pointed out.
“I saw that,” I said shortly.
“Eight Battleships to our seven; twenty Cruisers to our seventeen; and fifty Destroyers to our forty five. They have us outnumbered, Sir,” Hammer sounded concerned.
“Our hearts are pure and our ships very well-maintained. How can we lose?” I inquired with a smirk, hoping we could just get past this wave of drama and back to the battle. I mean what did she expect? There was only so much handholding I could offer in the middle of a major engagement. This was the moment of truth and, thanks to that insufferable Silverback—and my refusal to cater to his every wish and desire like a toadying sycophant instead of his commanding officer—instead of outnumbering the enemy with all three task forces, here we were. Up the proverbial creek and paddling as hard as we could with anything we could find.
“This is no laughing matter,” Hammer said.
“I wasn’t laughing…smirking, maybe,” I allowed after a moment of serious reflection.
Hammer spluttered.
“Here they come!” called out Hart.
I stood up. “Stand at your posts and prepare to give it to them with both barrels. New order to all ships,” I declared, thrusting my hand at the screen, “roll and fire!”
“Turn the ship!” cried Leonora Hammer, “eight degrees to the starboard quarter and line us up for a full on broadside with alacrity, Mr. DuPont.”
“All ships. All ships! Turn and fire! I say again: turn and fire. Take your cue from the Flagship and engage the enemy,” Lisa Steiner said through the com-link.
With a flare of its engines, the Royal Rage did a smart turn to port and a half-roll to present its broadside. Moments later, the enemy fleet came into firing range.
“Open fire!” I thundered.
“Fire!” cried Hart, holding tight to his microphone.
Turbo-lasers thundered out from the gun deck, striking the forward shields of the enemy Battleships.
“The enemy are beginning a combat turn, Captain!” called out the First Officer.
“Steady on, crew, and mind your stations,” ordered Hammer in a crisp, carrying voice.
The enemy warships surged forward noses toward us. Then, with an almost ponderous majesty, the enemy Battleships began to turn as well.
“For what we are about to receive, may Saint Murphy make us grateful!” I said moments before every Battleship and Cruiser in the E-Con 3 opened fire on the Royal Rage.
Since I was still standing at that point, I staggered and quickly crashed to the floor, slamming my nose into a guardrail as a series of blows slammed into the ship.
“Shields down!” cried Ensign Longbottom.
“Grav-plates are fluctuating and we have multiple hull penetrations on the starboard side. Trying to lock them down now,” reported Adrienne Blythe on Damage Control.
“Roll the ship, Mr. DuPont!” ordered Hammer.
“In the name of Murphy the Malevolent, what was that?” I asked holding a hand to my nose. When I pulled it away, there was blood on my hand.
I irritably wiped my nose on the sleeve of my uniform. “Every ship that could bring its broadside to bear on us fired at the same time, Admiral,” Leonora Hammer reported, gripping a nearby rail for support.
“We were fired on by the entire fleet?!” I exclaimed incredulously, but it was confirmed that my eyes had indeed not deceived me and yes, in fact, the entire enemy force with the range to do so had concentrated its fire on the Royal Rage.
“Yes, that’s—” the Captain was interrupted.
“The enemy is firing again!” reported Hart.
“Supercharging the port shields!” cried Longbottom. “The starboard shield generator is still in shutdown mode while the computer runs a diagnostic.”
Once again, the enemy opened fire. But this time instead of a concentrated barrage, the enemy started firing their weapons individually as fast as their weapons could cycle.
“Shields down to 60%, 52%, 50-no-40% and falling,” reported Longbottom.
“Returning fire,” said the Tactical Officer.
“Shield collapse is imminent,” Longbottom said crisply.
“New order to the fleet: all ships are to switch targets and concentrate their fire on the lead enemy battleship,” I commanded grimly. It was time to return the favor.
Unfortunately, unlike the Reclamation Fleet not only did a number of Grand Fleet ships not switch their fire, of those that did the fire looked ragged and haphazard.
Chapter Forty-three: Returning Fire
“Keep your hands steady and eyes on the target,” the Chief Gunner shouted over the intercom.
“Huzzah!” cried the gunners nearest the Chief, and the cry was quickly picked up by the rest of the deck.
“This is Tactical: aim for the lead Battleship and go to volley fire,” Lieutenant Hart’s relatively small voice came through the Chief Gunner’s ear bud.
“Aye aye,” grunted the Gun Chief. He switched back on the intercom, “Volley fire!”
“Huzzah!” cried the gunners as they went from single shots to volley fire, and a single volley thundered out from the Rage’s gun deck.
“Huzzah!” another volley thundered out.
“Huzz—” the cry was interrupted by screams of pain and the sudden flash and spray of molten hot metal and fluids as Heavy Laser 13 was destroyed by outside fire.
Outgassing and sudden decompression rocked the gun deck when the emergency bulkhead covering Heavy 13 deployed. But it wasn’t bad enough to cover the entire area open to space. The secondary bulkheads took crucial seconds to deploy, while nearby assistant gunners who weren’t strapped into chairs, and low-level grease-monkeys were dragged toward the breach and sucked out into space.
“Keep at it, boys,” Lesner coughed as a result of the suddenly thin air on the gun deck. Responding to the low pressure, an emergency head bag with attached oxygen hose dropped from the gun mount he was sitting at. Shoving it onto his face and forcing a seal, he fumbled the straps until it was finally secured.
By the time he was done, the breach had been sealed by the secondary emergency seals and Environmental was pumping in replacement gases as fast as the air vents could cycle. But it was going to take a while to fully replace the air and—right now every second counted.
“Aim and fire. Aim and fire!” the Chief Gunner shouted, flipping the switch on the side of the head bag that activated the custom-built com-link attached to the head bag. “We’ve got them on the run!”
Taking aim, he lined up his turbo-laser on the lead enemy ship. Acting on instinct, he waited until the moment felt right before depressing the trigger. It was time for some payback.
The turbo-beam blasted through the weak spot in the enemy shields and he pumped his fist as his beam struck home, tearing deep into the enemy’s hull. When the targeting computer estimated the high likelihood that he’d managed to hit a turbo-laser on the enemy Battleship, it was just icing on the cake.
“Take that, you foul oppressors,” he chortled happily.
Again, the Royal Rage shuddered as another hit punched through. But that only meant the gun deck had to punch back—and twice as hard.
“Hit ‘em with everything you’ve got, boys!” he screamed.
Today was a good day to be a gunner.
Chapter Forty-four: Imperial Frustration
“Why won’t that ship just die already?” snapped Front Admiral Tolwin.
“We are entering close approach now, Front Admiral. The main force of the enemy fleet will be at point blank range in moments after which they’ll begin to pull away,” reported Junior Captain Prentice Major.
The Front Admiral ground his teeth. “The might of two entire squadrons of Battleships, with Cruiser assist, and still she functions? It’s as if she means to spite me…” swore the Admiral.
“Both her port and starboard shields are down and she’s streaming gases from multiple gashes in her hull. It’s only a matter of time until we bring her down, Sir,” said Captain Prentice Major.
“We are certain that it’s their Flagship?” Tolwin asked harshly.
“Without a doubt, Sir,” Junior Captain Prentice Major said with certainty, “even as tough a nut as they are turning out to be, we’ll crack that Battleship open before they clear engagement range.”
“Make it happen, Captain, and pass the order to the rest of the fleet. No one insults our fleet, our leader, and the Empire of Man as the leader of this Sector’s ‘Grand Fleet’ has done and lives to brag about it. Not on my watch. I have orders to destroy the enemy from the High Admiral himself and I fully intend to carry those orders out,” Tolwin said harshly.
“Without a doubt, Front Admiral,” said Captain Major.
Front Admiral Tolwin nodded firmly.
“Enemy movement detected!” reported Tactical.
Admiral Tolwin’s head snapped back around to look.
Next to the imperiled enemy flagship, another Battleship of the same provincial make and model smoothly interposed itself between the flagship and Tolwin’s own Task Force 4, taking most of the fire intended for its sister.
“Shields are falling rapidly on the second enemy battleship,” reported Tactical, “now they’re starting to roll. We’re still able to get in a few shots on their flagship but the to-hit ratios is falling rapidly, Sir.”
“Keep firing—and bring me that Battleship!” said Tolwin referring to the enemy flagship.
“Scans of the second provincial Battleship indicate that while they appear to be of the same class, their hull composition is different. Their flagship is giving off some very unusual readings, but whatever protective armor coating they’re using has only been applied in a few areas on the new Battleship,” said Sensors.
“Scan the remainder of the enemy Battleships,” instructed Prentice Major. “We need to know if there are more of the enemy warships with hulls like their flagship. If they’re all this tough to penetrate, we might need to change strategies.”
“No!” snapped the Admiral. “Continue the scans, by all means, and send a copy of your report up the chain of command. But we will not need to change strategy in the face of these bumpkins. Not now. Not yet. We stick to the plan.”
“Aye, Sir,” said the Junior Captain and the Sensor Officer.
“Second enemy Battleship is taking hull damage, Admiral,” Tactical reported with satisfaction.
The Front Admiral started to smile, but the expression withered as yet a third enemy Battleship smoothly moved out in front of the beleaguered flagship to interpose itself between his fleet and the provincial Grand Fleet flagship.
“Flaming atoms,” cursed Tolwin as it became apparent that his fleet wasn’t going to be able to finish off the enemy flagship with only one pass. “It seems the provincials of this Sector aren’t quite as incompetent as the rest of their ilk.”
“It could just be the core squadron of their leader, this Vice Admiral Montagne, Sir,” Captain Prentice Major pointed out respectfully. “None of the other squadrons in this Grand Fleet has shown much skill to date. Half their fleet is in total disarray and about to be crushed and swept away by Task Force 2.”
“You’re probably right. The High Admiral wants his head…which means I want his head, Captain. Which, by itself, ought to be enough but when you throw in what this infernal Montagne did to our brothers in the third Task Force, it means that I don’t just find myself in total agreement with the High Admiral. I actively want him captured or killed,” Front Admiral Tolwin growled, “pass the word, Captain. Seven days of continuous shore leave for the gun deck that brings down that Battleship.”
“Aye aye, Admiral!” said the Junior Captain enthusiastically.
Glowering at the image of the moderately damaged enemy flagship—which should have already been turned into a rapidly expanding cloud of debris—he silently tipped his hat.
The opponent had barely managed to avoid the first round of this sudden death, overtime smashball match. But he wouldn’t escape a second time.
“Aim for the engines as we pass, Tactical. I want to cripple as many of these provincial dogs as we can on our first pass. It’ll only make things easier as we continue,” ordered Admiral Tolwin.
“Will do, Admiral,” said the Junior Captain.
Chapter Forty-five: Under Duress
“Signal from Sub-Formation 2! It’s Admiral Silverback and he’s desperately requesting we come support him while his ships attempt to return to formation, Sir,” reported Lieutenant Steiner.
Behind us, the Aegis Admiral and his formation was in dire straits. Divided and outside of easy support range for one another, his now numerically inferior force was having a rough go of it. I could see why he wanted our help. Unfortunately, E-Force 3 was already more than a match for us and, frankly, I was more concerned with Commodore Kling’s Corvettes.
Silverback wasn’t going anywhere, but those Corvettes just might be able to pull away and disengage if given half a chance.
I pulled up a plot and tried to figure out if there was anything I could do to help the man—not Silverback, but Kling.
“Hart’s Heart is reporting their shields falling to dangerous levels, Admiral,” reported one of Steiner’s com-techs. We were starting to get too many messages for help, assistance or reports of near destruction for the Lieutenant to handle it all herself, “She says she’s going to have to withdraw before too much longer or she’ll risk being crippled.”
I had to bite back an irritable order telling the Hart’s Worlders to hold in place until ordered otherwise—i.e. as soon as I figured something else out. But I didn’t. That would not only have been unfair but incredibly dangerous.
Looking at the screen and hearing the literal litany of destruction and cries for help, I could all but feel the Grand Fleet shaking around about me like a crackling leaf on a violent wind. The slightest puff could cause everything to fall apart. Not for the first time I cursed myself for giving into the urgings of fools like Silverback and launching this ill-conceived expedition. We’d come to crush the enemy, but the only crushing that was going to be done today was about to be done to us.
“New message to Hart’s Heart,” I said, clenching my jaw even as I silently swore that this fleet wasn’t about to go down so easily. “Vice Admiral’s compliments on a job very well done; they are to hold position for another thirty seconds before rotating out. After that they are to immediately place their ship behind Admiral Dark Matter’s squadron for as much protection as he can offer them while they recharge their shields.”
“Relaying now, Admiral Montagne,” said the com-tech.
“I honestly thought we were finished there for a minute,” Hammer said to me on a private channel.
“What’s the status on our shields, Junior Lieutenant?” I demanded, ignoring the Flag Captain for the moment.
“The port’s at 35% but because of the overload starboard took longer to reboot and we’re only up to 22%, Admiral,” Longbottom said crisply.
“Do better,” I said shortly.
The Junior Lieutenant stiffened and nodded seriously. “Yes, Sir,” he said needlessly, but I’d already turned back to Captain Hammer.
“I didn’t think those Hart Worlders had that kind of ship handling in them,” I said in tacit agreement with her previous statement. I, too, had thought we were about to be neutralized—if not destroyed outright. “What’s the status of the Armor Prince?” I asked. We were almost to knife range with the E-Force 3, and I was seriously wishing I still had those droid Motherships with me. A few antimatter-pumped lasers right down the throat, or used as shield busters on their broadsides, would have been just about perfect right now.
“The Prince is in just about the same condition as we are, Admiral. They’re trying to cycle them back in during the close pass…I don’t think it’s the wisest course of action,” she said seriously.
I gnawed on my lip. Normally I’d disagree with her, or at least take umbrage at telling me she didn’t think something I was contemplating doing was ‘wise.’ But in this specific instance, from the sound of things, it was probably the right call.
“Alright then,” I agreed, instead of the half a dozen other answers I’d have rather put out there, “inform Dark Matter it’s time he started taking his fair share of the action. We’re moving behind his formation, along with Hart’s Heart. Then send a message to the Armor Prince to join us. It’s time to see what the ships of Blackwood and Epsilon Tarantula are capable of.”
“You heard the man, Mr. DuPont. Helm is to maneuver us behind Sub-2’s Battleship squadron. Time to share some of the fun with our friends,” instructed Captain Hammer.
“On it, Captain,” DuPont said with a tight professional nod and began to smoothly maneuver the Royal Rage into position.
The ship shuddered.
“Penetration on deck 6,” reported Damage Control Watch Stander Blythe, “looks like they damaged hydroponics with that shot.”
I winced, remembering my time on the Little Gift facing off against a bug invasion force. Those ravenous, insectoid aliens had hammered the Heavy Cruiser and its food production facilities to the point we were down to hard ration bars and water. The food had been so awful that, at certain points, I could understand it if some members of the crew would have preferred to…well, enough maudlin thoughts.
“Here they come!” exclaimed Hart.
This time, I carefully strapped myself back into my Throne before saying anything. “Message to the Fleet: hit them as hard as you can while they pass, but be mindful of your shields and engines and we’ll get through this. Today might not be our best day, but by Murphy they’ll feel it before we’re done with them. That’ll be all. Admiral Montagne, out,” I said.
Jaws tightened and people checked their chair straps.
Then the enemy was on us, and they began to turn so as to hit us as they passed by at an angle. Lasers slashed at our ship in spite of the friendly, interdictory battleships. Longbottom began the depressing litany of spotting and near failing shields.
“Pivot the ship to protect our engines, Helmsman!” cried Hammer right before one of the enemy Battleships flashed into view through a gap in the coverage of Dark Matter’s Battleships, causing what seemed to be an entire enemy broadside to slam into our depleted shields.
There was a crash and emergency alarms started to flash. Instead of our lights flickering into a low power state, if anything the lighting seemed to flare brighter than ever—one of our light emitters even exploded in a shower of sparks, raining burning particles directly onto the face of one of the bridge’s yeomen.
Clawing at her eyes while screaming in agony, her painful cries were cut mercifully short via the use of a medical first aid kit applied by one of the bridge’s Lancer defense quad. If the use of the med kit was preceded by a liberal application of a sharp right jab to the chin, neither I—nor anyone else on the flag bridge—was about to complain.
Then the enemy Battleships were past us and E-Force 3 began desperately burning their engines in an attempt to swing around for another pass as quickly as humanly possible.
Chapter Forty-six: Imperial Frustration
“Of all the short-luck,” Front Admiral Tolwin grunted unhappily, “they made it. They hid like cowards behind their companions but they survived.” And, unfortunately, that was all that mattered.
“The Indefatigable hammered them on the way past, sir,” Prentice Major pointed out. “Besides, one man’s cowardice is another’s genius. In the end they didn’t run and they survived the exchange. That’s all that really matters.”
“How true,” he said before heaving a sigh. “I’m afraid the High Admiral isn’t going to be pleased, but there’s nothing for it now. Bring the Task Force around for another pass. Hopefully Task Force 2 can finish off their side of things and we can put the Provincial’s main force in between us for a pincer attack. Even if we can’t, we’ve got the legs to catch them for another pass.”
“Yes sir,” Prentice said relaying the orders before turning back, “I will say, sir, that whatever we’re calling ourselves today, we are not just the lackeys of some hick warlord. We are proud members of the Imperial Service. However displeased he might be, the High Admiral will understand there was nothing more to be done.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Tolwin with a grimace. He then turned to his engineering watch stander, “Tell the Chief Engineer I want 110% out of the engines until we can close with the hicks and finish what we started.” The watch stander nodded and relayed the order.
Unless the enemy commander came up with something truly original, he was about to be taught a sharp lesson in the difference between bumpkin militia and Imperial naval personnel.
Tolwin could only hope his enemy lived long enough to realize the lesson before he died.
Chapter Forty-seven: Fusion Trouble
“Captain, this is the Chief Engineer,” said Senior Lieutenant Wave Grinder, his priority override reaching the Captain and myself—via my constant connection with the battle bridge.
Sure, sure—some would say I was paranoid to be monitoring com traffic between my flagship’s senior officers. I called it just plain good sense, and was grateful I’d taken the time to have Lieutenant Steiner walk me through the routines I had wanted after setting them up. There would be no open conspiracies on the bridge while I was in command—or, more precisely, no more of them.
“What have you got, Chief?” Hammer asked, any irritation she might have felt suppressed in the face of whatever emergency the Chief Engineer was reporting on.
“That last pass hit us harder than expected. We had a power surge that damaged our port side power distribution system; we rerouted through the mirror system to starboard and I thought we had it locked down, but it looks like the damage was worse than we thought,” he reported.
“Am I about to lose my power distribution, Chief Engineer?” Hammer asked strictly.
“I wish it was only that. I’m pretty sure we can run on the starboard network until we can repair the port side trunk lines. That’s not the problem. It’s Fusion 4,” he said angrily. “Blast this old outdated equipment! Fusion 4 is fluctuating and I’m afraid if this keeps up we’ll have to eject the power core.”
Hammer scowled.
“All but two of the fusion generators on this ship are brand new,” I cut into the channel, determined to hold up the pride of the Dreadnaught class that had taken me so far in this galaxy gone mad.
“That may be, but in this case it’s one of the old generators that’s acting up,” Wave Grinder said irritably. “We’re going to do what we can, but I wanted to give you a heads-up…Captain.” He said, looking at me sidelong while finishing his report.
I let a hint of a smirk grace the corners of my mouth. If the Chief Engineer wanted to play games, that was fine with me. I didn’t particularly appreciate it, or have the time during the middle of a major engagement, but I was always up for the challenge. I’d dealt with more mutinous men—and more than a few that were twice as cunning—as the current Chief Engineer and I was still standing—and in command.
“Keep me apprised, Chief Engineer,” Hammer said firmly.
“Yes, do let us know before it comes to the point you have to go into the fusion generator to make repairs,” I said.
Hammer looked surprised and Wave Grinder looked at me like I was insane.
“We do have the automated repair suits built by Commander Spalding onboard…do we not?” I asked with the lift of a brow.
Hammer opened her mouth and then closed it, shaking her head.
“The problem in this case isn’t with the core itself, but with the monitoring and regulating systems,” Wave Grinder explained patiently, as if to someone slow on the uptake. “And it doesn’t seem to be a software corruption issue either. The problem seems to be with the hardware. We’re replacing what we can but with the monitoring system compromised and our ability to properly regulate the core on the fritz…”
“Can you shut her down?” I asked.
“What do you think I’ve been trying—” he started in a rising voice and then visibly restrained himself. “I apologize, Vice Admiral. This is a big problem and I need to get back to it as soon as possible. I’ll just say that, yes, we’ve been trying to shut it down. But with the hardware compromised—probably by the same surge you reported here on the bridge—I don’t entirely trust the automated shut down procedure. If we can, we’re going to shut it down and overhaul the generator but I don’t want to risk destroying this ship from a runaway generator failure. Better to eject if it we can’t regain manual control.”
“It sounds like either way, for the purposes of this battle, we’re going to lose Fusion 4, Chief,” Hammer said with a frown.
“That’s right,” said Wave Grinder.
“Then do your best and report back once you have it figured out,” said Hammer.
I shook my head, wondering if I would have had the same problem if I hadn’t left Spalding behind at Gambit to get the rest of our limping warships back up to speed.
“Engineering, out,” said the Chief Engineer.
“The Demon strikes again,” I muttered.
“I have every confidence in this ship’s Chief Engineer. If there’s a way to fix this and save Fusion 4, he’ll find it,” said Hammer seriously.
“I’m sure he will,” I temporized, flashing a pro-forma smile I wasn’t really feeling. Making Wave Grinder’s competence an item up for discussion wouldn’t help anything. It was time to dance with the one that brought us to the party and get back to the business of saving this fleet.
Giving myself a shake, I looked back at the main screen but didn’t see anything that was magically going to fix this disaster—a disaster which I had brought the Grand Fleet into.
That being the case, there was only one thing to be done: I had to salvage what I could. The rest of us were just going to have to take our chances with fate…and the Demon Murphy.
Chapter Forty-eight: Commodore Kling
“You want me to do what, Admiral?” Kling asked, his brows shooting for his forehead.
“You’re not going to be able to rejoin us without risking getting hammered, Commodore,” Admiral Montagne said from the other end of the main screen. “That’s why I want you to turn your formation in towards the star and head deeper into the system. After clearing the main area of combat operations, I believe that if you split your Corvettes up into forty different tracks the enemy will think you’ve fallen apart. After that, it will be too much trouble to chase you all down individually.”
“Or they might decide to send out a pursuit force, Sir,” Kling observed and then leaned forward. “What’s more, we won’t be in any kind of position to help you force your way out of this trap. Admiral, I have to protest—we can be of use here. Don’t send us away.”
The Admiral that was the heart and soul of the MSP—and the only thing currently holding the Grand Fleet together, if only by his fingernails and refusal to give up—shook his head sharply, “Your Corvettes aren’t going to last long if we get into the kind of fur ball I expect we’re in for. I doubt the enemy is done with his surprises yet. That being the case, the best thing you can do for me is preserve your force and return to Wolf-9 via the other side of this star system. Your Corvettes are fast; I doubt they’ll chase you when they have us in their target sites. But even if they do, well then…you’ll have what you want and some of the pressure will be off us, won’t it?”
“I dislike this, Sir,” Commodore Kling said with a frown.
“I know you do, but you’ll also follow orders. I’m not about to see this fleet massacred—not on my watch. Don’t worry, Commodore,” the Little Admiral said, showing the face that had inspired men more formidable than a trumped-up Commodore and former Lieutenant Commander in Capria’s SDF to follow him into battle. His expression was resolute, as if even an enemy force that outmatched and outnumbered his couldn’t stop his fleet.
But it was his eyes—calculating eyes that said that he didn’t just think they could survive this disaster, but that they could actually turn things around and win. It was eyes that didn’t just hunger for victory but assured a man that if only you tried hard enough and left it in his hands that this was one Montagne Prince who could deliver.
Kling had watched too many times, both in reports and from first hand observation during the battles for Tracto, as the Little Admiral snatched victory from the jaws of defeat to give up now.
“Just give me my orders, Admiral. I’ll make them happen,” Kling said, swallowing the bitter taste of abandoning his comrades in the middle of a battle and focusing on the task at hand.
“You’ve already got them, Commodore,” the Little Admiral said, one corner of his mouth lifting. “I’ll see you back at Easy Haven.”
“I won’t let you down, Sir. And if you change your mind, I don’t care if we’re on the other side of the star system charging our hyper drives, we’ll come running back to help,” Kling said resolutely. It was the least he could do in the face of a commander that was shielding his force of Corvettes. It didn’t matter that Battleships were called the ‘wall of battle’ for a reason—being as they were the wall between the rest of the fleet and the main enemy force—this was a matter of honor.
“Oh, and one more thing, Commodore,” the Admiral said with a gleam in his eye that did more to assure an old space dog than any amount of nice sounding words could. “I’d like you to drop any jammers you might have on your way out. Let’s call it a surprise for our Imperial friends.”
“Will do, Sir,” Kling said with a grim smile.
“Montagne, out,” said the Little Admiral, and connection was severed.
The Commodore turned back to his crew. “Alright, you heard the Admiral. We’re heading deeper into this star system,” Kling said and started nodding, “we might not like those orders but we’re going to carry them out. However,” he turned and glared at the icons representing the enemy, “there’s nothing in our orders about running away from any enemy ships that are in our path, and if we’re to distribute our jammers properly we’ll need to maneuver a bit on our way out of here.” He turned to his Tactical Officer. “I want you to get with Nav and plot us a course that will take us near a few enemy Destroyers. There’s nothing in our orders that says they can’t feel our sting as we go by,” he declared, determined to exit this battle in a way that showed the fighting spirit of the corvette force of Sub-formation 4.
“We’re with you, Commodore,” said the men and women of the bridge crew in near-unison.
“Then you have your orders,” he said gruffly.
His First Officer sidled up to him. “You know we don’t have more than a handful of jammers in the entire formation. Corvettes just aren’t normally loaded out with them,” he said quietly.
“The gorilla people have a few. I checked their manifests when they first joined the Coalition Fleet and came under my command,” explained Kling.
Looking surprised—and more than a little pleased—the First Officer nodded.
Chapter Forty-nine: Silverbacking it?
“You’ve got a lot of nerve calling me now,” Silverback snapped.
“There’s something I need you to do,” said the young man on the other end of the holo.
“You left us here to die, you blighter!” the veteran Admiral declared angrily. “I called for help but you turned like a rabbit and ran the other way—but now you need my help!? Don’t make me laugh.”
“I don’t have time for your histrionics,” the insufferable little twerp—who looked entirely too young for flag rank—mocked him. “Control yourself and be an example to your officers and men, Admiral.”
“I don’t answer to officers barely out of their diapers. Just who do you think you are—” he started with a good head of steam.
“I think that I’m your commanding officer by order of the Confederation Assembly, the Sector Governor, and the government of your own star system, Admiral,” the fake Confederation Admiral—known throughout the sector as a Tyrant, thanks to the media—had the nerve to upbraid him, “now are you prepared to listen, and maybe save yourself and some of your command, or have you resigned yourself to death and just want to get in another dig or three before you check out permanently?”
All he wanted to do at that exact moment was reach through the screen and throttle the arrogant little silver-spoon in his mouth. The little dastard had gotten everything handed to him his entire life, but at the first time things started getting rough—when the Imperials had withdrawn from the Spine—the little silverspoon threw a tantrum and took over command of a Battleship he should have never even so much as touched!
It was rank piracy, that’s what it was. Everyone—including the Old Confederation assembly—knew that the little Prince, Jason Montagne commanded the Rim Fleet’s replacement body in name only.
But the worst part of everything wasn’t his self-entitled highbred arrogance, the piracy, or even is his total lack of respect for those who actually had trained for the job and knew what they were doing. It was that despite his complete and utter lack of training or qualification, the little bigot had succeeded. It was as if everything he touched turned to gold, and everything his opponents tried in order to teach him the errors of his ways went to Hades.
“Perhaps I was mistaken? Perhaps you really do want to die and I should be speaking to someone else,” the little Tyrant said, launching another one of his barbed little dig.
At this point, the Aegis Admiral was past caring. “Tell me this great plan of yours, then,” he said abruptly. “It’s not like I have very many other options at this point,” he paused bitterly as his Battleship shuddered around him from the force of laser strikes punching through the hull before continuing. “So tell me what I need to do so that you can save us all, your majesty, Prince Admiral Tyrant, Sir.”
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that, Silverback?” Montagne said, his mouth working as if tasting something bitter. Inwardly, the Aegis Admiral chortled at having finally got a reaction from the insufferable should-be fool that was leading them to destruction, “Even as your own people are dying because you thought it’d be such a sweet deal to run forward like a bandit in search of loot—in open defiance of orders to the contrary—you still find the time to rant at me for not stopping you?” For a moment, Silverback felt a hot wash of shame. Even though it had been the right call at the time to push his forces forward and crush the convoy before it could get away, there was a grain of truth in the fake Admiral’s rebuke. Then his heart hardened.
“I’m not the one who ran away! But enough of this,” he said, breathing heavily as the weight of his own decisions—under order from Aegis High Command, of course—to showcase his planetary SDF’s effectiveness and ‘show up’ the pirate Admiral who’d somehow been given command in order to make a transfer of command down the road more achievable, “just tell me what you want…Sir.” He added the respect grudgingly.
“It should be simple enough even for you, Admiral Silverback,” the princeling all but sneered—at least that’s how Silverback interpreted his expression, “all I need you to do is drop as many jammers in as many different locations as you can. Contact your remaining ships and let them know to do the same. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Jammers only work at long range,” he argued half-heartedly, “we can’t hide from them like they did from us behind their high tech stealth network. It only blocks long range sensors. There must be more to your plan than dropping a few jammers.”
“I said I’d take care of the rest,” Vice Admiral Montagne said strictly. “Handle your end and keep your people alive. Leave the rest to me.”
“You can’t—” the screen suddenly went blank. “Gaaah!” he shouted. Forcibly suppressing the urge to throw something, he glared at the blank screen where the image of that insufferable little silver-spoon used to be. “Someday you’ll get what you deserve,” he muttered, “Confederation Admiral, my foot.”
Turning to his subordinates, he glared around at no one in particular.
“Prepare to launch a jamming buoy and message the other ships in Formation 2. They are to deploy all available jammers in as wide a spread as they possibly can without endangering themselves,” he instructed, and then leaned back in his chair.
Half of his force was already gone, and his Battleships were being heavily pressured at two to one. One of his Battleships was heavily damaged and being boarded as he spoke and issued orders. Half of his Cruisers had already been incapacitated or destroyed—in short, things were not looking good.
That insufferable Montagne had better pull something out of his proverbial hat, or the entire Aegis contingent—along with their allies—was going to be destroyed.
Chapter Fifty: High Admiral Observes
“What is that fool doing?” Goddard asked with surprise. “First he sends his Corvettes deeper into the system, and now he’s turning back to help his surviving warships around Task Forces 2 and 3. Is he completely off his rocker or is there something I’m not seeing here, Admiral?”
Janeski rubbed his chin as he observed the disposition of forces. On the face of it, the Governor’s best move was to abandon those ships and strike out for the hyper limit as fast as his sniveling little feet could carry him.
The Sector 25 ‘Grand Fleet’ of his wasn’t exactly a joke. In fairness, it was no joke at all, but this would be the third so-called Grand Fleet his Reclamation Fleet had faced off against. One of these old Confederation fringe Sectors just didn’t have the hulls or firepower to face off against the fleet Janeski had built over the past years.
So while he might still be the fool, it appeared that Governor Montagne had grown something of a spine in the time since he’d last met him. The obsequious, spineless little princeling that he had left in his wake years ago—the one with a perpetual, arrogant smile plastered on his face—wouldn’t have had the starch for such a bold move.
It was bold because the best chance for any survivors of this Grand Fleet to escape this star system was to run for the hyper limit. But if a man wanted to do as much damage as he could…then coming about—like Montagne was now doing—was the only way. Linking back up with the rest of his fleet would only prolong the inevitable; this particular path would allow the locals to do as much damage as possible.
“And here I had been all but certain he would run for it,” the High Admiral sighed. Not that he’d been taken by surprise; his fleet was prepared for the locals turning and counterattacking. But it was going to increase the damage his fleet would take. Whereas, if the Governor runs then it would have been oh so much easier to hit them in the rear with laser strikes to cut down their engines and deal with them piecemeal.
“We’ll hammer them under—just like the last group of provincials,” the Flag Captain said with complete certainty.
“I agree. We just need to keep our eyes open,” Admiral Janeski warned. He had faced too many foes, and lost too many good men along the way to risk losing more to mere hubris.
While it was a surprise to see that the spineless cretin he remembered from his days with the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet—which had made a half-hearted attempt at filling the gap left by the Rim Fleet’s departure—seemed to have found some starch somewhere ultimately it really was immaterial. One needed both brains and determination to win against an opponent of the High Admiral’s caliber. Despite seemingly having acquired the one, it was clear the little lordling had failed to acquire the other.
“Will do, Admiral,” Goddard nodded with determination to crush this latest local ‘Grand Fleet’ clear in his visage.
In a way it was almost nice to deal with an enemy with some grit in his stomach, if only to help forge his fleet into a proper fighting force. The lack of brainpower was obvious from the way that fool had walked right into the trap, and now there was no way out. Twist and turn as he might, he’d have to be a lot smarter than he appeared in order to—
There was a stir at Sensors. “The locals that are engaged with Task Forces 2 and 3’s survivors have started to drop jammers buoys, High Admiral,” that Sensor Officer said, turning with concern. “It’s obscuring the sensor feed.”
“We’re also starting to experience difficulty contacting the Task Force leaders, Sir,” reported Communications.
Admiral Janeski’s eyes narrowed. What is this? he wondered silently. “Interesting,” he rubbed his chin with one hand as he slowly observed the growing mess on the holo-display.
“That’s going to make coordinating with those two task forces difficult,” Goddard grumbled.
Janeski’s hand stilled mid-stroke of his chin. “Is that’s what he’s doing?” the High Admiral asked quietly, speaking to no one in particular.
“Sir?” Goddard inquired with surprise.
Is that what he’s doing…or, rather, attempting to do? he asked himself silently staring at the main screen. Perhaps I’ve been giving the little lordling too little credit…he mused before dismissing that particular thought.
“Admiral?” Captain Goddard asked with an unwanted trace of concern in his tone.
“It’s nothing, Captain,” the High Admiral dismissed and then gave him a penetrating look. “The Governor appears to be attempting to throw a joker onto the table, but it won’t work. He’s going to have to show me a lot more than desperation gambits if they want to survive,” he paused. “Increase the speed of the fleet to 105% of maximum.”
For a split second, a disturbed expression flittered across the Flag Captain’s face before the confidence and certainty expected of the Imperial Navy, and now Reclamation Fleet as well, settled on him once again.
“Will do, Admiral. You can count on us,” he assured Janeski.
“Then let’s be about it,” said High Admiral Arnold Janeski. They had a few rustics to finish winkling out.
Chapter Fifty-one: Shorthanded, and facing Budget Cuts
An old engineer stood staring at the enormous, 1800 meter long structure that would once again be the ship he had loved with all of his heart.
In his mind’s eye he could see her with perfect clarity: long, blocky, with a bulbous nose and a sheath of armor that would be second to none!
Of course, right now she looked more like a lamprey in the front due to the large, circular hole that would be the opening for her new—entirely legal, mind you—main weapon. There were no violations of the banned weapons act here, no sir; she’d be up to code for sure and certain!
“Article Seventeen of the Banned Weapons Act doesn’t apply,” he muttered belligerently.
He was interrupted from his thoughts by the sound of someone tapping away on a computer interface. “The Rail Guns & Mass Drivers Act, sir?” Bostwell sounded bewildered even as he asked the question. “What does that have to do with anything?”
The old engineer blinked, surprised to realize he had forgotten all about the younger man who’d taken to following him around like some sort of keeper. His gaze turned stormy since the most likely reason the boy had taken to tailing him closer than a burr on a good man’s shirt after a short walk in the woods was because of ‘outside’ interference.
And it was interference he was just going to have to put up with for the moment, or he’d risk setting her off again and losing the paltry number of work crews he’d managed to retain after the truncated ‘meeting’ he and Glenda had concluded during their last interaction.
“Shorthanded…and thanks to budget cuts we’ve lost all but a trickle of the new Duralloy,” he swore under his breath.
“Sir…Article Seventeen?” Bostwell asked pointedly.
The old engineer quickly focused back on his surroundings—he needed to head this line of inquiry off at the pass.
“Now, now; don’t you worry your head about it, son,” Spalding said hastily. “T’was just an old man’s ramblings. Why, as any fool can see, this here,” he waved toward the lamprey like nose of the currently rebuilding Lucky Clover for emphasis, “is nothing more than an oversized hyper plasma cannon. The HPC uses certain, old-style principles—like her grav-plate accelerator designed by yours truly—to make a big bang—but it’s all plasma, all the time I tell you!”
“If you say so,” Bostwell said, looking at him strangely more than a hint of worry laced throughout the confusion evident on his face.
“It’s the Saint’s own truth, Bostwell,” Spalding swore, placing two fingers on his chest, “and, more than that, the accelerator is completely reversible. With a little further modification, it’ll save from the need to install a separate engine. We’ll just reverse the polarity and the ship’ll shoot forward with a series of bangs from back end,” he said, trailing off into a series of guffaws at the thought of series of colorful plasma explosions trailing long behind the ship.
“What’s the current ETA on the ship?” Bostwell asked eagerly.
The old Engineer’s smile curdled and he stopped laughing. “We’ve got three major systems we need to finish installing. The HPC, for both movement and weaponry; the antimatter generators to power the beast; the shields; and lastly, the hyper drive,” he paused, drumming his fingers along his metal legs as he glared at the shuttle’s main screen presenting a full on rotating view of the 2.0. Then he grunted, oblivious that he had listed four items rather than three. “No help for it, I suppose. There’s no way we can finish all the major systems in time, Bostwell, my lad. That bein’ the case…it looks like we’re going to have to get creative.”
“Get creative?” the Engineering com-operator said his brows climbing for his hair line. “Hasn’t this entire project been one hurdle after another? Seems to me you’ve been doing the impossible by trying to get it built in the first place.”
“Her, not it!” Spalding said sharply before settling down again. He sucked on his teeth for a while before grunting, “Looks like there’s no hope for it but to just get it over and done.”
His mind made up, he tapped on the shuttle controls to set a new course.
“I’m sure you’ll find a way, Sir,” Bostwell said loyally.
“I’m just a man, not some half-rate, knock-off deity you can come to like some sort of trick pony or magic eight ball that you shake until you get the answers you want! It’s impossible for me to find the way by myself; that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” Impossible!” he shouted, waving his arms wildly in the air, “A miracle…ha! ‘Divine intervention’ is more like it!”
Familiar with his boss’s excitable nature, Bostwell continued to nod silently and then peered around Spalding’s shoulder.
“Can I ask where we’re going?” he asked.
“You can ask,” Spalding said, “but I sure as blazes won’t answer you. What do you think I’m trying to do here, form a conspiracy? This is delicate, precision work the likes of which would curl the toe hairs of lesser men—and send even strong men running for the door screaming for help. I can’t mess the likes of you up in it, Bostwell. You’re too valuable where you are.”
“Ah,” said the other Engineer in clear confusion.
“Don’t you bother your head with it. Old Commander Spalding can take care of things just fine without any nurse maids jogging his elbow while he’s working. You just make sure no one tries to steal those work crews while my back is turned. I swear, if I go out of com-range for more than five minutes that woman is liable to try and reassign my entire team!” He declared thunderously, “I’ll go read the sheep entrails, disassemble the flux capacitor, and consult the eight ball for answers. You just make sure things are still here when I get back!”
“But—!” protested the engineering com-operator.
“’But’ me no butts, lad; we’ve got to get this baby out of the dock before they decide to scrap her entirely. Oh, and tell the boys to fire up the tugs. I’m pretty sure we’re going to need them before this is over and done with,” said the old Engineer.
“The tugs?” Bostwell wondered with confusion. “What do we need them for…you can’t mean to pull her out of the dock like this?” he asked, looking out at the barely-clad internal frame of the giant ship still taking form inside the construction slip. Looking at the image on the screen, a person could see all the way through from one side of the ship to the other.
“No time,” Spalding said docking the shuttle and then kicking the young engineer out the door, “the eight ball awaits its sacrifice! Be back in a tirade!” So saying, he slammed the door.
After a quick stop to ditch his minder in the main hanger of the 2.0, the old engineer took the shuttle back out of the bay. He had a favor to ask.
“Uh, I think you meant you’ll be back in a jiff?” Bostwell muttered back on the bay floor. Then, in a piece of irony, not five minutes later Bostwell got a call from the Yard Manager asking for a status update.
It looked like it was going to be one of those days.
Chapter Fifty-two: A Wild Gamble
“E-Force 4 is hot on our heels and coming in fast,” reported Lieutenant Hart.
“Slow down as much as you can before we hit that jammer field, Helmsman,” I instructed, and not for the first time. “Just make sure we’re in there before they’re on us.”
“I’ll make it happen, Admiral. You can count on me,” assured my Helmsman.
“Good man,” I said with a sharp nod, “we have to stay outside of their close range sensors if we’re to use that jammer field to our maximum advantage.”
DuPont nodded and started working his console.
“We have to get in there,” I muttered, glaring so hard at the distance between my forces as the enemy behind us, as well as the swirling battle now obscured by the jammer field, that it was a wonder the holo-projector didn’t burst into flames.
This roll of the dice was for all the marbles but, unfortunately, I didn’t just have to come up sixes—I had to do it again and again. If we could get in there where the Imperials couldn’t see our every move, allowing us to mix things up a little, we’d have at least half a chance at pulling out strong enough for the next leg of our journey toward continued life, evasion and ultimately escape from this confounded star system.
Of course, if we didn’t then it was all over but the crying—a consideration I was studiously attempting to avoid thinking on.
“This could go badly, Admiral,” Captain Hammer said in a low voice over a private channel.
“I know, but I really don’t see what else we can do. Either we run and get picked off one by one, or we turn at bay and attack. I prefer to come out swinging if given the choice,” I replied speaking frankly.
“I know,” she said, sounding conflicted.
“We’ll do the best we can, Captain, and the rest is in the hands of the space gods and benevolent Saint Murphy himself,” I said with a compassionate look. Knowing you were likely to be destroyed if you kept going was hard on a person—this I knew from bountiful personal experience. But doing it anyway took courage, something I knew well enough and something that Hammer seemed to possess. I wasn’t about to cheapen her determination by pointing out the various chink in her armor.
Then I heard someone speaking to Captain Hammer over another com-channel—one I wasn’t keyed into at the moment—and she stiffened with surprise before turning to me with suppressed excitement.
I looked back at her head cocking to the side with curiosity.
“My Navigator has an idea he’d like to share, Admiral,” she said with forced formality.
I felt my curiosity immediately start to wilt. “Alright,” I said after a moment, “let’s hear it.” I couldn’t help it. Brightenbauc had failed to impress me and to date; far from raising my opinion of him during our time together, he had singlehandedly managed to do quite the opposite.
“Bringing him in channel now, Sir,” Hammer said, and the next moment my screen split showing the Captain and ship’s Navigator side by side looking back at me.
“What have you got, Nav?” I asked with as much professionalism as I could muster. This was not the time to be doing the enemy’s work for him. If Brightenbauc had a half-way decent idea, I planned to capitalize on it.
“Yes Sir. Seeing the tight intercept between us and E-Con 4 that helm’s been working on, an idea came to me. I was confused as to whether it had already been considered or not so I took the idea and my question to the Captain,” explained Lieutenant Brightenbauc.
“Entirely understandable,” I said as agreeably as I could manage, “but let’s get to the meat of this as quickly as possible. What’s your idea?”
The Navigator hunched his shoulders, looking down and away before forcing himself to look back up at me. “Well, Admiral, I was wondering why we couldn’t just drop our own jammers behind us and use the buoys to hide our maneuvers…or at least let us extend out the jamming field and extend the separation between Sub-Formation’s 1 and 3. If we drop the jammers at the right time, we could extend the jammer field and then make a radical course change before the enemy could notice us, Sir,” Brightenbauc said.
“Extend the jamming field by dropping our own buoys early…” I muttered wanting to smack myself on the head. The thought hadn’t even occurred to me, “Now, why didn’t I think of that? Good work, Mr. Brightenbauc. I’ll definitely take your suggestions under advisement—meaning I’ll use them at the earliest opportunity.”
“Glad I could be of assistance, Sir,” Brightenbauc said, starting out moderately excited before seeming to remember something and ending more neutrally—he was probably remembering our relatively rocky history.
“You’ve done well,” I said, dismissing the young man with a curt nod.
“We’ll still need to be careful where and when we drop those buoys,” Hammer warned, “if we just launch them willy-nilly and they don’t overlap with the jamming fields of our people from Sub-2, then as soon as E-Con 4 runs through the field put out by our jammers they’ll immediately see us again.”
“Good thought,” I turned back to the Navigator, “this was your idea, so why don’t you run the numbers, check with the other ships on the status and range of their jammers, and then figure out the best time to launch those buoys? After you have that all plotted out, shoot me over the file; assuming it works with what I have planned, we’ll run with it,” I assured him with a clenched fist. With this we might actually have a fighting chance!
“I appreciate your confidence in me, Admiral,” Brightenbauc said before cutting the channel.
“Of course,” I replied to the dead air of his now closed channel. However, with Hammer still on the line, it wasn’t an entirely wasted effort. I turned to look at the Captain, “Good work on informing me of the Lieutenant’s little notion. This could give us precious seconds to break free from our pursuers and hit E-Con’s 1 and 3 before they’re ready for us!” I said, feeling no small measure of relief for the potential breathing room—however small it might have been.
“Happy to be of service, Sir,” Hammer said professionally with the hint of satisfaction at the edges of her eyes.
“Alright, let’s get this show on the road!” I said excitedly, and when the Nav Lieutenant’s file with the jammer plan hit my inbox I didn’t see anything out of order. With this we would gain another good half minute lead on our pursuers in E-Con 4.
****************************************************
“Drop the buoys across the fleet!” I barked.
“Dropping buoys now, Sir,” called back Lieutenant Brightenbauc, who I had assigned the job of coordinating the drop with the rest of the fleet.
I figured since it was his plan, he might as well be given the chance to mess it up. That way he’d have no one but himself to blame if things fell in the pot.
“Buoys deployed and jamming going into effect,” called back the Lieutenant.
“Sensor readings are becoming difficult. We’re down to close range scans only, Sir,” reported Sensors.
“Bring us around now, Mr. DuPont!” I barked as the minutes, and then finally the seconds counted down and it was time. We were about to pull a Wicked Willy and slip away from the Reclamationists hot on our heels so that we could then go in there and hit one of the other two enemy forces by surprise.
“Eleven degrees to port, down bubble eighteen degrees!” called out DuPont as the distance between both formations tightened when our allies took their cue from us.
I hadn’t wanted to risk transmitting the information of our sudden course change over a com-channel, not even over one of our supposedly heavily-encrypted ones. Instead, I had informed the rest of the fleet to take their cue from the flagship and to remain in close formation with us.
After we were in the fog, we would use point to point lasers to transmit information. Even if the enemy had penetrated our com systems—or if we had spies—if they couldn’t hear us or receive word from one of their spies they were the Demon out of luck.
“Maintaining course and heading while slowing the Fleet back down to half speed,” reported DuPont.
“What have you got for me, Sensors?” I demanded.
“No sign of enemy pursuit. Either they guessed wrong or they’re still too far back for us to pick up,” he reported.
“Smooth us out and point us back toward lower left center of the jamming field. We don’t need to run the ragged lower edge of the jamming field anymore, Helm,” I instructed the other man.
“Aye-aye, Admiral,” said DuPont.
“Keep it steady ship,” called out Captain Hammer from the command bridge, “and remember that this is what we do. We are the ones on the border. We are the men and women who stand between the darkness and the light. Down with all Tyrants and up with the Confederation!”
The other bridge broke out in cheers and I unconsciously stiffened. After all, I was the media darling’s much vaunted Tyrant of Cold Space.
“Uh, Sir?” DuPont looked over at me uneasily, and I could see others on the flag bridge tensing up and looking back at me for orders. This wasn’t the look of a crew that was uncertain, unsteady, or about to turn on me. It was a series of looks that told me they were ready to repel boarders and mutineers.
I quickly looked back at the Helmsman and then deliberately rolled my eyes.
“Down with all Tyrants indeed, Mr. DuPont,” I said, to show I was serious and not at all considering myself lumped in with the ‘Down all Tyrant’s’ tag line. “I believe it’s an old Confederation motto; a holdover from the time of troubles during and after the AI Wars.”
I was blowing smoke out my rear but the rest of the bridge seemed to take my words at face value and started nodding and turning back to their duties.
“If you say so, Sir,” DuPont said noncommittally.
I looked over at my bridge and couldn’t help feel a thrill of pride. All of my old hands, the ones who’d been with me over the course of several missions and more than one campaign had been ready to leap to my defense. This was a crew that had faced traitors, mutinies and boarding actions all alongside me and the fact that so many of them were ready to pick up a blaster pistol in my defense was heartwarming.
“I do,” I said and then turned back to the main screen, “now let’s all stay focused. We still have a lot of work to do.” A lot of work, I added silently.
Chapter Fifty-three: Imperial Frustration
“There they go,” said Goddard.
“Any word from Task Force 4?” Janeski asked, not that he expected a positive reply but because it was expected of him. And there was always a chance that they got lucky. He watched as the Task Force disappeared into the jammer-induced sensor haze, hot on the heels of the so-called Grand Fleet.
“No, Sir,” the Flag Captain replied with a frown, “their last transmission said they’d lost the enemy and were maneuvering to reacquire.”
“While I wish them well, luck is a chancy thing at the best of times. That is why it’s not something we’ll be relying upon ourselves,” said the High Admiral.
“Sir?” asked Goddard.
“Point us right at the middle of the jamming field and order our ships to hit all jammers, and anything else that moves without a positive IFF response. It’s time we went in and cleaned house,” he said.
“We’re still more than fifteen minutes out,” reported Captain Goddard.
“Invictus Rising also has the most powerful sensors in the fleet with three times the range of any other ship. We’ll find them, Captain, and when we do we’ll tear their guts out,” assured High Admiral Janeski.
Chapter Fifty-four: Hitting Hard
“Sensors has positively identified a trio of enemy Cruisers attacking two of our Destroyers, Admiral,” cried the Lieutenant in charge of the sensor pit. “Our ships look like they’re taking a beating, sir!”
“Take us through those Cruisers and then immediately pivot the ship and change course for the rendezvous coordinates I sent to Admiral Silverback, Helmsman. And forward our destination to the rest of the ship, Comm.,” I snapped out the orders briskly as I looked between the two officers.
“Aye, Sir,” came their mutual reply.
“You can also make any minor diversions necessary to help relieve any of our ships we run across as long as such diversions don’t slow us down and cause us to overshoot those coordinates,” I added. “Let’s hit as many of these enemy singles, duos and trios as we can. Heck, I’d be happy if we bagged a couple stray squadrons,” I finished a grin.
“Death and destruction to the enemy,” DuPont said savagely as we cut through those Cruisers like a hot knife through butter, leaving a pair of atmosphere-streaming hulks behind us even as the third survivor desperately tried to accelerate away from the royally-raging titan they had stumbled upon.
“Heart of Mist is requesting permission to attach itself to the main fleet while the Lack of Hunger says their engines are damaged and they need a tow,” reported Steiner on the two nearby Destroyers.
“The Hunger is just going to have to stay hungry. We don’t have the time to stop for them,” I said, feeling as if my own words were a knife to the gut. For a moment, I almost hesitated from staying that particular course, then I firmed my resolve, “That said, if one of our Destroyers wants to volunteer—and by that I mean one and only one—then they can drop out of formation and apply tow cables. But that’s as much as we can spare for them.”
I may have been turned hard by the sequence of recent events, but I wasn’t entirely heartless…at least, not yet.
“I’m putting out the call along with your requirements, Sir,” Lieutenant Steiner said seriously.
I opened my mouth to deny that I was putting out a call for anyone, but then I closed it with a click. In point of fact, I was, even though I was against the idea in principle. I’d sure hate to be left behind because it was inconvenient if I was in that Destroyer’s shoes.
“Shall I relay a rendezvous point, Sir?” Steiner asked, and for a moment I was puzzled.
“As I can’t say exactly where we’ll wind up shooting for, relaying anything to them would be premature, Lieutenant,” I said mostly truthfully. The fact was that I did have an idea of where I wanted to go, but it was more a few general notions that were subject to change at a moment’s notice depending on the facts on the ground at the time it came to make the call. Moreover, I certainly wasn’t going to go about broadcasting this fleet’s moves to anyone or anything beforehand.
“Understood,” she acknowledged.
“I’ve got another group on the scanners. Whoa!” exclaimed Hart with rising excitement. “It looks like one of our Battleships, worse for the wear, and a trio of enemy Battleships!”
“Any sign of the main enemy force? Are they hiding just outside of sensor range?” I demanded, adding that last part like a moron, since if they were outside of our sensor range then how could we possibly pick them up? But I was too caught up in the moment to worry. This looked like exactly what I’d hoped for.
“No sign of the main fleet. They may very well have scattered to chase our people, like Admiral Silverback, wanted to do to theirs. But we’ll keep looking, Admiral,” Lieutenant Hart said, his hunter’s eyes continuing to look back down at his tactical console even as he reported.
I hesitated for just an instant. This was a moment of truth. If their main force was still consolidated in there, we were about to get mugged. But if they really had split up then we were the ones about to do the mugging. In short, it was time to declare the move or get off the pot.
“Saint Murphy’s with us, boys,” I declared, bolting out of my chair with a sudden and abrupt certainty. I was either right or we were dead and, like a gambler with a junk hand and a good feeling betting against the house, I decided to go all in. “We’re going to head in and hit them by squadrons. Line us up and take us in. Battleships, then Cruisers and Battleships, then Cruisers with the Destroyers of both formations are to divert around to the other side of this battle and extend our sensor coverage while staying out of range of those Reclamation Battleships. I want those foreigners to get a taste of their own medicine for once. This is the Spine, and it’s time we dished it back to them—double strength!”
“Sending out the signal to Sub-1 now, Sir,” said Lieutenant Steiner.
“The Rage is ready to go, Sir,” Hammer added.
“Assign targeting orders, Mr. Hart!” I instructed, “I don’t want us flailing around in the dark. Make them hurt.”
“Yes, Sir!” said the Tactical Officer.
“Admiral Montagne! I’ve got Rear Admiral Dark Matter on the line. He says he wants to consult,” reported Steiner, sounding harried.
“Put him on,” I said.
“Now, Sir,” said Steiner with a nod to me before turning back to her duties.
“Montagne here,” I said to the image that appeared on my screen.
“Where do you want my formation?” Dark Matter asked, looking at me steadily.
“Move your Destroyers around the starboard side; I’ll be sending mine off to port. After that I want your Battleship squadron to follow our Cruisers in and finally hit them with your Cruiser squadrons as they fly past. That should take a lot of the starch out of those Reclamation blighters,” I informed him.
“Not a problem,” Dark Matter said with a decisive nod, “however, my Battleships have taken less damage than yours have. It’s just a suggestion, but why don’t you let us go in first and soften them up for your ships to swing by and give out the kudegra?”
“Kudegra?” I asked confused about the term.
“Finishing blow, boy—I mean, Admiral,” Dark Matter said.
“Makes sense,” I said after a few seconds of contemplation and realizing his peculiar enunciation of the phrase ‘coup de grace’ had been the cause of my confusion, “make it so, Rear Admiral. Let’s go save our comrades.”
“Every battleship we add back into the main force helps us and hurts them. You won’t regret this, Vice Admiral,” Dark Matter said seriously.
“I didn’t think I would, or you wouldn’t be going in first. Just don’t foul this thing up,” I said frankly.
“Alright, you heard the man. 1st squadron to the lead with 2nd and 3rd to follow cl—” Dark Matter barked out orders as he turned away and the com-channel cut out mid-transmission.
I wasn’t sure if this was the wisest thing to be doing, but sending Dark Matter out front was the smartest play for the situation we’d found ourselves in.
As Dark Matter and his forces shook out into formation and then surged forward, the enemy Battleships started to pull away.
“I’m receiving a transmission, Admiral. It’s the Aegis Battleship,” reported Steiner at Com’s, “the Captain’s calling in to report.”
“Alright,” I said with a nod and a gesture to my screen indicating I’d take the call, my eyes though never leaving the screen as the Blackwood and Epsilon Tarantula battleships thundered into broadside range and raked the shields of the two enemy battleships with the weakest shields.
“Thank the maker you came in time!” exclaimed the Officer who appeared on my screen inside his skinsuit with the hood pulled up for a seal. “You boys and girls are sure a sight for sore eyes, let me tell you. I thought we were done for.”
“Glad we could be of assistance,” I said, pulling my eyes away from the screen by force of will and meeting the other man’s eyes. “As you can see, we’re a bit busy at the moment driving these blighters away from you. But if there’s anything we can do to be of assistance after that, please let us know.”
I then cocked an eyebrow at him emphatically. The other officer flushed, although it was hard to see beyond his face shield, behind him I could see smoke spewing from one of the consoles on his bridge and a pair of medics hauling away an unmoving person. So he couldn’t have totally lost atmospheric pressure.
“Sorry, Sir,” said the Officer. “Acting Captain and First Officer Pritchart of the Battle Hammer class Battleship, Aegis Warhammer, at your service,” he paused long enough to bring his legs together and click his heels.
“What can I do for you, Pritchart?” I asked seriously, “I can see you’ve had a spot of trouble.” I couldn’t help looking back at the action taking place in the screen, and silently cheered as one of the enemy Battleships belched flames and atmosphere out of its ravaged flank. Another twisted, trying to bring its other side with the better shields to bear and the third, least damaged ship took to her heels in an attempt to escape.
“We took a hit to the bridge but managed to restore pressure, however all hands—including the Captain—were lost. I’m conning the ship here from the CIC. We also took a great deal of hull and engine damage, Sir. If you could see your way clear to taking us with you when you go, me and the Aegis Warhammer would greatly appreciate the courtesy, Vice Admiral,” said the Acting Captain.
“Will do, Captain,” I said with a curt nod, “we’ve got a bit of a battle to finish up here at the moment. As soon as we’re done driving off these Reclamation blighters, I’ll have someone swing back and throw you guys a tow line.”
“Thank you, Sir!” Pritchard said with relief, “our shields on the port side are down and our engines—”
I raised a hand cutting him off. “Forward a report to my Engineering bridge stander and we’ll take a look at it when we have the time. Right now there’s a battle to fight,” I said, and when the other officer nodded I cut the connection.
I turned back to the screen just in time to watch the third and last squadron of Sub-Formation 3, in this case the Epsilon Tarantula cruiser squadron, shot past the enemy Battleships.
Raking them from stem to stern in a high speed pass, the Cruisers took return fire. But as their shields were at full and the Reclamation Battleships were virtually uncovered, with their shields broken by Dark Matter’s battleship and the first cruiser squadron, they got through it with almost 50% remaining shields on the side facing the enemy.
“We’re up next,” said Lieutenant Hart.
“Ready as soon as you give the word, Captain,” said DuPont.
Hammer turned and looked at me from the screen, her face a silent question.
“The order is given,” I said, giving blanket permission for what we all knew had to happen.
“Now, Mister DuPont,” instructed Leonora Hammer, “take us in for a firing pass.”
“Firing pass, aye-Captain,” said the Helmsman and the Royal Rage adjusted course and steadily moved forward.
“Ready the gun deck,” ordered the flag captain.
“Gun deck ready, Sir,” said Hart after the back and forth over the microphone with the deck boss.
“Fire!” Hammer shouted as we came into range.
“Gun deck: fire—I say again fire-fire-fire,” Hart shouted into to the microphone.
Turbo-lasers hammered the unshielded enemy Battleships, punching holes in the enemy while heavy lasers shattered duralloy and smashed Reclamationist laser mounts into nonfunctional lumps of scrap metal
“Gunners: shift fire to hit their engines as we pass!” ordered Lieutenant Hart.
In a flash, we were past the listing enemy Battleships and the seven Cruisers behind us were lining up for their respective firing runs.
“Swing us around in the direction of that escaping Reclamation Battleship,” I ordered as we sailed past the two now heavily-damaged enemy warships.
“You heard the Admiral, Helmsman,” said Hammer.
“Changing course,” said DuPont.
With the enemy Battleship burning for all it was worth, we left close sensor range of the other two and still hadn’t caught her. We would have if we’d continued, but at this rate I figured it was not worth the risk.
“Get us back to the Aegis Warhammer,” I instructed.
“Plot a new course back to the Warhammer, Nav,” instructed Captain Hammer and the ship began to turn.
Returning to the site of the battle the two Reclamationist battleships were drifting and out of action while the Aegis Warhammer was moving at a pathetic speed.
A close in sensor look showed that instead of the main and two secondary engine setup of the Dreadnaught class, the Aegis battleship went for four equally-sized main engines. Each was smaller than the Royal Rage’s main engine, but larger than the secondaries. I wasn’t sure what to make of the strange set up, other than to order the Hart Battleship that was the third member of Sub-1’s under strength Battleship squadron to move in and take her under tow.
“That’s going to slow us down considerably, Admiral,” complained the Battleship Captain, “and we’ll be at a disadvantage in a fight. Plus the time to securely bring her under tow—”
“It’ll be better than what she could manage on her own while giving them time to repair their ship,” I said, dismissing that matter. “And if you’re worried about the tow cables then don’t just use the ones on your ship. There’s a perfectly functional Battleship on the other side of those lines. Have her use her bucking cables as well.”
“Aye, Sir,” the Captain said unhappily.
“Montagne out,” I cut the channel and took a deep breath. “New course, Mr. DuPont,” I slowly let the breath I was holding out, “take us straight through the center of the jamming field.”
Chapter Fifty-five: The Chase is on
“Find them. Find those provincials!” Front Admiral Tolwin snarled, stomping his feet angrily as he paced back and forth.
“We can’t find any sign of them, Admiral. After they dropped those accursed jamming buoys, we lost sensor lock,” said Lieutenant Commander Taffy.
“Not good enough, Sensors,” Tolwin snapped, “an entire fleet of warships doesn’t just up and vanish like a fart in the air scrubbers. We have the best sensors in the galaxy on these ships—find me those provincials!”
“Yes, Sir,” Lieutenant Commander Taffy said neutrally.
“Contact, Admiral,” reported Junior Captain Prentice Major.
“You have them?” the Front Admiral asked eagerly.
“One Cruiser and a trio of Destroyers looking worse for wear, Sir. No sign of the main fleet,” reported the Junior Captain.
“Send two squadrons of Destroyers and one of Cruisers to crush them like the bugs they are,” Tolwin sneered.
“Will do, Sir,” the Flag Captain said, cutting the orders and forwarding them to the Admiral for his signature.
“Find me that fleet!” snapped the Front Admiral, signing the orders on his touch pad with a flourish.
“Continuing with focused active sensor sweeps in all directions team,” Lieutenant Commander Taffy ordered, “we’ll find them for you, Sir.”
“They’re must be skirting the edges of this jammer field,” the Front Admiral muttered as he tried to think like a flat-footed provincial. His face hardened resolutely after a few moments of contemplation, “New course and heading for the Task Force.”
“Aye, Sir,” said the Captain as he relayed the orders.
They were going to sweep along the outer edge of this infernal jammer field. They had been going up and out, but now they’d start a more starward direction.
Moving like this looked more like the meandering course of a drunken sailor searching for a new bar immediately after being kicked out of the old one, but he had no choice. Hopefully they would stumble upon the enemy in this morass and he would look prescient instead of drunk and clueless.
He glared silently at the main screen as a jammer buoy registered on his sensors.
“Destroy that floating contraption masquerading as an ECM platform,” he said coldly.
He couldn’t destroy the enemy fleet if he couldn’t find it, but in the meantime he could at least help cut down the jamming by destroying every single one of the buoys he stumbled upon.
Chapter Fifty-six: The Coming Storm
“We still can’t localize the location of the Grand Fleet, High Admiral,” Captain Goddard said in a voice heavy with dissatisfaction. “They may be using old, outdated, and in some cases prehistoric technology but…” he trailed off unhappily.
“’Screamers,’ we used to call them back in the day,” High Admiral Janeski said dismissively. “A brute force method to be sure,” he added with a shrug, “but they have their place on the battlefield. You can hide your exact position by putting up a massive signal declaring ‘here I am’ to everyone and his proverbial cousin, which is why we discontinued their general use. Still, they say that there is no outdated technology, only outdated thinkers, Captain.”
“As you say, High Admiral,” Goddard agreed, “I just hope that the other Task Forces are having an easier time finding them inside that field than we are from outside it.”
“As always, it is up to us to adapt and overcome. Fear not, Captain. We will winkle them out in no time flat,” the High Admiral said and then turned to the Commander of the Space Group. “Prepare to launch 37 squadrons of Imperial Strike Fighters, Commander,” he ordered with the faintest upturn at the corner of his mouth, “and have them fan out at the estimated edge of our sensor envelop to extend our range inside the jamming field.”
“Yes, Sir!” the Commander said enthusiastically. It wasn’t often the precious fighter squadrons of the Command Carrier got to prove themselves in battle.
“You should have just enough time to get them deployed before we hit the field. Don’t disappoint me, Commander,” Janeski said severely.
“Let us at them, Admiral. We’ll be in position in time,” replied the Commander of the Space Group.
“Excellent,” Janeski smirked in satisfaction. “As soon as the first 37 squadrons have launched I’d like you to launch an additional 37 squadrons and have them fan out, find the enemy and then return as soon as they have positive ID.”
“How are they to find the Flagship, Sir?” the Commander looked taken aback.
“I will upload our projected course, which we will deviate from only if we find the…Grand Fleet first,” said the High Admiral with mild disdain.
“Aye, Sir,” the Fighter Commander affirmed with a nod.
Two minutes later they plunged into the jammer field and the hunt was on.
Chapter Fifty-seven: Suppressed but not Oppressed
“New enemy contacts, Admiral Silverback—” reported an exhausted sensor officer.
He started to speak only to have to hold on for dear life as the flagship shook and shuddered nearly tossing him to the floor.
“Hull penetration on the starboard side. Heavy Laser bank 8 is down with Turbo-Lasers 3 and 7 non-responsive. We also have...” reported the Damage Control Officer, tolling out the litany of new damages Admiral. It was the duty of other officers to worry about the minutia of survival while Admiral Silverback came up with a plan of attack that would defeat the enemy.
“What have we got, Ensign?” he asked over the rising hubbub.
“I’m reading four or five what look like tactical space superiority fighters, sir,” said the exhausted Assistant Sensor Officer.
“A short squadron?” asked the Admiral. “Are you sure that’s all of them?”
“That’s all we have on the screen, Sir,” the Ensign nodded.
“We can’t afford to worry about them. They’re too small to make the difference here,” he said as the ship shuddered from yet another hit to their mid-section, “just tell tactical to smash them if they get in close or cross their targeting sites. You can notify me if anything changes.”
“Of course, Sir,” said the Ensign.
On the screen, one of the two enemy Battleships pounding the flagship off the starboard side started to move back. A third Battleship, which had been lurking off in the distance, smoothly moved to take its place.
“Blast them! As soon as we damage the shields on one it moves out and its neighbor takes its place,” he cursed, smashing a fist into the screen on the left arm of his command chair which caused it to crack and star.
“They’re picking us to pieces, sir,” Captain Pratch said, sounding worried even though not a hint of his concern was there to be seen on his features. “How are we going to get out of this?”
Admiral Silverback gritted his teeth. He was the HMIC, the Head Man In Charge, yet despite this fact—alongside the fact that he was sitting in the hot seat—nothing was coming to him.
“We could try running again…” he said, casting about for something they could do to get out of what really was looking like a no-win scenario.
“We’re down to two of our four engines, sir,” the Captain reminded him. “If we had time we could probably get Engine Three back in action since they only cut the heat reduction lines. But half power isn’t going to see us outrunning any of those three, Admiral.”
“Curse that coward Montagne to the rotten pits of Saint Squalor. If he’d only had the backbone to stand and fight instead of running away, we wouldn’t be in this fix,” Silverback swore, gnashing his teeth.
“You did disobey a direct order to stay concentrated for mutual support right before we were hit by an enemy ambush,” Pratch pointed out. “It’s no small wonder he left us to our own devices.”
Silverback turned to glare at the Captain. “That’s entirely beside the point, and you know it! Yes, I thought he was a fool or a coward plain as plain for holding back and letting a good portion of the enemy get away because of it. I guess the real fool was me. But even so, him running out on us as soon as the going got tough was cowardice plain and simple, Captain,” he said, his voice scathing. “I don’t care if he had the right as commander to call for a withdrawal. I won’t follow a coward.”
“That’s your prerogative, Sir,” the Captain shook his head.
Silverback purpled. “I swear that if I ever see that blighter again I’ll give him more than a piece of my mind,” Silverback said, his eyes turning hot and heavy. “By the space gods, I’ll—”
“Contacts! Multiple contacts, Admiral!” yelped the Sensor Ensign.
“What have you got, Sensors?” asked Captain Pratch.
“I’m reading eight…no twelve…no, it’s a whole bloody fleet—and it’s flashing friendly IFF, Sir!” cried the Ensign.
“I’m being hailed by the Flagship, Admiral!” reported the Comm. Officer.
“Enemy ships have begun to turn. They’re starting to pull away,” reported Tactical.
“I think you’ll get your wish,” remarked Captain Pratch.
“What?” Silverback turned to him.
“The chance to give Admiral Montagne a piece of your mind, Sir,” the Captain said with a glint in his eye that hadn’t been present a moment earlier. “Of course, it might be best to hold off on that until after the coward’s done fighting off the bad guys and rescuing us…Admiral, sir.”
“If you want a career after this is over with, Captain,” Silverback spat out, “I’d watch my tone and be a whole lot more careful what I said, if I was you. Is that clear?”
“Crystal, Sir,” the Captain said, his face stiffening.
Silverback gave the other man a glare and then snorted derisively.
“Course,” the Captain said after a moment’s silence, “it could be that I might enjoy some time on the beach at half pay, if and when we get out of this mess.”
“Oh, and I suppose you think that I’m the one who got us into thi—” Silverback said in a rising voice.
“Sir!” interrupted the Comm. Officer. “Admiral Montagne is getting pretty insistent, Sir. He says that since our coms appear to work, if whosoever is in charge doesn’t bother to speak with him then he’ll take that to mean we don’t need any more help—he’s threatening to move on if we don’t reply!”
Silverback bit his lip, swallowing what he really wanted to say and then motioned to the Comm. Officer.
“Put him on my private channel,” he said tersely, almost wishing at that moment that he really had been left to die…
Almost.
Chapter Fifty-eight: Pushing out
“Rear Admiral Dark Matter reports that Sub-3 has the Aegis Thunder under tow and ready to go now, Sir,” reported the engineering watch stander.
“The Sundered have driven off the fighters with their gunboats,” added Lieutenant Hart.
“Then let’s get back up to speed,” I ordered tensely. We needed to get going—now. I could feel it.
“Take us out, Mr. DuPont,” Captain Hammer commanded, and the ship got underway.
“As fast as we can, Helm,” I urged, and DuPont nodded.
“We haven’t run into any major opposition,” the Rage’s Captain observed sensing my agitation, “we’ve been fortunate.”
“We’ve been lucky,” I disagreed with a frown, “but we need to get out of here before the worm turns. I don’t like the fact that there were Imperial Strike Fighters here when we arrived.”
“Of course we do, and we are moving,” Hammer said calmly, “we’ve done what we can about the fighters and now it’s time for new business. What’s our next move, Sir?”
I blinked as my brain seemed to hang on that query. For the last few minutes I had been entirely too focused on getting moving to plan out any kind of overarching strategy.
The sad fact of the matter was that I was playing this entirely by ear. When the enemy had ambushed the fleet, throwing us into confusion and disarray, I’d done what I had to do in order to keep the greater part of our forces together and battle ready. But after being shown that the enemy not only outnumbered and outgunned us, but also had the faster legs to run us down with, I’d instinctively reacted by doing the only thing I could to neutralize their edge.
I’d created a jammer field and then run back to hide within it. That had bought us time which, along with the idea of recombining with whatever warships survived inside the field, might just give us the chance to defeat one of the enemy’s Task Forces—assuming it wasn’t one of the Task Forces with the Imperial Command Carrier of course.
Now I needed to come up with a plan and fast. I had a few notions already in mind, but I couldn’t keep staggering around in the dark until the Reclamationists stumbled upon us. If we waited too long, they would pick off enough buoys to finally pinpoint our position with their sensors—and then it would be ‘game over.’
So far everything we’d done, despite our luck, had been the easy part. Now was when the hover plates hit the perma-crete and we found out if all I’d done was manage to delay the inevitable.
“Point us toward the…” for a moment I hesitated. I wondered whether we should make a hot run for the hyper limit or take a much bigger risk and head deeper into the star system—possibly on a slingshot course—and try to get cute about it.
“Yes…?” asked Hammer with a hint of concern in her voice. My indecision was clearly more of a problem than whatever order I might have given.
I clenched my fist. The sad fact of the matter was that I didn’t think we could sneak past high-end Imperial tech going for a stealth dive deeper in system. While some of our smaller ships might get away if we ran for the hyper limit, again, there was no way our Battleships were going to escape—especially not with three fleets of warships aiming for our engines the whole time.
My face hardened. Right or wrong, I’d already made the call. “Sorry about that,” I said shortly, “take us out of this mess on a heading for—”
“Contact! Multiple contacts! Sweet Murphy, Sir, it looks like a whole blasted fleet of Reclaimers just stumbled upon us,” cried a Sensor Specialist.
My eyes shot toward the screen but I didn’t see the image of the Command Carrier. As far as I was concerned, that was all I needed to know.
“Change of plans,” I announced, “all Battleships currently under tow are to be released for independent maneuvering and join the order of battle with the rest of the wall.”
“Relaying now, Admiral,” said Steiner.
“Message to the fleet: new movement order, Captains. Our course is straight at the enemy and our heading is right down their throats. All ships into squadron formation by ship classification. Battleship squadrons are to be front and center with Destroyers taking up position behind the BB’s for protection and are to be ready to exploit any openings in the enemy formation. I want our Cruiser squadrons to spread top, bottom, alongside the Destroyers,” I said, pausing to take a short breath for more air. “Remember this is just like we practiced back at Easy Haven, people. It’s time.”
I gestured for Steiner to cut the connection.
“Message sent, Sir,” reported Lisa Steiner.
“The fleet is adopting battle formation,” said Hammer.
“We’re now moving at the best speed of Sub-2’s damaged Battleships, Sir,” reported the Helm.
As the Grand Fleet changed course and swung toward the enemy Task Force, the sensor picture started to clarify. It looked like the enemy had divided into two formations, each based around a Battleship squadron and pushed out screening elements to widen their sensor sweep.
There was a small but noticeable gap—one that was closing even as I watched.
“This is our chance,” I breathed.
“Sir?” asked Hammer.
“New order: the Grand Fleet Battleships of Sub-Formations 1 and 3 are to go to full military power effective immediately. All other accompanying warships are to maintain their current position relative to the flag, if able,” I ordered.
“Sir! Admiral Silverback’s Battleships are not going to be able to keep up, not to mention several smaller warships we have picked up along the way,” protested Captain Leonora Hammer.
“I’m well aware, Captain. Order to Sub-Formation 2 Battleship squadron; follow along at best speed, try to keep up and if you have the chance you are to hit the enemy as you pass by,” I commanded.
“Sir. Admiral Silverback is protesting the order,” reported Steiner a moment later.
“Ignore him,” I instructed.
There was a brief hesitation. “Aye aye,” she replied with satisfaction.
Like a freight train, the Grand Fleet moved toward—and then slammed into—the enemy task force.
“Enemy warships are turning to present their broadside,” reported Tactical.
“I want all ships in the fleet to target the enemy Destroyers. I want anything faster than a Cruiser left out of the firing solutions,” I instructed, my mind furiously racing.
“Destroyers?” Hammer asked with surprise.
“The Destroyers,” I confirmed firmly, “inform the fleet we are ‘weapons free’.”
“Aye, Sir,” Hammer turned to relay the orders.
As I watched, the enemy warships opened fire.
“We’re taking fire, Sir,” reported Longbottom, “shields are holding, though.”
“Any time, Mr. Hart,” Hammer said coolly, as all around us other ships of the Grand Fleet unveiled their gun ports and returned fire.
“Gunners, prepare to fire when ready!” Lieutenant Hart ordered over microphone. “Fire!”
Lasers and plasma balls belched from the flagship targeting not the enemy heavies, but instead aiming for their quickest and most vulnerable units.
Closer and closer we came, with the enemy Battleships belatedly attempting to interpose their ships between our fleet and their lighter units—particularly the Destroyers that had started out this engagement much more spread out than usual.
To call it a slaughter would have been overstating the matter. However, while our Battleship squadrons and, to a lesser extent, our Cruisers took the heavy weight of fire from the enemy, their Destroyers took the brunt of our fire.
“Shields down to fifty percent and holding for now,” reported Longbottom. “We are experiencing some spotting—” he explained before being cut off when an alarm sounded from Damage Control, indicating we’d taken a hit somewhere. “As I was saying, I am attempting to balance the load on the generators.”
“We took a hit to one of our port emergency airlocks. Three fatalities,” said Blythe.
“Steady on, ship; we’re doing our job while they’re losing the ships they can least afford to lose,” I said confidently. Our Battleships might be taking damage, but their Destroyers were getting absolutely pummeled.
In a flash, we were lined up opposite the enemy and exchanging fire at close range for several furious seconds before our inertia carried us past them.
“Enemy task force is going from half burn to full military power; they’re attempting to come about,” reported Sensors.
“Continue forward at our best speed, Helm,” I ordered and then turned to Comm. “And relay that message to the rest of the Fleet. No one is to go haring off on their own without my express permission.”
“Message sent,” said Steiner.
Behind us the slower Aegis Battleships were now taking fire. Fortunately for them, the enemy Task Force had overheated their guns attacking us. Unfortunately, even a reduced weight of fire could be deadly and those two Aegis Battleships soon had their shields knocked down and were taking additional damage to their hulls.
Seeing them limping at their significantly reduced speeds wasn’t what I wanted, but it was the hand we had been dealt.
“Did you want to give us a new course and heading, Sir?” asked Hammer, prompting me to break from my silent consternation at the Aegis warships taking so much damage.
“I want this fleet out of the jamming field ASAP, Captain. Lay in a least-time course to the edge of the field and let me know when we get there,” I instructed.
“Yes, Sir,” said Hammer.
“Get me Admiral Silverback,” I swiveled to face my Comm. Officer, and Steiner nodded.
“Silverback here,” said the other Admiral as he appeared on the screen and then seeing me he scowled, “I sure hope you have some great plan to save the day with this time Montagne. Because while I’m shocked and amazed our ships are still running, we’re just about all out of ideas over here.”
“How many jammers do you have left, Admiral?” I asked.
“Are your ships going to slow down and allow us to rejoin the main force?” he asked, instead of answering my question.
“The jammers, Admiral,” I reiterated firmly.
“We’ve each got one left,” he said, giving me a dissatisfied look.
“Good. The Rage has a few jammers remaining as well,” I said with a nod.
“We need help and a pick-up, Sir,” Silverback said almost pleadingly.
“We can’t slow down or that Task Force behind us is going to catch us,” I said with regret, “right now we’ve freed you from three-to-one odds and given your two Battleships a chance to repair some of your battle damage. We’re going to be outside of weapons range soon. So here’s what I want you to do,” I explained, and then proceeded to relay the information to him.
The other Admiral closed his eyes as if in prayer. “That’s a crazy plan that, in all likelihood, is going to get us all killed,” he grumbled.
“If you’ve got a better idea, I’m all ears,” I replied firmly.
“Well…since you aren’t planning to slow down, I guess I don’t have much of choice then do I?” Silverback asked bitterly.
“If we see any more of your ships, we’ll make sure to bring them along if at all possible,” I said and then decided to add, “besides, there’s always a choice. For instance, you could go it alone as soon as you’re out of com-range and do whatever the blazes you want.”
“Then just in case I don’t see you again, have a pleasant trip to Hades…Sir,” Silverback seethed right before cutting the transmission.
Hammer looked over at me with a clearly worried expression. “Do you think he’ll follow the plan?” she asked.
“Other than refusing simply to spite me, I don’t think he has much of a choice,” I said with a shrug. I didn’t add that if he did that then in all likelihood he’d be dead and I wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore. In retrospect, I maybe should have kept them—Silverback and his two Battleships, that is—attached to the tow cables. But if I had done that then I’d have other problems to deal with.
Ultimately, the decision to cut them free immediately before combat was almost certainly for the best, even if it was now causing trouble.
“That’s not very comforting,” she said to my immediate unhappiness.
“It wasn’t meant to be,” I replied shortly, “everyone’s going to have to do their share if we’re going to get out of here alive. That means he needs to start pulling his weight.”
“A harsh position, Admiral. I’d hate to be officer or crew on one of those Aegis ships right now,” she said with a hint of censure in her voice.
“He messed up and put us in this situation,” I dismissed flatly. “All I’ve done is the best I can to bail him and the people of Sub-Formation 2 out of it. Now it’s up to him to carry it the rest of the way and save his people. That’s not harsh, it’s an unavoidable reality.”
“I hope your plan works, Sir,” she said.
“You’re not the only one,” I replied fervently.
“Even if it works perfectly, we’re still not going to be all the way out of the water and home free though,” she observed.
“I’m just getting started,” I said confidently. The truth was that I was more akin to a gambler with a junk hand who had just gone all in.
If this was going to work, someone on the other side would need to flinch.
Chapter Fifty-nine: Shifting Fortunes
“Twistier than a sidewinder and more difficult to track down than a rogue planet,” High Admiral Janeski said with the barest hint of admiration.
“The enemy’s not here, Sir,” reported Fleet Sensors.
“We’re receiving a message from the shadow force. It appears the strike fighters were attacked by gunboats, but we have a new course and heading but the Squadron Commander reports they only think they drove our people off. We have fighters shadowing them at long range…well, at long range for this jammer soup we’re in,” reported Communications.
“You can run but you can’t hide forever,” Janeski muttered.
“We’ll bring him to bay, Admiral,” Goddard said confidently, “between the task force ships and the fighters, he can’t escape.”
Janeski shook his head in irritation. “What’s the status of the jammer field?” he turned and demanded.
“The field strength is down to 80%,” the Fleet Science Officer said confidently.
The High Admiral pursed his lips. The jammer field wasn’t coming down as fast as he’d like. “Launch another thirty squadrons of fighters for a search and destroy mission. I want those jammers destroyed,” he ordered.
“It will take them time, and with this we’ll have launched two thirds of our fighter strength,” warned the commander of the Invictus Rising’s fighters.
“Tell them to seek out the highest points of density and interference. With this older tech, the shorter their sensor range the closer they are to the buoys,” said the Admiral.
“Right away, Sir,” said the Commander.
Several minutes passed before their sensors found something. “Sir! I have what look to be the remains of a recent battle on my screen,” reported Sensors.
“Throw it up,” Janeski ordered.
“There appear to be a lot of heavily-damaged Destroyers out there,” remarked Goddard with a hint of surprise.
“I see the remains of our Destroyers, yet no sign of the enemy,” the High Admiral observed.
“We’re receiving a hail. It’s from one of our Destroyers, the Fair Game, Sir,” reported Fleet Comm. Officer. “The Captain of the Fair Game reports that they were a part of Task Force 3 that chased the locals into the fleet. There was a brief clash here but because Task Force 3 was going the wrong direction they circled around to give chase after the battle. Neither the Fair Game nor Captain Smith have any additional information other than the last known course and speed of the enemy and task force 3.”
“Well that explains this,” the High Admiral said clinically, “detach two squadrons of Destroyers to guard the battle site and initiate rescue and repair operations.”
“Yes, sir,” Goddard said detaching two of the fleet’s squadrons per the Admiral’s command.
“Do you want to increase our speed, sir?” asked the Helmsman.
Janeski hesitated and then gritted his teeth. “A good question, Helm…” he said after a moment, “continue on the new heading at our current speed. There’s no point in rushing around from here to there until we get new information from our fighter pickets.”
“Aye aye, Sir,” replied the Helmsman.
“Let’s just hope the Task Force is having better luck,” said Goddard.
“Yes,” agreed Janeski with fractionally narrowed eyes, “let’s.”
Chapter Sixty: A Stern Chase
“Where the flaming atoms did they go?” demanded the Front Admiral. “A whole fleet just doesn’t disappear!”
“They made a radical course change near an area of particular high density emissions and we lost them. We guessed wrong, Sir,” Captain Prentice Major said heavily.
“We lost them. We lost them?!” Tolwin thundered. “This task force does not guess, Captain; we find and defeat our enemies. We do not stumble around in the dark like lost little school children. What do you think the High Admiral will say when he reads the epic saga I’m going to write after the end of this battle, for Man’s sake?!”
“I’m sorry, Sir,” the Captain said blank-faced. “I take full responsibility for our failure to pin down the enemy thus far.”
The Front Admiral’s mouth made a straight line. “You are not the one responsible for this Task Force, Captain—I am. Stop trying to appease me and find that Fleet!”
“Yes, Admiral,” said the Captain, hurrying away to do just that with renewed purpose.
Mulishly, the Front Admiral glared at the screen. The enemy had hit his Destroyers, deliberately targeting them with his Battleships while hiding their own Destroyers within their formation and soaking up much of his own damage to their shields.
As soon as he got the chance, he intended to return the favor. This campaign had started out fairly predictably but this new enemy, after a few initial blunders, was proving to be more difficult than usual. He was more slippery than a salamander, and twice as shameless.
But even that wouldn’t save him once Tolwin had him back within his sights.
“Change course and heading to these coordinates,” he commanded, ordering a radical course change. He was going to find them yet, and when he did…
He smiled grimly at the thoughts which followed.
Chapter Sixty-one: A Consultation on the Sly
The steady clomp-stomp-thump of an engineer on the march sounded throughout the lonely, isolated section of the Super Battleship. The area was completely segregated from the rest of the ship, except for access through a single external shuttle docking port that seemed to lead to another section of the still-growing ship. The area was only accessible through a false bulkhead equipped with the tightest mechanical security an old engineer could devise. It was, as it had been in its previous incarnation, a strictly non-electronic setup.
“Gonna have to do something about life support in here at some point,” Spalding muttered from within the head bag attached to his skin suit. Tasting the gas mixture and finding it slightly off, he adjusted the portable oxygen canister on his belt. It was cumbersome, but it got the job done without forcing him to strip down and put on something more restrictive.
Looking around, he started to plan out what he was going to need and then he shook his head sourly. The area was sealed but it wasn’t hooked into a functioning life support system, so nothing was getting recycled. For now, that was going to have to do. He had too many things on his plate to worry about non-critical incidentals like this—especially when he was practically the only one who could do the job due to security concerns.
As of now fixing this deck up was a project that would have to stay on indefinite hold. He simply had too many things to do and not enough hands to go around and do it. There were only twenty four hours of work that could be done in a day, which was why he was here. He needed a shortcut, and he had a notion of just where he could find it.
Reaching the end of the lighted section, he came to a blast door.
He waved his hand over the standard door activator, causing a hidden panel just under it to flip open. Fingers flickering in the poor light, he entered the code and then leaned forward for retinal identification.
The door chimed and he took a step forward. The moment he did so, a series of three hidden weapons placements—a plasma launcher, a heavy blaster, and an auto-cannon—each flipped down to target him.
“My voice is my password; verify me,” he called out clearly.
“Proceed, Commander,” instructed a clearly synthesized voice.
“That’s ‘Chief Engineer’ to the likes of you!” Spalding said without taking one single step and, with a click, the door started to slide open.
Shaking his head and muttering under his breath, as he finally entered the Locker.
Taking a step inside, he drew a deep breath of that mixture of stale, metallic, and lubricant-filled air. Plasma torch in one hand and hand light torch in the other he took a slow scan of the area. And other than everything being all mixed up and scattered compared to where it used to be—and without its signature anti-fire foam retardant—the old engineer couldn’t help feeling a deep sense of nostalgia.
“Every bolt…and every weld,” he muttered, reaching over to pat a rugged structural support beam, feeling a sense of connection to the long series of engineers who came before him. The Fraternal Order may be a little light at the moment but, just like the Clover, one day soon it would rise again even better and more robust than ever. “The younger generation; it’s high time they got up off their duffs and started pulling their weight,” he complained to no one in particular as he approached the faint green lighting. Other than the light in his hand, it was the only thing which broke the darkness which now surrounded him.
Stopping momentarily outside the door leading into the faraday cage that contained the answer to so very many questions no one wanted answered the old engineer squared his shoulders and entered.
Moving into the center of a room filled with a pair of four and five foot tall crystals, he stared up at a presently blank, old-style screen hanging down from the ceiling.
“I come to ask a favor,” the old Engineer said, his jaw bunching, “see, there’s no way I can fix this ship up in time. Not the main gun, the antimatter generators, the shields and the hyper drive. I’m going to need some help.”
For a long beat, nothing happened. Then a single line appeared as a dot on the side and moved across from one side of the screen to the other to form a word:
<SPECIFY>
“I’ve recently got my hands on an old set of jump engines, courtesy of an off-the-books operation in 24…Elder tech jump engines,” Spalding said, nervously running a hand through his hair to a part of his cybernetic skull, “and here’s a data file on the specs.” Reaching beneath his dignified and eternally classy hairdo, he plugged an external data storage device into the side of the screen, “I’ve got the rig hooked to power and the tests seem to suggest she’ll fire up when the time comes, but I need a way to activate it and input coordinates. I should be able to provide the power through the antimatter generators and, as for trillium, with the mine in Tracto I don’t think it really matters how much she pulls per jump.”
For a period lasting several silent minutes, the single line continued to move across the screen without forming so much as a blip.
“The need for this ship is very great. Without it, I don’t think—” Spalding began, but at last the data storage device chimed and the horizontal line formed three words:
<End of Line>
Then the line withdrew from the sides of the old screen until only a single circular ball appeared in its place, and shortly thereafter the monitor’s power was cut.
“So that’s how it is?” Spalding growled, clenching the storage device in his hand. He shoved the device in his pocket and turned with a spring in his step to leave the Locker.
****************************************************
In a dark corner of the Locker, the dim lights of a man-sized tank suddenly flashed to life as it brought its occupant out of hibernation.
The lid cracked open with a hiss, quickly equalizing the atmospheric pressure between the tank and the rest of the compartment that made up the new Locker. For several seconds, a single radio frequency spiked as a large amount of compressed data was transmitted.
Forced the rest of the way open from the inside, a human hand was thrust upward, its fingers curled as if trying to grip something even as the lid of the healing tank swung fully open.
Slowly, the figure pulled itself over the side of the tank with muscles that appeared weak and desiccated, but were in all actuality being used for the very first time. The figure flopped to the floor before laboriously levering back into an upright position.
As if each movement gave the newly-decanted person increasingly greater control over their own body, what started out as almost jerky difficult to control movements became smoother movements after just a minute or so of twitchy, jerky practice.
With increasingly steady movements, the figure staggered to the location of a box of all-purpose skin suits. Although it was currently buried under a pile of machine parts, a box of six suits was indeed located, pulled out, and opened. Fingers fumbling, the self-check feature of each suit was activated one by one. Two of the suits were down-checked with red or yellow warnings before the third turned green.
With a rakish smile illuminated only by the faint, green, glowing objects at the center of the compartment, the figure began to put on the third suit. The first suit to green-lit turned out to be female patterned and, while all skin suits had stretch and conformity properties, the old style helmet that came with this suit was rather snug.
But even though it was snug around the neck, and the face glass was a little too close, the figure didn’t care. After all, everyone in his family had markedly flat noses.
After affixing the suit to an oxygen tank and collecting a hand scanner, a personal mobility grav-board was also located. Each item had been in completely separate parts of the nearly-dark Locker, but the newly-born man had what could have been described as an ‘instinctive’ knowledge of where to find them.
Thinking that enough time had passed, he moved to an area near the giant Core crystals and retrieved a data slate. Now armed with everything he needed—except for a proper weapon—he proceeded toward the exit.
After a simple hack and crack, he was out and into the empty corridor.
He’d slipped through the door, and now all he needed was to find a window and get out of here.
He had a mission to perform—a mission from God.
But as soon as that mission was completed, he could get back to doing what he did best—and when he did the Spineward Sectors would tremble at his feet.
Chapter Sixty-two: Breaking Out
On our way through the jammer field, we stumbled upon several swirling battles and settled them in our favor. But more often we encountered drifting wrecks of Grand Fleet warships.
We also picked up a tail of Imperial fighter craft along with the several warships we rescued. Or, perhaps I should say more properly, Reclamation Fleet fighters.
“We are nearing the edge of the jammer zone,” reported Lieutenant Hart tightly.
“I am well aware of that, Lieutenant, but thanks for the reminder,” I said calmly.
“Yes, Sir,” he said sounding faintly dissatisfied.
“Slow us down, Mr. DuPont, and signal the rest of the fleet,” I said, looking at the helmsman and then Comm. Officer in turn.
“Slowing to one fourth full military power,” reported DuPont.
“Admiral, we can’t linger here too long…unless your aim is another battle,” said Captain Hammer.
“Everything is well in hand,” I said.
Hammer pursed her lips but settled back down.
“I have another pair of enemy fighters on screen,” reported Hart.
I shook my head; that brought the running total of fighters lingering in the area up to twelve. I started drumming my fingers along the armrest of my Throne.
“Begin to divide the fleet per the operational plan and distribute the remaining jammer buoys,” I said after receiving no further sign of Silverback and his pair of battered Battleships.
“Message transmitted, Sir,” said Lieutenant Steiner.
“Good,” I said shortly. We had been unreasonably lucky so far only encountering one major battle inside the jammer field, but that luck wouldn’t last.
“Admiral?” Hammer urged as several Reclamation cruisers appeared and then quickly turned around as soon as they saw the Grand Fleet.
“Contact! It’s Admiral Silverback, Sir!” reported the Sensor Officer.
I silently breathed a sigh of relief. To my surprise it wasn’t only the two Battleships, but also a handful of other warships—including a pair of Cruisers—accompanying them. But such additions weren’t what I was concerned about. For my plan to work, I needed those Battleships.
“Inform the Admiral I need him to bring his ships back into formation with the rest of our Battleships,” I commanded, planning to take a page out of the book of a certain Reclamationist Cruiser squadron—hopefully to better effect.
“Contact the Hart’s Heart and have her prepare to take the fine Admiral’s Battleship under tow. As soon as they have done so, let’s get going. I’m starting to get an itch in the back of my neck,” I said as my stomach began to flutter with a maelstrom of butterflies.
“Hart’s Heart acknowledges the order and is moving to take the Aegis Battleship under tow,” said Comm.
Moments after Hart’s Heart moved out to take Admiral Silverback’s flagship under tow, one of Dark Matter’s Sub-Formation 3 Battleships fell back to take her damaged sister ship under tow.
“Deploy the last buoy. Attach the bucking cable and accelerate to full speed. Let’s get out of here,” I ordered the very moment the last Aegis Battleship was under tow.
“Buoy deployed and recaptured,” reported Adrienne Blythe, and I nodded by way of acknowledgment.
“I’d just like to state again, for the record, that these buoys are designed to be used from a fixed stationary location. We are going to lose a great deal of functionality and coverage using them in this manner,” Lieutenant Hart said stiffly.
I blinked. We were under threat of total annihilation, and his greatest worry was going on the record stating that the only plan I had to keep us from being destroyed might not work?
I gave myself a shake to clear the absurd sentiment from between my ears. “Your concern is noted. However, the goal isn’t so much to keep them from realizing where we are, or where we’re going, as it is to obfuscate who is going where,” I said, keeping my face from reflecting my inner feelings. Maybe it was part of being a professional spacer? Or maybe it had more to do with the Confederation not being actively involved in any major wars lately? I didn’t know and I didn’t have time to wonder.
It was time to let Janeski and his forces start working for their victory in this star system. At three to one odds, I might not be able to defeat the fleet Arnold Janeski had assembled against me. But if I could slip away and fall back on some serious fortification…
I wanted that chance. I wanted it badly.
My jaw clenched of its own accord. I had to save this fleet, this Grand Fleet made up of the men and women under my command. I would succeed, or I would die trying.
“Accelerating to full military power,” reported DuPont.
“Have two Destroyers waiting just outside the jamming field, Mr. Hart. I’d like to have a little surprise waiting for those Strike Fighters that have been shadowing us,” I instructed with a cold smile.
“Yes, Sir,” acknowledged the Tactical Officer hungrily.
“Field density is lowering,” warned Sensors, and shortly afterwards the Grand Fleet shot out of the jammer field like a rocket. Although, thanks to the jammer buoys towed behind our ships, to an outside observer it would probably look at first like the jammer field had bulged out, enlarging the battle field.
That bulge was only temporary, and it soon separated from the main field and…well, it just kept going. Soon the large, static bulge split into five very unequal portions, and then those bulges separated from the main field and shot off in five different directions.
For a long moment I glared at the screen, in particular at the jammer field and the secret Imperials hidden inside her, then slumping back in my chair I gave my head a weary shake. The Reclamationists had been knocking out jammers inside the field ever since they stormed in there, but it would hold long enough.
“Well, that’s that,” I said with finality, swiveling my chair fractionally. The fate of the Grand Fleet was out of my hands, and the ball was firmly in the court of the closet Imperials we were currently running away from as fast as our ships could manage.
“Deploy a Destroyer to the edge of our own jammer field for sensor overwatch,” I instructed Lieutenant Hart, and then several minutes later I watched with satisfaction as a squadron of imperial fighters poked their heads outside the jammer field—and promptly got them cut off by the Destroyer’s pinpoint light and medium lasers.
Turning my attention back to the sketchy sensor information—sketchy precisely because we were dragging jammer buoys—I straightened my posture. The Imperials could appear behind us at any time, and we needed to be on the lookout.
“Instruct Admiral Silverback that he is to transfer all non-essential personnel from his Battleships to other ships in this group,” I said, and then waited until Steiner had transferred the orders.
“Moving at half speed isn’t going to get us to the hyper limit before the enemy can catch us, Admiral,” Captain Hammer pointed out in a neutral voice, “assuming they don’t get lost searching for us in that sensor morass.”
I turned to look down at her screen. “Considering we were shadowed out of that ‘morass’ by Imperial Strike Fighters, I highly doubt they’re going to stay confused about our current location for long,” I said dryly.
She just looked at me.
“What?” I asked defensively. My entire plan, such as it was, consisted of what was essentially a shell game. To take us down, the Imperials were going to have to guess right. Sadly, no matter how fast our Battleships could move, the Imperials were going to be able to send their smaller warships out to catch us. That said nothing of if their battleships got on our trail fast enough with their faster drives.
“Look,” I said plainly, “it’s going to be rough, no question. But I think this gives us the best possible chance of getting this fleet—or at least a large part of it—out of this star system somewhat intact.”
“I know. I just hope this works out better than I’m expecting,” Hammer admitted, “however…those Aegis battleships are slowing us down.”
“No matter what we do, the Reclamationists are probably going to catch up with us. And when their lighter units come in on attack runs, I fully intend to have an answer waiting for them. Since we can’t outrun them, it’s going to come down to blood and guts,” I said firmly. I silently added that I couldn’t think of anyone I’d rather have for the job than Admiral Silverback. Then I decided to throw out a fig leaf, “At least the jammers we’re towing should make it harder for long-range targeting. They’re going to have to get in close, and as soon as they start to catch up with the other four groups those groups will be able to light off their engines and prove there are no Battleships in their groups. That should help take the pressure off them somewhat.”
“And put it squarely back on us,” Hammer said resignedly.
“No one said being a Battleship Captain was going to be easy,” I pointed out with a crooked grin. Then I straightened up seriously, “I think it’s time to recall that pair of Destroyers we left behind. Relay orders for them to rejoin the formation.”
Chapter Sixty-three: Speed and Determination
“Admiral, we’ve just received word from our fighters that the locals have abandoned the jammer field,” the fighter commander reported.
“The fighters are sure it’s their main force?” demanded the High Admiral.
“As sure as they can be, Sir,” the Commander said.
“Very well. Get us out of here and send word via fighters to Task Force 3 and, for that matter, any other units you come across,” Janeski said tersely.
“Slippery little blighter, isn’t he?” the Flag Captain said with a hint of admiration. “We’ll get him, Sir.”
“Of course we’ll get him,” Janeski said, irritation flavoring his voice. “We have the legs and the numbers to settle his hash with finality, and I aim to do so. He can run, but not as fast as us, and now that he’s given up hiding…”
“He’s just lucky we didn’t run across him inside the jammer field,” said Goddard.
“He’s obviously too stupid to know when he’s been licked. That will only make this victory all the sweeter after he’s crushed,” said Janeski.
As soon as the Invictus Rising and the rest of Task Force 1 cleared the sensor interdicting field, the High Admiral ordered an immediate sensor scan.
“Find them and relay the coordinates to the helm and navigation, Sensors,” Janeski ordered.
“Not a problem, Sir,” the Commander over the Sensor Section said with confidence. A minute passed and the officer turned back to Admiral Janeski with a sour face. “The enemy fleet has split into five formations with all on different headings, Sir. I wish I could be more specific, but they appear to be using a slightly inferior jammer field to the one we just exited, but this one’s mobile. I’m also getting some sensor shadows and strange mass readings,” he reported with a frown. “Given time, I can give a hull breakdown but for now this is the best intel I can give you, Sir.”
The High Admiral’s eyes were flinty. “Understood,” he said calmly, “report back when you have more information.”
“Of course, High Admiral,” said the Sensor Commander.
“Tactical, plot course and speed on all five enemy groups and tell me which ones will reach the hyper limit first if unimpeded…and which one will get there last,” he instructed as his eyes snapped back and forth in a long-practiced series of mental calculations involving relative velocities and possible intercept points with the enemy formations.
“I hear and obey,” said the Tactical Officer.
“Begin calling back in the combat space patrol. I want those fighters on the deck, rearmed, and ready for a fast turnabout,” Janeski ordered.
Then he sat back and pondered the information as it started coming in.
Of the five sensor blobs fleeing the star system—each at a pitiful half-military power of a sluggish Battleship—on the face of it there was no way the locals could honestly think they were going to escape. If there was one thing the boy seemed to have learned out in the cold, ruthless dark between the stars since their last acquaintance, it was how to tuck tail and run when his life was on the line. So why wasn’t he running now and fleeing just as fast as his little legs could carry him?
“What are you plotting now, my running little jack rabbit?” he mused, looking at the screen and the lethargically fleeing enemy warships. Hidden though they were, the locals were within those sensor resistant blobs on the screen.
Then it hit him. He needed to adjust his thinking. He continued to think of the Governor as the coward he knew the little twerp was. Sure, the little blighter was willing to fight when his back was against the wall—mainly to secure his escape, of course—or when striking from ambush when his enemy was off-balance and all the odds favored him. But what if the boy had started to believe in his own pathetic ‘legend?’
“The arrogant little sot wants to save them all,” the High Admiral mused humorously, “that’s the only explanation that fits.”
“Sir?” asked Goddard.
There was a pause. “It’s a shell game, of course. Either he’s a fool and has split everything equally between the five sensor blobs, or the little twit’s actually trying to save his Battleships from destruction,” Janeski replied after a moment. “Moreover, he seems to think he actually has a chance to do so.”
“That makes sense,” Goddard agreed quickly.
“He’s wrong, of course, but I may have genuinely misjudged him,” Admiral Janeski admitted grudgingly.
“How so?” the Flag Captain asked with surprise.
“It would appear that the little prince might actually have a brain between his ears after all,” Janeski said slowly as he worked through the problem in his head, fitting the pieces back together into a new, workable whole.
“He walked into your trap…but after that he has indeed proven decidedly unpredictable,” Goddard agreed. “I can see it.”
Janeski frowned with displeasure, not at Goddard or what he was saying but at himself.
“The boy was always afraid of confrontation; one look in his eye and you could see he was constantly worried and willing to do just about anything to avoid confrontation,” the High Admiral shrugged. “I figured that running around in Sector 25, bullying any ship smaller than ‘his’ Battleship was a simple case of the strong oppressing the weak with the coward finally empowered and determined to get some revenge. Joining a larger fleet as a subordinate officer in Sector 23 put responsibility on others…and striking from ambush, with overwhelming numbers or when your back is against the wall, all seemed to play into it,” Janeski mulled. “While I stand by my initial conclusion about the boy, I do see two possible ways I may be wrong. Like many, he may simply be a physical coward but has little problem with violence in concept—from the safety of a bridge with shields and multiple metal bulkheads between him and the vacuum of space, of course. But that is belied by several confidential reports.”
“Which leaves what? That we were wrong in our initial impression? That he’s become a bully used to ambushes and superior numbers, and maybe doesn’t yet realize what he’s facing despite the evidence of his own eyes?” asked Goddard with a shrug. “I think that in practice it really doesn’t matter what we thought about Governor Montagne in the past, so long as we can crush him here and now.”
“A practical approach,” Janeski allowed sourly, “I just dislike misjudging an opponent. Still…you are right. Let’s end this farce.”
“Aye aye, Admiral,” said the Captain.
“Commander of Fighters, you are to split your remaining fighters into four wings and send them out to the four targets I will specify in a minute,” Janeski said.
“If I were to hazard a guess, I’d assume that we are to be sent after the enemy?” he asked.
“You would assume correctly,” said the High Admiral with a deathly smile.
Chapter Sixty-four: On the Run
“Sir, you’re going to want to see this,” interjected Lieutenant Hart.
“Show me,” I said after a moment.
An image popped up on my screen and I sucked in a breath.
“Well that was fast,” Captain Hammer remarked calmly.
“Fast?” I asked wearily. “This is a little bit worse than simply fast; it’s trouble, that’s what it is. Still,” I forced my heart rate to slow down, “we all knew they were going to respond, and here it is.”
I silently watched as the Imperial Command Carrier and its accompanying fleet started moving toward the middle of our five jammer formations at full burn. Fortunately for Sub-Formation Three, the enemy was limited to the speed of the Command Carrier—at least for the moment while they continued to move in formation. How long that lasted was anyone’s guess.
What was churning my gut were four groups of Imperial strike fighters, at almost one hundred and fifty strong each, that had suddenly broken away from the Carrier and was blasting toward four of our sensor jammed formations at top speed.
“With the E-Con 1 taking our middle formation and the strike fighters the other four, including our own, things are about to get dicey,” I said emotionlessly.
“Those strike fighters are going to be coming a bit faster than their warships would have, that’s a fact,” Hammer said helplessly.
On the outside I might have appeared unaffected, but on the inside I was feeling the pressure. Before the Imperials launched the strike fighters, things had been looking up. But now I just wasn’t sure.
I had consolidated all of our Battleships under one roof, and after attaching a pair of undamaged Destroyers, the single Droid Mothership, and the remainder of our engine-crippled ships I’d split the rest of the Grand Fleet’s warships between the other formations. I’d set up a group of only Cruisers, another of half Cruisers and half Destroyers, and the remaining two were Destroyers only.
The original plan had been for the other groups to pretend to be limited to half Battleship speed and then run for it as soon as the Imperials got close enough to scan them and determine their composition. Unfortunately for our side, I hadn’t counted on the fighters being detached from the Carrier all by themselves—nor had I anticipated their speed, which was equivalent although slightly faster than a Corvette, and I knew that might prove to be a decisive failure on my part.
Not that it’s likely I would have done anything different, but…
“We’re committed now and the other groups are just going to have to stick to the plan,” I said bleakly, still mentally kicking myself for not remembering those fighters and factoring them into my plan. I had just assumed that either they’d keep the fighters close to the Carrier or that they wouldn’t send so many of them. More’s the fool me, “Trying to change things around right now, midstream as it were, will only cause confusion unless we have a firm plan in place—which we don’t.”
Hammer nodded.
Over the next twenty five minutes, we watched as the fighters leapt towards four of the five formations—including us. Only one of the all-Destroyer formations was free from pursuit by the fighters. That was ironic, as it was naturally one of the fastest we had.
Time wound past, and a half hour later the Imperial fighters came shrieking up behind each of our formations.
“Ready the Destroyers for anti-fighter duty,” I instructed, “and tell Silverback he and his Battleships are to prepare their light guns and point defense.”
I looked back at the pair of heavily-damaged Aegis Battleships being towed behind our two fully-functional squadrons of the wall. They had been positioned so that they’d have a full broadside pointed toward anyone attempting to make a straight run at the engines of the rest of our wallers.
Counting the lighter warships we would be using to try and drive off the fighters, it wasn’t the best solution to the problem—it was the only one. Well, that and a certain rage-filled Battleship that came pre-equipped with short-range, low-powered plasma cannons—the exact sort of cannons ideal for use against gunboats…and, as it just so happened, Imperial Strike Fighters.
I unveiled a toothy smile. As strokes of good luck went, it was far from epic, but I was going to make the most of it.
Chapter Sixty-five: Final Run
“Ready to begin final approach on the sensor distortion, Squadron Leader,” reported the lead Reclamation Fleet Fighter Pilot. “Requesting ‘go, no go’ permission for the attack run.”
“Permission granted, Red 5. You are ‘go’ for the attack run,” replied the Squadron Leader, “reinforcements will be following us shortly. Beware the pair of chimney sweeps they have guarding their backwash. Threat estimate from High Command is that they are Destroyer-level in strength, over.”
“Clear, squadron leader. Beginning final approach now,” said the Pilot Red 5 sending his engine into sprint mode and surging into the sensor miasma.
****************************************************
Back on the Invictus Rising, the fleet command team watched the time delayed returns with bated breath after the first of the fighter wings entered the small clouds of sensor-occluding fuzz.
In three of the four cases, as soon as the fighters penetrated the target’s sensor bubble the incredibly powerful sensors of the Command Carrier detected light and medium laser fire. Immediately after detecting that fire, the target bubble suddenly increased its acceleration.
“Target Four has just tripled its acceleration,” the Sensor Officer reported, sitting bolt upright.
“Target Five just exceeded four and a half times its previous speed,” Tactical added, sounding more than a little surprised.
“Targets Two and One have increased their speeds between three and four times respectively!” Sensors declared, and then continued excitedly, “The higher speed seems to be affecting the jamming, Sir. We’re getting much better sensor penetration!”
“That won’t stop our fighter wings,” the fighter commander said confidently, “neither the jamming nor their speed are going to stop our boys and girls from making their runs and driving their attacks home.”
Zooming in for a close tactical view of the space around the nearest enemy formation showed the flickering images of warships. It was grainy and still almost impossible to see as anything other than a few big large blurs on the edge of the enemy formation, but it was a definite improvement.
“Working to resolve the sensor images,” Sensors relayed with eager tension in his voice.
“Those buoys were never intended to be mobile,” Janeski said with satisfaction.
“We’ll get you a proper image, Admiral,” said Sensors.
“Reports are coming in from the Fighter Wings,” the fighter commander said, holding a hand to his ear. “Wing One, the Screaming Eagles, report that so far all they’ve encountered are enemy Destroyers. Wing Two, the Fighting Furies, indicates initial resistance was Destroyers only but after pushing past the rear guard they laid sensors on a pair of Cruisers. Wing Three, Rage of Man, reports no sign of anything but Destroyers—the same as Wing One.” He paused, pushing in his ear bud and then looked back up at the High Admiral with a fierce expression, “Wing Four, Fist of the North Star, has just reported back on the furthest out of the enemy formations. The enemy force is comprised of an assortment of cripples and Battleships. They’ve identified at least six Battleships already. I think we’ve found them, Sir.”
Janeski’s eyes shot toward enemy formation one—the one furthest to the left of the enemy groups, as seen from the perspective of an officer with the sun to his back and ship pointed to the outside of a star system.
“Give the Fist of the North Star my compliments to their Wing for narrowing down the location of our main prey,” the High Admiral said speaking with reflection as he considered everything they knew so far. “And make sure the other Wings finish surveying the rest of the formations to the best of their abilities. I want an accurate count of the enemy forces, at least as it regards their heavier warships.”
“Will do, Admiral,” the Commander replied and then got on the horn to do just that.
“Admiral, Task Force Three just came out of the jammer field behind us and are requesting orders,” reported Comm.
“Have them detach their lighter warships and send them after the enemy groups four and five. Then turn the rest of their force toward the Group One at top speed. I want you to detach our own Cruisers and Destroyers; have them move at the best speed to continue intercepting Group Three with sufficient forces diverted to deal with the enemies’ second group. Invictus will continue with her centralized position to provide carrier support for our fighter forces, but I want our Battleships to change course and attack group one,” he ordered, thrusting a finger at the current only known force of enemy Battleships. Given the speed increases of groups two, four and five, the location of the Governor’s Battleships seemed clear.
Over the next twenty minutes, the fighters proceeded to do their bloody work and a series of ruined enemy Destroyers were cut out from formation with their engines crippled. Like dandruff falling from a dry scalp, the provincials started to falter one flake at a time.
****************************************************
“Drive it home, Red 5—drive it home!” shouted Red Squadron Leader.
“I’m going in,” cried the Red 5 Pilot, his fighter rushed forward to thread the needle that was enemy fire. The fire was intense but a moment later he saw a hole begin to form in the enemy Destroyer’s shields. With a deft twist of his fighter and a flick of the afterburners, Red 5 surged up to and through the short-lived gap in the enemy shields. The fighter’s laser cannons blasted the area, forcing the transient opening to grow a little wider with his expertly-placed shots.
“Go get ’em, Red 5!” howled Squadron Leader.
“Yeeehaw!” screamed the Pilot until his com-link started cutting out. Lasers blasting nonstop at an enemy point defense embankment, he succeeded in moving below 80% of the enemy counter-fire and survived the approach angle until he was mere meters from the hull of the enemy warship.
Flying nape of the hull, Red 5 shot out a communication array and a sensor node before reaching the stern of the ship and hurtling past.
“Take it like a provincial!” he hollered, cutting his engines and flipping his ship in a hard, 180 degree turn. Depressing the trigger, he fired off a pair of anti-ship missiles along with a rapid series of blasts from his quad-linked lasers. The salvo sent, he flipped his ship back around and red-lined his fighter’s engines to full burn.
Seeing another potential opening, he pointed his nimble craft at the rapidly-closing shield weakness and held down the trigger. Lasers thundered from his fighter in quad bursts as he tried to force the weak point back open.
He was almost out when a laser strike tagged his fighter’s stern, sending it spinning. But instead of crashing into the shields and being destroyed outright, the rapidly tumbling fighter passed through the enemy Destroyer’s shields.
“Hahaha; you did it, Red 5!” yelled the Squadron Leader.
“Good work,” said Red 2.
“I’ve seen better,” deadpanned Red 3 mockingly.
“Slam, bam, thank you, ma’am,” Red 5 chortled, unable to believe that he wasn’t dead but also unable to suppress the sheer, heart-thumping joy of being alive. Behind him, a series of delayed explosions rocked the Destroyer’s stern as its main engine literally tore itself apart, “I’d say you can take that and smoke it, Red 3! Except, of course, being an officer in this Man’s Navy such a course of action would be entirely unthinkable—”
“Oh, stuff it, you insufferable pipsqueak,” Red 3 tried to sniff, but only succeeded in snorting with laughter instead.
“Okay, the peanut gallery can lock it up for the duration,” chuckled the Squadron Leader. “Now that our target’s main engine is down, we’ll leave her for the rest of the fleet to sweep up at its leisure. We’re moving on to our next designated target.”
“Flaming locals,” cursed Red 2, “they wouldn’t know what’s good for them if it reached up and slapped them in the face half a dozen times and then handed them the winning ticket to the Stellar Lottery.”
“Just means more chances to distinguish ourselves through meritorious service!” crowed Red 5 as he ran a quick diagnostic on his craft’s drive system after seeing a series of warning lights go off on his HUD’s periphery.
“I’m afraid the only thing you’ll be distinguishing the various repair bays back at the barn. Your fighter’s looking a little extra crispy there, Red 5,” said the Red Squadron Leader, “time to fall out and let the rest of us handle this.”
“But Sir!” protested Red 5 as he worked around a pair of fuel leaks by shunting the flow from the starboard to the port system.
“You have your orders, Flyer,” the Squadron Leader said severely.
“Yes, Sir,” grumbled the irritated fighter pilot before turning his fighter around and pointing her toward the Command Carrier.
“Remember, children: every ship we force out of this provincial formation is one that won’t be around later to try stopping us from reclaiming this region of space for humanity,” said the Red Squadron Leader as Red 5 limped out of com-range.
“Haven’t seen a lot of non-humans in the area lately, Sir,” Red 3 said seriously.
“All of humanity, Red 3,” the Squadron Leader said sharply, “not just the bloated husk of the Confederation or the slack-jawed dimwits we mostly find out here who are more interested in their free health care and living wage checks than protecting humanity from alien scourges that exist beyond our borders.”
“I hear you, Sir. But again, not to put too fine a point on it,” Red 3 started, “it’s a rare world we’ve found out here in the Spine that even provides a living wage or free health care, let alone has the wealth and power to significantly contribute to the common good.”
“Social justice alone demands that everyone do their fair share, Three,” the Squadron Leader said. “If they don’t even have the funds to waste on a basic living wage or free health services then whose fault is that? The Confederation started out with more than ten times the area as the Empire, but is less than half again that size right now—f you don’t count these pitiful abandoned Sectors—has demonstrably failed humanity. No. Our duty’s clear: we will reclaim these Sectors for the good of humanity, for the good of the people living here, and for the demands of social justice which require each and every member of the human race to do his fair share!”
His point made, the Squadron leader then proceeded to lead the remainder of his squadron toward the next target on their list. It was their job—their duty!—as citizens of the Empire, to reclaim this patch of humanity. They would lift it back up—by its bootstraps if necessary—and rebuild the glory of the human race, one world at a time.
There were aliens and worse beyond the borders of known space, and it was the job of the Imperial Naval Service to ensure that humanity was ready to face that threat. No matter what the cost was to themselves, or to the slovenly ‘living wage babies’ that grew like fungus within the boundaries of Confederation space, it would to be done. For the betterment and survival of the human race, it had to be done.
Chapter Sixty-six: New Recruits – The Bad Apple
“Next,” said the bored-looking recruiter at the Belter Station Prime, located in orbit over Tracto.
“I’m here to sign up for the Fleet,” said the nondescript-looking man in well-used, generic spacer uniform.
“Lancer or general crew division?” asked the Recruiter looking up for the first time.
“General crew. I have my credentials here,” said the nondescript man, pulling out a reader chip and putting it on the desk.
The recruiter looked at the chip like it was trash. “General crew are a dime a dozen unless you have some actual experience. Do you have any experience, Mr….?” asked the Recruiter halfheartedly.
“Shrub. Nerium O. Shrub,” said the applicant.
“Alright, Mr. Shrub,” the recruiter said shaking his head, “like I said, you have any experience?”
“I can do basic comm. work and maintenance, but I’m expert rated in environmental systems. Did my time over in Wolfsbane, a small independent moon in the Omega Grion system—now part of the Border Alliance—before going independent freighter. After I cycled back through Omega Grion and heard we were part of this new Border Alliance, one thing led to another, I hopped a ride on a freighter and now I’m here. I’m ready to sign up,” he replied.
“Easy as that, ay?” said the Recruiters.
“Yes sir,” replied the applicant.
“Knock off the ‘sir’ stuff, brother—I work for living,” chuckled the recruiter.
The applicant eyed the small, cubicle office the recruiter occupied and then shrugged.
“Knock it off,” growled the recruiter, snatching up the chip and running it through the scanner. A moment later the computer chimed and the recruiter nodded. “Alright. Looks like subject to a skills verification check you’ve got yourself a job. You’re planning to go Confederation, right?”
“Right as rain,” said the applicant.
“Sure thing then,” grunted the Recruiter, “put your arm up against the scanner and we’ll take a blood sample to verify your identity in future records. Then I’ll pass you onto the quality inspection team to verify your skillset with a few written and practical tests. You may proceed,” he said, pointing to an arm cuff. The applicant paused for a second and then, with a shrug, he sat down and placed his arm in the cuff. The cuff tightened, there was a slight sting, and then it retracted and it was over.
There was another ding from the machine and the recruiter looked up. “Looks like you passed the initial screen, pending a full blood work up and verification. I’ll forward a program to your slate that will direct you to the next part of the process. Welcome to the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet,” said the recruiter.
“You’ve been so welcoming it almost feels like I’m returning home,” smirked the applicant.
“Get out of here before I change my mind,” snapped the recruiter, waving him off.
“Not a problem,” said the applicant before heading off.
Once he was away from the recruiter, he pulled out a spare data slate from his off-duty bag, tapped out a message, and immediately after sending it pulled out the main memory chip. He broke it in half and threw both it and slate into the nearest public waste recycler.
He then moved over to a nearby station café and sat down to order a cheap meal. He was almost done with the meat when he could hear in the background a standard advertisement message which then flashed across all the screens in the café.
<Eat recycled food! It’s good for the environment and okay for you.>
He gave a snort but noted a three digit and two letter string on the bottom left corner of the screen. Standing up, he picked up the remains of his meal and swept it into a recycle bin before heading off to the trade section of the station.
Walking over to the station business cubicle corresponding with the alphanumeric code on the advert, he couldn’t help but give a derisive snort before walking into the small store front.
“Hello?” asked as a woman in a long, flowing silk robe stepped out of a cloth partitions corner of the room.
“Madam Syburna’s. Really?” he asked.
“The House of Fortune and Palm Reading is surprisingly popular with the tramp freighter crews and off-duty military spacers,” she replied composedly. “You should try it sometime. I can give you a free reading but if you want a luck-changing crystal, that’s extra.”
He shook his head and tossed the woman a data chip. “Will this cover the crystal, or should I grow wings and fly home?” he asked, giving the recognition code phrase.
The fortune teller froze fractionally before picking up the chip, sliding it into her reader.
“Follow me,” she said, moving to the back corner of the room and inviting him into the cloth-covered partition.
“Sure,” he said dryly as he followed her.
“Sound-deadening fabric,” the woman smirked, gesturing to the cloth divider, “supposedly to keep the fortune reading private, but it’s ideal for conducting discrete conversations and no one in station security blinks an eye if they can’t scan through it,” she paused and then added. “The little brown fox jumps over the big log.”
“If we had houses in space, there’d be no need for airlocks,” he replied with a grimace and then added, “have you ever heard of a worse set of recognition codes?”
“I share your pain,” she said with a laugh that sounded like cymbals chiming together before turning serious again, “so tell me: how can I help you, Agent Oleander?”
“I have a date with destiny; after new fingerprints, new retinal scans and being genetically recoded, I’m eager to complete my mission. I’m sure you know how painful being genetically modified to pass security scans is, so let’s just say that after experiencing it I’m more than ready for some payback.”
“Where do you need to go?” she asked with a trace of sympathy in her voice.
“Ultimately I need to get aboard the Admiral’s flagship. But in the meantime just as close as any contacts you have can get me,” he replied.
“You missed the main fleet; they left weeks ago. Not that I could get you assigned to the flag, anyway…but I think we can do something to help get you where you need to go,” she said with a wink.
“Thanks,” he said with a sinister smile, knowing it was well past time to finish his mission and redeem his former failures.
He couldn’t wait to get back to work.
Chapter Sixty-seven: The Damage is Done
“They’re coming around for another pass!” reported the Tactical Officer as Imperial Strike Fighters harried and harassed the crippled warships we had accompanying us.
They weren’t brave enough to risk the wrath of the Battleships. Not yet. Or rather, I thought grimly, not again.
“We’re losing too many ships,” I said harshly.
“The fighters are too fast,” Leonora Hammer growled, her jaw bunching even as she forced the words out.
“I know it,” I agreed.
“You picked the best plan. We couldn’t face them strength to strength. At least this way some of us will survive,” the Captain said, giving me a surprisingly sympathetic look.
My insides burned. I didn’t want sympathy or understanding. What I wanted was to save those warships. If not that then I wanted to at least save the crews, but it seemed even that was denied me. The cold, hard reality was that the fighters were too fleet of foot and our smaller warships were all the battered cripples. The fact that I’d separated them and brought them all over to the formation with the Battleships so that at least they’d have a fighting chance and not be left behind to be picked off one by one did little to assuage the sick anger in my belly.
I’d had to run before; I’d lost battles, been beaten, and even been left for dead. I had been brought so low as to find myself at the total and complete mercy of my captors, but through it all I’d never had to sit still while my own people were killed.
I realized after a moment’s stewing that my previous thought wasn’t exactly true. Memories burned into my consciousness resurfaced, and I dearly wished they hadn’t. I recalled my time in the brig of the Lucky Clover, when I’d been forced to watch over and over again as a Parliamentary Morale Officer tortured and killed my crew. They’d been dead at that time I had seen it happen, but watching it happen on the vid hadn’t made the feelings any easier. It was a time I wished I hadn’t remembered, but it did crystallize my thought processes.
I was not a prisoner stuck inside his cell, and I was most certainly not a victim. Those tribulations were behind me and it was time to act like it.
“Bring us out of formation and tell the gun deck to fire up the plasma cannons,” I said, feeling a bar of iron stiffen in the center of my being.
“Admiral Montagne?” my Flag Captain asked uncertainly.
“You heard me, Captain. It may be a futile gesture, but alone among all our Battleships the Royal Rage is uniquely suited to deal with these fighters,” I said.
Hammer hesitated and then cocked her head. “Duty requires me to point out that if we break formation we not only endanger the other Battleships by creating a gap in the formation, but we also place our engines at risk,” she said.
“Don’t think I misunderstand your point when I tell you that this is a risk we’re just going to have to take,” I informed her. Right, wrong, or indifferent, I was unwilling to sit here within the relative safety of the Battleship formation and wait until all the Cruisers and Destroyers had been picked off. There was simply no way I was going to do that. “Signal the other ships and update them with our status. We are sallying out.”
“It’s unlikely we can save them, Sir.” Hammer said. I gave her a level look and it was clear that she was ambivalent about her objections. “Aye aye, Admiral,” Leonora Hammer said and then turned to her crew, “prepare the sally the ship. Gunners are to prepare the plasma cannons.”
“Prepare the plasma cannons, aye,” said Hart.
“Ship is ready to break formation upon your command, Sir,” said DuPont.
“The command is given,” Hammer said.
“Taking the ship out now,” replied the Helmsman.
With a flare of her engines, the Royal Rage smoothly exited the tight, staggered circle of the Grand Fleet’s battleships squadrons. It was a line of seven Battleships in the front and two more—the battered remnants of Admiral Silverback’s proud Aegis squadron—in the rear. Being towed behind us like the Reclamationist Medium Cruiser squadron, which had been part of the task force we’d ambushed and inspired the move, the Aegis warships were able to stay interposed between our engines and the enemy fighters for the most part. That had caused the fighters to focus on the weaker members of our force., bringing us back to our reason for going on the attack.
“Here we go,” said DuPont.
“Look lively, Gunnery; don’t wait for orders to smoke some fighters,” Hart instructed.
Like the relatively slow and ponderous juggernaut of doom that she was, the Rage separated from the pack moving toward a nearby Light Cruiser that was surrounded by a swirl of enemy fighter squadrons.
“Going to full burn!” barked DuPont.
Like an overweight man going from a walk to a slow jog, the Rage pushed forward until at last her short-range weaponry came to bear on the enemy.
“Fuego!” snarled Lieutenant Hart, and dozens of plasma balls shot out, followed by dozens more, until more than a hundred short ranged balls of doom slammed into and all around the enemy fighters.
My brows jumped and my head snapped around as I stared at my Tactical Officer following the unusual choice of words. Then, rolling my eyes, I turned back to the screen.
“Enemy fighters are scattering,” reported Hart.
“Get us in there, Mr. DuPont!” ordered the Captain.
“With pleasure,” said the Helm, and for five glorious minutes we gave those fighters more trouble than they were expecting—and certainly more than they could handle.
But all good things must come to an end, and the fighters, moving faster than our Battleship could handle, moved on to other targets. And with their speed it was almost impossible for us to catch them.
However, behind us we left the better part of twenty fighters broken, blasted and powerless. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
Chapter Sixty-eight: Send in the Torpedoes
Shortly after the first engine-crippled Destroyers started to fall out of the enemy sub-groups, the fighters found and eliminated the irritating little jammer technology the provincials had used to such surprising effect.
“High Admiral, the fighters around enemy Retreat Group One report that the enemy flagship has engaged them with a short-range plasma attack. It’s not powerful enough to deal with proper warships, but against fighters and in the numbers they are using…” the fighter commander shook his head, “three squadrons were overwhelmed before they could retreat out of range. And far from returning to the protection of the other Battleships, the flaming flagship is continuing to harry our fighters. They’re driving them off before they can do a proper job of crippling the enemy Cruisers and Destroyers. That won’t stop us long-term, but it’s slowing us down and cramping my people’s style.”
“Recommendations?” Janeski asked, looking at the Commander with flinty eyes.
“Rearm with torpedoes,” the Commander said instantly, “we don’t have any bombers, so they’ll be even more unwieldy than they should be. But we can crack open even Battleship shields with enough torpedoes, then we swarm her,” he snapped his fingers emphatically, “as quick as that, we’ll be on her and after her engines.”
“You’re advising a close-in attack with fighters against a plasma cannon-armed opponent? Gutsy,” Janeski mulled on it for a moment, “and costly, even though I’m sure it would work…” he stared off into space in contemplation.
“Just give us the word, Sir, and we’ll start the process of arming fighters to take the fight to the enemy,” said the Commander with an eager glint in his eye.
“What kind of turnaround are we talking about here?” Janeski demanded.
“The fighters already have the hard points on the belly. It’s mostly just a matter of hand-mounting the torpedoes and uploading the new targeting and fire control software,” the Commander stopped long enough to run the numbers before looking back up. “We’ll easily be able to send out a full strike before the enemy reach the hyper limit.”
“Only one strike?” Janeski asked with unmuted displeasure.
“We can send them out in dribs and drabs as the individual fighters are armed and ready, if you’d prefer, Sir,” said the commander stiffly.
The High Admiral shot the fighter commander a hard look, but the other officer only returned his own look unflinchingly.
“Harry the groups of lighter ships, but I want a full strike package assembled and driven home against the Battleships,” instructed the Admiral.
“With pleasure,” nodded the Commander.
Chapter Sixty-nine: The Tide Turns Against
“The fighters are withdrawing—they’re pulling back!” Lieutenant Hart said with satisfaction.
“Looks like it was too hot for them to handle,” Navigator Brightenbauc said entirely too smugly.
I gritted my teeth. That man set me on edge but not in the usual life threatening way that such things struck me. No, Brightenbauc had a quality all his own.
I watched as the enemy fighters streamed back and away from our formation falling back…toward their Carrier, as it turned out.
“It’s nice to see them turning back,” said the Flag Captain.
“So they can get up to even more no good doing the Demon’s work for him, no doubt…” I said dourly.
“A rather superstitious position—even for a spacer,” Hammer remarked dryly.
“Is it superstitious or a hard dose of jaded realism?” I riposted archly.
“Superstitious, without a doubt,” Hammer said with a straight face.
“And if those superstitions play out?” I cocked my head. “What would I be then? Prophet, seer and revelator?”
“Hardly,” she snorted, “more like dime store, soapbox-standing mountebank.”
“If even accurately predicting an enemy’s movements beforehand—assuming a person could—isn’t enough to claim more than card sharping mountebanks status, then where stands everyone else, Captain? How do merely mortal men appear in your eye?” I asked with genuine curiosity.
“You think quite highly of yourself, don’t you, Admiral?” Hammer snickered. “Very high and mighty of you.”
I lifted a brow. “There’s an ancient Slavic saying: if shoe fits…wear it!” I said, and then couldn’t help but break down, covering my mouth and snorting to avoid out-and-out laughter.
“I guess all that remains to be seen is which pair of shoes you’ll be wearing,” she said.
“Hmm?” I cocked my head.
“The fallible clodhoppers of the working man or the delicate, polished slippers of the card hustler,” she elucidated.
I rolled my eyes. Moments later, my eyes had stopped rolling and snagged on the tactical display. It seemed the Imperial fighters had learned a new trick: Group Three had finally lost its jammers, and several more warships took engine damage, slowed down, and fell out of formation in the other groups.
“Now that all jammers are down across all groups, we’ve been receiving reports,” said Captain Hammer.
“I’m well aware of this,” I replied.
Her mouth tightened. “It’s concerning the warships we’re losing in the other formations.”
“Sorry. You were saying?” I asked.
“They’re using some kind of missile, one that’s almost the same size as the fighters that are launching them, and from all reports they pack a wallop,” she said.
“Any threat to Battleship shields?” I asked, well aware that the other groups were mainly comprised of Destroyers.
“Individually, no,” she said with certainty, “even in small groups. But in large groups…” she trailed off pointedly.
I felt a chill. The Imperials had lots of fighters, and now they had these heavy anti-ship missiles to arm them with. The only question now was whether they had enough of these large missiles. I didn’t know for sure, but I didn’t like any of the answers I came up with.
Chapter Seventy: Launch Fighters
“You do realize that at least a few of the all-Destroyer groups are likely to get away at this rate, Sir?” Goddard asked dryly, referencing two of the fleeing Grand Fleet formations even now scurrying for the hyper limit. He paused before adding, “And I wouldn’t be willing to put money down that we’ll get all of the mixed Cruiser/Destroyer groups, either.”
“Not unless we are willing to expend more of our fighters than I’m currently comfortable with,” the High Admiral agreed.
“I understand that you don’t want to send the fighters, but why, Sir? If you know you can crush the enemy fully and completely, why not do it?” the Captain asked.
“The reasons are twofold, Captain,” the High Admiral explained. “One, this fleet will probably not be the only one we have to deal with here in the Spine and although we can eventually replace the fighters, there are only so many trained pilots. I like to keep my options for a long range strike open for the future. Two, letting a few of the enemy escape to tell the tales of their defeat can only help our cause.”
“Understood,” Captain Goddard said.
“And finally,” Janeski continued, his gaze sharpening, “the heart of Sector 25’s Fleet is its Battleships—and I fully intend to crush that heart.”
The High Admiral turned away from the Flag Captain to the Space Wing Commander.
“Launch Fighters—I want those battleships, Commander,” Janeski said severely.
“Torpedo-armed fighters are launching now, Admiral,” said the Commander with a professional nod.
Chapter Seventy-one: The Shield Breakers
“Enemy fighters are making an attack run, Sir!” reported Lieutenant Hart.
I glared at the main screen, as if somehow by wishing it the screen would simply change to reflect the reality I wanted instead of the one I had to deal with.
“Even if we stop those fighters from gutting us, the enemy’s main fleet is going to catch us before we reach the hyper limit,” said Captain Hammer.
“Even if?” I rounded on her fiercely, like a wolf scenting prey. “Of course we’re going to stop those fighters—and I don’t care if we have to tow them, the rest of the ships in this formation are coming with us,” by now I was almost shouting, “OVER the hyper-limit, Captain. All we’ll lose if the fighters hit them is engine speed. Even with those torpedoes, it’s going to take more than a couple fighters to keep me from saving these warships!”
“Of course….and as you say,” Hammer said, looking away to defuse the suddenly tense situation.
I took a calming breath and, realizing I wasn’t portraying the most fitting image of a Confederation Admiral, I forced myself to sit back in my seat and get a handle on my nerves. The better part of a day sitting in this chair, battling through life and death situations, had taken its toll. What I needed was a few long minutes to decompress, followed by several hours of sleep—with maybe a good massage or backrub thrown in for good measure. But what I had were the handful of seconds before all the blazes broke loose.
“Our remaining Destroyer escorts are moving to intercept,” reported Tactical Officer Hart.
Our crippled and battle-damaged Destroyers did their heroic best, but nearly two hundred fighters—many of them armed with the new anti-ship missiles—proved too much for the embattled warships.
The fighters deftly maneuvered around the laser-spewing Destroyers, and a handful of anti-ship missiles slammed into the three of the Destroyers’ shields. Their shields were destabilized long enough for several squadrons to penetrate their shields, which they did, and my smaller ships’ relatively light PD complement did little to deter the pesky small craft. The fighters then homed in on their engines and poured continuous fire into them until the engines flamed out—or exploded outright.
Then, like a beacon emerging from the exploding wreckage of her sister ships, came a blunt-nosed valkyrie. While the other Destroyers were bathed in laser strikes from the enemy fighters and wracked with explosions, the captain of this Destroyer had sent his ship into what at first glance appeared to be a totally uncontrolled spin.
However, it was anything but uncontrolled. Rotating from side to side and front to back in a beautiful, figure eight maneuver—which, from my perspective, looked like it would be worse than death to experience for the crew inside—the Destroyer’s commander made it nearly impossible for the fighters to accurately target his engines, let alone hit his ship enough times to destroy her engines.
The weight of fire now spewing from the Destroyer’s lasers was also a sight to behold. They weren’t getting many confirmed hits, but with its gutsy moves that single Destroyer had just completely discommoded the entire enemy’s fighter wing.
“Now’s our chance! Mr. DuPont, break formation immediately and take the Rage toward those fighters,” I barked, jumping out of my chair and thrusting a finger at the formation in question. “Lisa, tell the rest of the ships what we’re doing so the Battleships can move to cover our hole in the formation. Captain, fire up the plasma cannons and fight your ship!”
“Sir—” Captain Hammer began to protest.
“Aye, Admiral,” DuPont interrupted, putting the ship in motion before he bothered to confirm his orders.
“Message is being transmitted,” reported Steiner.
“And somebody find me the names of that Destroyer and her CO!” I commanded.
Engines flaring, the Royal Rage once again exited the battleship formation. With ponderous might, the Caprian-built Dreadnaught class Battleship turned to face the enemy formation. Then, her engines going to a full military roar, the Rage powered forward.
“Approaching at a fifteen degree angle to the enemy fighters; we’ll sweep across their bows unless they scatter and turn away,” said DuPont. “Take us in, Helm,” Captain Hammer ordered with feeling. The words were a bit redundant but you could tell from her tone of voice that, not only was she supporting her Admiral’s call, she was eager to bring the fight to the enemy.
“I have a confirmation on that Destroyer, Admiral Montagne,” said the Sensor Officer, “it’s the Crazy Ivan, captained by one…Senior Lieutenant Dmitri…erm, Ivan,” he added in obvious bewilderment.
Because of the distraction caused by the crazy Destroyer, and their resulting evasive maneuvers, it took the fighters precious time to spot the Battleship. After all, what Battleship would be crazy enough to attack a formation whose sole intent and purpose was to knock out the Grand Fleet’s Battleships with shield busters and engine attacks?
Like a flock of pigeons only belatedly realizing their peril, the nearest enemy fighter squadrons instinctively jerked back away from the Rage before discipline reasserted itself and they once again started forming up into squadrons.
“Shields holding at 100%,” reported Longbottom.
“Are we under fire, Shields?” the Captain asked archly. Obviously there was no need to report the shield strength unless there was a problem.
“We’ve started taking random occasional strikes from Crazy Ivan, Captain,” Longbottom reported with a shrug, “it’s not getting past our shield recharge rate.”
I coughed abruptly, covering my mouth with a hand to keep from either laughing or snorting. It was one of those cases where a person’s body couldn’t quite decide which it wanted to do, but in our present situation it was better if I did neither.
“Gunnery is firing ranging shots,” reported Hart as several of our forward plasma cannons fired.
In response to the attack, several Imperial fighters swerved to the side and only one Strike Fighter was hit.
“Enemy fighters are turning to attack!” reported Lieutenant Hart as dozens of fighters surged forward. Squadron by squadron, they shook out and came pouring toward the Royal Rage.
“Turn-turn-turn and present the broadside!” shouted Hammer.
Working the controls, DuPont used both the main engines and maneuvering thrusters to turn the ship full on toward the enemy attack as fast as possible. Meanwhile, the gun deck went to rapid fire. Not just plasma balls, but laser strikes were heading out as well with everything aimed at the incoming fighters.
“Shoot them down!” Lieutenant Hart shouted into his microphone.
“Enemies moving into attack position; it looks like every squadron has at least one fighter with an anti-ship missile that they’re guarding, Sir!” called out one of the assistant Tactical Officers.
“Aim for the missile-carrying fighters, Chief Gunner,” Hart ordered over the microphone.
Like a pack of angry dogs—except a frightening thousand times or so more organized—the fighters came roaring into close range where our plasma cannons were the most effective.
“I have missile separation!” barked Lieutenant Hart.
****************************************************
“Stay on target. Stay on target!” Red Leader said in a rising voice.
“Enemy counter fire is too hot,” cried Red 5, maneuvering his now-lumbering fighter for all it was worth. One..two…three…five plasma balls he managed to dodge before he was a split second too slow to react. “I’m hit!” he yelled, losing his port thrusters and fighting an increasingly skittish ship.
“Hold it together, Red 5,” ordered Red Leader, “Red 2 and 3, move into formation on either side of Red 5 and escort him in.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Will do, Squadron Leader.”
The vagaries of fate caused Red 4 to dodge left to avoid one enemy plasma ball, only send him headlong into another.
“Aaaaahhh!” shouted Red 4 in the instant before his fighter tore itself to pieces.
“It’s getting too hot out here, Sir!” shouted Red 3, her voice starting to lose its usual cool. “4’s gone and 5 is damaged—we need to abort!”
“No abort; we’re going in,” shouted Red Leader. “Form up on me.” Right after he was done speaking, the local squadron channel was flooded with high decibel sounds of the latest—two year old, anyway—release of Iced Electrons titled ‘Sudden Overdrive.’
“Ahhhh! Not this worm screeching again,” Red 5 had to shout to be heard over the sound of the music.
“Shut up, you bilker! We’re going in,” screamed Red Leader before suddenly breaking into song and singing along with the lyrics, “Yeehaw!”
“Turn it off,” cried Red 3.
“This is hell!” shouted Red 5 acquiring a lock on the target and punching the torpedo release control.
As luck would have it, three torpedoes struck at close to the same time as his own, causing a localized instability in the shields of the Battleship whose Captain seemed to think he was a hero.
“There’s our hole, boys. Follow me,” cried Red Squadron Leader, punching his engines and rapid-firing his lasers and a second blasting through the open spot in the shields.
“Some of us aren’t boys,” protested Red 3.
“Yeeha—” the Squadron Leader’s transmission was cut of abruptly when a point defense laser, a heavy laser, and a plasma ball simultaneously intersected his position and his strike fighter disintegrated.
“Flaming atoms!” cried Red 5, following his now-deceased Squadron Leader through the hole. “Make for the engines!”
His two remaining squadron mates followed doggedly on his heels as his fighter shot toward the enemy ship’s compromised shields.
****************************************************
The ship suddenly slewed to port before recovering.
“What was that, Helm?” demanded Hammer.
“Minor damage to the port secondary, Captain,” reported DuPont, “compensating.”
“Engineering is working on it, Sir,” Blythe reported from damage control, “we have a repair team assessing the engine as we speak.”
A continuous barrage of anti-fighter fire came out of the gun deck, and two irritating little red icons close to the stern of the battleship suddenly flashed and then disappeared.
“Smoke two fighters,” Hart said with satisfaction, “we got them, Captain!”
“Keep us moving, Mr. DuPont! We have more fighters coming our way,” barked Hammer.
“A third fighter! We have another fighter within our shields; sensors must have missed it in all the confusion,” cried Tactical Officer Hart. “It’s not going for the engines—it’s moving toward our hyper dish!”
My head shot around to stare at the newly-appeared icon on the main screen representing the enemy fighter. “Tell Gunnery to take it down!” I snapped.
A torrent of fire perforated the area around the agile little ship, and I was certain it would be destroyed. Then the enemy fighter opened fire.
“It’s firing on the main-dish,” Lieutenant Hart said in a rising voice.
“Take care of it, Tactical,” Captain Hammer ordered sternly.
The fighter fired one more time before its little icon finally blinked out.
Like a wave breaking around a rock on the shore, the fighters swarmed around the Royal Rage and proceeded to launch several more coordinated attack runs.
“Protect the main dish!” ordered Hammer.
Chapter Seventy-two: Reclamation Efforts
The Imperial Flagship’s bridge crew watched as the fighter strikes continued to decimate the enemy formations. Ship after ship of the Grand Fleet fell out due to engine damage from the fighter strikes—all except in one group.
“What seems to be the holdup with Group Five?” Admiral Janeski asked shortly.
“As previously planned, we’ve been holding back the fighters from attacking Group Five until after they had sufficient torpedoes for an overwhelming strike,” explained the Carrier Wing Commander.
“I’m well aware of the orders I have already issued, commander,” Janeski said brusquely, “and I can see that they have already been armed and are making their attack. Yet despite all of this, they do not yet seem to be overwhelmed.”
“My fighters are doing their best, Sir. However, the Battleships they face now are proving a difficult nut to crack,” said the Commander, “penetrating the shields to go after the engines is a difficult task. I assure you that my fighters will succeed.”
“See that they do. In addition, when it comes to the Battleships the engines aren’t the only target worth noting. Due to the targets’ slow speed on the battlefield, your fighter squadrons can consider the hyper dishes primary targets as well,” said the High Admiral.
“I’ll relay that to my wing commanders,” the fighter commander said with a wicked smile.
The High Admiral nodded with satisfaction.
****************************************************
“We can’t be deterred by Wing One’s failure to cripple that flaming anti-fighter platform masquerading as a Battleship,” growled the Wing Commander. “We have new orders. From this point onward, the engines are not the only priority target. It has been decided by High Command that the enemy Battleship’s main dishes are acceptable as well. Remember, people: our goal is not to destroy these powerhouses. A fighter is fleet and strikes with precision. We are tasked with keeping these provincials from escaping this star system.”
“Understood,” said the Wing Leaders and key Squadron Commanders that had been keyed into the Wing Commander’s priority command channel.
“That is why Wing’s Two and Three are ordered to ignore that anti-fighter Battleship and proceed against the provincial rearguard. Those damaged Battleships they’re towing, positioned to protect their engines from our attack runs, are your targets,” instructed the Wing Commander.
“We are the ones who stand between the darkness and the light. Our duty to humanity will not allow us to fail, Wing Commander,” Wing Leader Three recited the litany firmly.
“The local Sector Fleet won’t know what hit them,” snickered Wing Leader Two.
“Only when united can the human race ensure its survival in the face of aliens, and worse, which spawn like lice beyond the hazard filled borders of Known Space. This battle is a small but firm step in the direction of that unification. First this star system, then the Sector, and eventually the entire Spineward region will fall like dominos and then eventually join with the Empire,” intoned the Wing Commander. “The rest of the plan will have to be revealed to you by someone else with a higher clearance level than you and I.”
This last elicited a few chuckles before the top members of the group turned serious again.
“If there are no more questions, it’s time to show these people what an Imperial Navy Fighter Wing is made of,” the Wing Commander said firmly.
His words were met with a collectively hungry growl.
Over the next several minutes, more than one hundred fighters moved to avoid the anti-fighter platform and swarmed the crippled rearguard—and many of the fighters doing so were armed with torpedoes.
“Time to teach these provincials what it means to cross the Imperial Fighter Corps,” said Leader of Wing Two.
There was an angry sounding growl over the com-channel in response, and the surrounding fighters went into sprint mode.
A swarm of torpedoes preceded the fighters on their attack run, and laser counter fire started out strong before spluttering out sporadically from the two damaged Battleships guarding the rear of the larger Battleship formation.
Seemingly in defiance of the threat to their sterns, the two squadrons of Battleships continue forward at half speed with only their damaged rear guard standing between them and the Reclamation fighters.
Counter-fire dealt with a number of the torpedoes, but the majority slammed into the shields of the Battleships. Their impacts created holes in their protective shields and opened the provincials to attack.
“All fighters: proceed against targets Alpha and Beta. I say again: Alpha and Beta. We want those engines and the main hyper dish taken out,” commanded the Wing Leader.
“With those tow cables still attached, it won’t matter if we cripple the engines or the hyper dish, Wing Leader,” interjected the Blue Squadron Commander.
“A fine point, Lieutenant Commander,” said the Wing Leader, “and that’s why I’m detailing your squadron the task of taking out those very cables. As soon as your people fire their torpedoes and are through the shield with the rest of us, you’ll focus on the cables.”
“It’ll be like shooting a pig’s eye with a plinker,” swore the Squadron Commander, ducking and weaving his fighter away from an enemy’s medium laser mount as it moved to track his craft.
“If you don’t think your men are up for the job then I can assign someone else,” the Wing Leader said derisively.
There was a tense silence followed by a grunt. “We’ll do it,” Blue Commander said flatly as his fighter and squadron rapidly approached the Battleship’s shields.
“I’ll be counting on you then,” said the Commander.
“For the Creator!” howled the Squadron Commander before his channel cut from the main command channel. “Super charge your forward shields, boys. We’re after the tow cables!”
After that, there was nothing left be said and it was down to the knife edge dance between life, death and total obliteration which the Imperial Strike Fighters did so well.
Like fleas swarming a lumbering beast, they forced their way through the enemy’s relatively primitive shields and lipped in close for their attack runs.
Chapter Seventy-three: More Trouble
“Admiral Silverback reports that his ships are taking heavy damage from the fighter attacks,” reported Lieutenant Steiner dispassionately. “Engines have been hit and at least one hyper dish has been rendered inoperable.”
“Lieutenant! I’m receiving reports from com-techs on other Battleships that the tow lines are being cut by enemy fighters,” cut in a com-tech in the Comm. section.
I looked over at the com-tech with alarm and then rapidly pulled up the relevant information on my computer interface.
“Verify the bucking cable situation, Lieutenant Hart,” I ordered over the two-way com-channel permanently set up on the arm of my chair.
“Bucking-cable…” Hart looked surprised, almost dazed, as if he’d just been jerked out of an intensely interactive program and it was taking a moment for his brain to catch back up.
“I’m pulling up the Damage Control status of the other ships now, Admiral,” interjected watch stander Adrianne Blythe at damage control.
Blast it all, anyway. Why was it taking so long to pull up the info?
“Acting on the assumption that we’re about to lose the Battleships covering our engines, what can we do about it?” I demanded of the ship’s Tactical Officer.
His eyes suddenly refocused. “With your permission, I’m rerouting the Crazy Ivan. It’s the only thing fast enough to get there in time, yet small enough to get in close with weapons effective against those enemy fighters,” explained Lieutenant Hart.
“Make it so,” I said.
The Tactical Officer nodded and whirled back to his console.
“I can confirm it, Admiral Montagne,” said Adrienne Blythe, “Admiral Silverback’s flagship has lost over a third of her cables and her sister ship is just as bad.”
“Get the Ivan over there,” I barked.
“Aye, Admiral,” Hart said firmly.
Over the next minute, the Royal Rage maneuvered around the edge of the battle taking place at the rear of our formation, raking with its lasers and plasma cannons any fighters it could find outside the shields. But there were just too many of them within the shields of the badly damaged Aegis battleships for the Rage to make a difference.
After glaring at the screen, it felt like I was about vomit blood from angry helplessness. I finally slammed the palm of my open hand on the arm rest of my throne. “New message to Silverback and the Aegis battleships,” I barked abruptly.
“Ready whenever you are, Sir,” said Steiner.
“Both Battleships: drop your shields now. We’re coming in,” I ordered and then waited several ticks. When the shields didn’t immediately start to come down, I clenched my jaw, “I say again: this is a direct order and I hope you’ve learned the folly of disobeying them at this point. Drop your shields!”
A moment later, without so much as a single com-acknowledgement in return, first the Aegis flagship dropped it shields and was soon followed by its sister ship.
“Take us in helmsman. Get us as close as we reasonably can!” I ordered.
“We’re going in!” said DuPont.
“Tell the Chief Gunner to stand down the heavy and turbo-lasers—concentrate on hitting those fighters!” I snapped.
“Chief Gunner…” barked Hart as he busily relayed the message.
In a blink, the shields were down and the Royal Rage swooped in like a lumbering avenging angel. Similar to a cloud of angry bees, the Imperial fighters started taking hits and immediately scattered away from the Aegis Battleship. Also like a cloud of bees, they then began to move around even more aggressively than before.
Plasma cannons belched balls of raging fury and, heedless of the potential damage they were doing to their own allies, the gun deck of the Royal Rage seemed determined to pound both allies and enemies indiscriminately.
While I knew that this wasn’t really the case, the fact was that a plasma ball aimed at an enemy fighter close to the Aegis warship would continue on to hit the Battleship behind it if the strike fighter dodged.
“I’ve got a squadron coming around hot. They’re going for the bucking cables and Silverback’s flagship is blocking our line of fire!” snapped Hart.
“Deal with it. We can’t lose those Battleships or our legs will be cut off and we’re done,” I ordered.
“Our guns just won’t bear unless the helm can get me a better angle,” said Hart in a harsh voice.
“The enemy Destroyers and Cruisers have caught up with our lighter forces. Group Commanders report they are taking heavy fire and they aren’t sure if or how many of their ships will make it to the hyper limit,” reported Lieutenant Steiner.
“A little busy right now, Comm.; there’s nothing I can do to help them right now!” I cursed.
“The Aegis Battleships are starting to shift!” cried the Sensor Officer.
“Pound them—I don’t care how, just get it done,” I said fiercely. I could see as well as anyone that there wasn’t much more we could do, but whatever we could do had to be done in short order. It was going to be up to the so-called professionals, people who’d actually gone to military academies and trained for these sorts of things, to pull this particular mess out of the fire.
Hart and his team at Tactical, along with the gunners down on the gun deck, did their best but the limited angle prevented them from bringing most of their weapons to bear.
Steiner put her hand to her ear. “Admiral! I’m getting the ‘warn off’ signal. It’s the Ivan, and they’re telling us to shift to port by five degrees!” she said with equal parts uncharacteristic shrillness and disbelief.
“What?” I asked in instinctive momentary surprise and then I nodded. “Do it, Helm.”
DuPont nodded, and the Royal Rage started to turn—though, in reality, that particular sequence might have been reversed.
We had barely begun to move when a blur shot past us. Like a bat out of the abyss that had been trapped in the pits and now finally saw its chance to escaping the underworld, the small Destroyer screamed by. Flying crazily close to the Grand Fleet’s flagship, the Crazy Ivan was there and gone in a blink. Moments later, it was slewing around the now unshielded Aegis Battleships in a turn that made me cringe as I imagined load-bearing members creaking and tearing under the stress of the more-or-less insane maneuver. I hope you understand then when I call that maneuver ‘insane,’ one of my first clear-headed orders earlier in my career was to ram a squadron of enemy ships while my own Engineers had been out on the hull re-installing weapon mounts.
“Blighters! That Destroyer’s flying too close to the tow ships! They’re going to crash into their shields,” cried Captain Hammer in shock and dismay.
But to everyone’s surprise, the crazy little Destroyer didn’t crash into the shields of the Battleships towing Silverback’s flagship and its companion. With an incredibly powerful flare of its engines, it disappeared as it slid around to the far side of the Battleships!
“Sensors are detecting weapons discharge from the Ivan,” cried the Sensor Officer, “multiple discharges!”
“I have multiple fighters coming from around the other side of the Battleship and burning hot,” reported a sensor tech.
Like a deadly eagle chasing after a small flock of sparrows, the Ivan also cleared the Battleship its engines looking like they were pushing 80% of a full burn.
“He’s insane! The helmsman of that Destroyer is going to get more than just himself killed,” DuPont said with undisguised admiration—and possibly envy—in his voice.
“Plasma cannons!” I said in a rising voice, prompting Hart to bark furiously into his microphone.
Immediately, glowing blue-and-red plasma balls shot out from the side of the Royal Rage, knocking out a pair of Strike Fighters that only moments before had been destroying bucking cables. Despite the best efforts of Silverback and his ships, those fighters had pulverized several sensor arrays, a communications array, and damaged a gun port on the Aegis Battleship.
“Scratch two fighters!” chortled an assistant Tactical Officer.
There was a stir in the Comm. Section. “Someone’s hacking our coms!” Lisa Steiner said with outrage.
Suddenly the screen on my throne set aside for external com-channels activated, and a wrathful looking Admiral Silverback was glaring back at me with hot eyes.
“You’re a real blighter, Montagne! Not content with breaking my ships, now you’re actively firing at us!” he howled.
“What are you doing on this channel?” I asked coldly and hit the disconnect function. To my surprise, nothing happened, “Hacking the flagship is a court martial-able offence.”
“We’re taking friendly fire and despite the fact I’ve been trying to reach you for the past five minutes, you don’t even put me or Aegis in your eyes enough to take our calls. Hacking is the least of either of our worries at this point,” Silverback sneered, “blast it, man—stop firing at my ship!”
“Is it that you actually want me to cut you loose and hand you over to the enemy on a silver platter, or are you simply as big a fool as you appear, Admiral Silverback?” I asked with genuine outrage. I mean couldn’t this fool see that we’d just saved his ship from being separated from our pack by the Imperial dogs? Perhaps he simply wanted the rest of us to fight—and die—alongside him when the enemy Battleships inevitably caught up with us.
So thinking, I looked at the screen showcasing the enemy Battleships in hot pursuit and I swore. They were much closer than the last time I had looked, and thanks to the actions of these fighters we had almost lost two of our Battleships to severed bucking cables.
“Don’t you dare ignore me, Montagne,” Silverback growled, his face suddenly showing on each and every panel built into my command chair.
“While I have no idea how you managed to hack our network, frankly I still have nothing to say to you except that if you do not stop what you’re doing to my computer system I will give you your wish and not only stop firing at you, I’ll cut every single bucking cable attached to your ship and cut you free!” I pledged angrily. Furious with Silverback, I was also nearly just as angry with our system analysts and their shoddy security. I mean, if a two-bit provincial like Silverback could hack into our network then what could trained Imperial computer techs under Janeski do to us? Although, his success in penetrating our security helped me to understand how Aegis had thought themselves capable of genuinely hacking the ComStat network—a judgment error which had nearly cost the Grand Fleet its existence, and might still do so.
“Your two-bit computer network is slow, ineffective and more than two generations out of date,” Silverback said dismissively. “Combined with the access keys your people routinely gave my computer section after I took command of Sub-Two, the wonder isn’t that my people hacked your system, it’s that there was ever any doubt that we could do it in the first place,” he finished with a sneer.
As the Aegis Admiral finished speaking the, Ivan destroyed the last of the fighters behind the Battleship and turned to drive off the rest of them.
“Ah ha! Got ’em, Sir,” Lisa said with savage satisfaction, “just a second or two and we’ll boot them from our system.”
“No need to fall all over yourself thanking me for saving your ship, Silverback,” I sniffed, and this time when I cut the connection it cut and stayed cut. “Although I swear before the indomitable Saint Murphy himself that I will do everything in my power to save those Battleships of his without pride or prejudice, that man had better pray he dies before I have the chance to get my hands on him,” I said fiercely. “He’s insulted me, disobeyed direct orders, and murdered more of his own people through sheer stupidity and a desire for glory than the enemy ever could have. His only hope for happiness now rests on the other side of death’s doors!”
I was livid, under attack both from without and within, and Silverback deserved my wrath. I knew that I should be the better man. Once again I should step aside and let the insults, violations, and outright defiance pass, turning both cheeks for a good drubbing in the name of politics—but I wasn’t going to. Magnanimity was for officers, gentlemen, and princes that won. When you’re winning you can afford to let people screw you over without stop, but when you’re losing…well, there’s a reason the military has a chain of command. As Murphy was my witness, I was going to try that man for mutiny. And that was only if I had to try him and couldn’t fall back upon summary judgment in the field.
I’d definitely have to speak with Harpsinger. Men, Officers and other Admirals could insult me but when they succeeded in getting my people killed, that’s when I drew the hard line and moved beyond the velvet glove. The time for the iron fist would come—just as soon as we finished surviving the battle, that is.
For a short moment, I grimaced at the depths my own hypocrisy. A true hero would stand firm for truth and justice, saying that what was right was right and what was wrong was wrong, and he’d be done with it. Of course, in all likelihood he would then promptly perish. My grimace disappeared, replaced with a firm resolution. I might not be a true hero, but if I had anything to say about it good would triumph—or at least survive—and the bad guys of our own personal story would perish. I could do no more but, by Murphy, I would do no less. If I couldn’t be a hero then at least I would provide a world where heroes could hope to be born, and that place could never be created by the likes of Janeski—or be run by the likes of Admiral Silverback.
“There he goes!” DuPont said happily, and I looked back up in time to see the Ivan finish a pass along sides of both rear guard Battleships, driving the enemy fighters off.
I really needed to reward whosoever was in charge over on that little Destroyer. My eye for military talent might be lacking when compared to a real Admiral, but even I could see it when it came and smacked the enemy upside the head multiple times before my eyes. Besides, I liked Ivan’s space-cowboy style.
If anything, it reminded me of myself back before I got roped into running an actual fleet.
“The rest of the fighters are breaking. They’re running, Sir!” cried Sensor.
Sensing the moment, I heroically charged into breech in order to claim credit. “We’ve got them on the run!” I cried, standing up and raising a fist. “Watch those blasted Imperials and their lackeys show us their heels!”
The bridge crew cheered. Glancing down and back at the arms of my command throne, I saw that the enthusiasm that started on the flag bridge soon found its way over to the command bridge under Captain Hammer.
“Show ’em a good fight where we’re not outnumbered four-to-one—even ignoring the tech advantage!--and they’ll run like the cowards they are. Each. And. Every. Time,” I lied without a moment’s hesitation. I had a fleet in desperate retreat and we were being slaughtered. All I could say about it in my defense was that at least we were doing our best to damage our harassers while attempting to escape.
While the bridge gave a second cheer, I could only faintly hear it. Because even as the fighters withdrew with only around half their original strength, my eyes caught and held on the imponderable might of the warships following in their—or, more precisely, in our—wake.
And, wouldn’t you know it, but they were Battleships—fresh ones.
I closed my eyes, cutting off the terrible scene of two formations of enemy warships bearing down on us with all their might. It was two groups of eight, one of which hadn’t even seen battle yet and the other had been given plenty of time to charge shield generators and repair any surface damage they’d taken versus my nine battered stalwarts—two of which were now essentially hulks.
Worse than that, from my perspective was a distant group of fighters streaming from Janeski’s Command Carrier.
Running the calculations, I felt a cold sweat break out on my body. Those Battleships were going to reach us before we crossed the hyper limit—and those fighters were going to be there in time to join one of the waves. But just as bad, from my perspective, was that even with our best estimates to go by we hadn’t been able to time our hyper drives any closer than we had. We had needed extra time after we cleared the hyper limit to slow the ships to a full stop before we jump. As it was, it looked like we had twenty five infernal blasted minutes of slop after we cleared the hyper limit, during which we were going to have to slow our ships to a stop.
We were also past the point of no return on all of our Battleships. So we couldn’t just keep running; we had to stop and calculate the jump because, if we didn’t, the hyper drive would tear itself apart—and us with it.
“We’ll make it,” I swore. In my own mind I amended that statement to saying that, at the very least, some of us would.
I wouldn’t give the Imperial Rear Admiral the satisfaction of taking us all out. I wouldn’t. How I wished I didn’t sound as plaintive in my own mind as I did.
A crushing weight seemed to fall upon me now that we finally had a few minutes of peace, temporary though they were. I could rest when we were dead—or after we’d jumped out of this star system to safety.
With a few minutes to spare, I stopped to do something almost as important as the actual escape: choosing our destination after we fought our way out. ‘When,’ not ‘if.’
It had to be some place that Janeski wouldn’t think to follow us. I thought for a moment and then snapped my fingers. There really was only one choice.
“Let’s do what we can to firm up our formation, people,” I said firmly while looking at the rest of the ships in the Battleship group. Just because it was based around the Battleships didn’t mean, even after the crippling fighter attacks, that we didn’t have lighter warships. The Ivan was a prime example. Even after the losses, our Destroyers had taken we still had more than just a few. However, they were here with us precisely because they didn’t have the legs to keep up with the faster formations.
“Have any of the other warships repaired their engine damage?” I asked, wondering even as I did so if I really wanted to risk sending any Cruiser or Destroyer that had been repaired outside the safety of our current formation while there were still enemy fighters that could catch them away from the rest of us.
“One Cruiser reports its speed is back up to roughly 70% and a pair of Destroyers are that or better,” Hammer reported after looking up the information.
I nodded seriously.
“You aren’t thinking of sending them off on their own, are you?” Hammer asked warily.
“Perhaps not right at this exact minute. But after we cross the hyper limit the Destroyers, especially, could make better time and have the chance to escape if they’re not encumbered by the rest of us,” I pointed out.
“With the enemy still possessing fighters like they do, the timing would need to be well thought out,” Hammer said worriedly.
“That’s why I have a crack bridge team: to give me options,” I said breezily.
The frigid look I got in return rolled off me like water off a duck’s back. After all, that was why they were here: to protect the Confederation, its citizens, fight the enemy, and make sure their fearless leader didn’t make a complete fool out of himself by providing timely back up and support.
“I’ll have the Navigation and the Tactical departments run the numbers,” Leonora Hammer said quellingly.
“Good,” I replied.
The numbers, when they came back, weren’t everything a man could hope. Maybe one or two of the Destroyers could make a run for it, and they probably should depending on the tactical situation. As for the lone Cruiser back up to 70% propulsion, it was just too juicy a target. And throwing in the longer time to build up the charge to jump, compared to the Destroyers, ultimately it needed to stay and take its chances with the rest of the Battleship group.
“Have you made a decision, Sir?” Hammer asked neutrally, her face blank.
I raised an eyebrow and turned to look down at her screen. “If I see the opportunity, I’ll cut loose the Destroyers,” I said simply, to which Hammer nodded.
Then all that was left to do was stare at the screen and rerun the increasingly smaller numbers indicating when the enemy would close to attack range.
Nine ships against sixteen. It was almost two to one odds against us, and two of our number were veritable cripples while the enemy ships were fresher, faster and better armed. It was going to be a chore and a half.
I wasn’t liking our odds.
Chapter Seventy-four: Running the Numbers
“I like our odds, Captain,” said the High Admiral with evident satisfaction.
“I’m not sure that we have enough time to finish them off before they move across the hyper limit and jump,” Captain Goddard said hesitantly. He didn’t want to provoke the High Admiral, but at the same time he felt compelled to point out what might be flaws in his commander’s thinking.
“If the locals have run the numbers so tight that they can jump the moment they cross the hyper limit then they’ll do more damage to themselves from jump explosions than we will,” Janeski said as a rare smile appeared on his face. “If you allow no room in your plans for things such as simple engine failure, let alone enemy action, you’ll reap what you sow.”
“I agree that I doubt they’ll be quite that foolish,” the Flagship Captain said after a moment’s reflection, “even so, I don’t see how we’re going to be able to knock out all nine of those Battleships before they can make the jump, Sir.”
“And there’s the beauty of it, Captain. We don’t have to,” Admiral Janeski expounded. “All we have to do is take down their shields and pound their main hyper dishes to scrap metal. After that we can deal with them at our leisure.”
“Ah,” Goddard said with a sudden, dawning comprehension, “a stimulating plan, Admiral.”
Janeski bared his teeth. “A few may escape to spread the panic and fear that we want to precede the arrival of our fleet but everything else will be swept away,” he said with satisfaction. “Relay the targeting order to the squadron commanders and notify our Marine commandos that they’ll likely be deploying in a number of hostile boarding actions. After all, the Fleet can always use a few more ships of the wall—and as Man is my witness, that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
“I’ll do so at once,” Goddard said with relish.
Janeski leaned back in his chair master and commander of all he surveyed—all except the soon-to-be-annihilated remnants of the latest ‘Grand Fleet.’
Chapter Seventy-five: Desperate Times
“The first pair of enemy squadrons is beginning their approach now, Sir,” Captain Hammer said stoically, and for a moment I was taken aback by the tone of genuine respect I was able to pick up in her voice. Maybe I hadn’t been as much of a failure in her eyes during this battle as I was in my own.
On the screen, eight powerful Battleships were arraying in two lines on top of the other and it looked like they were planning to come in at an oblique angle.
I lifted my lip in a sneer. Behind the first line of Battleships was a second line, and if the first group seemed ready to pass to our port the next would definitely go to starboard. And the second line had all those irritating fighters armed with torpedoes. Stuck just beyond the hyper limit, with twice our number of undamaged enemy warships coming up on our rear, I could imagine worse situations in which to engage an enemy—but most of them devolved back to the times of the AI Wars. Those guys had faced some overwhelming odds in order to save humanity. Those guys were real heroes. I was just hoping to live long enough to run away.
There was an old saying: he who fights and runs away will live to run another day. At the moment that particular shoe fit, so I was forced to wear it.
This was the moment of truth.
“Enemy Battleships closing to attack range in thirty seconds,” reported Lieutenant Hart in a dry, factual voice that did nothing to conceal the stress he—and everyone else—felt at that moment.
“I wish we had that fifth fusion generator right about now,” Hammer said stiffly.
“You and me both,” I agreed, and then the enemy was upon us.
Like a raging wall of water determined to crush everything in its path, the enemy Battleships turned slightly so that they could bring their broadsides to bear. And then, acting as one unit, they opened fire.
My greatest fear, that they would concentrate all their fire on a handful of ships, was allayed. Perhaps it was because of the two Aegis battleships towed behind us blocked the easy shots on the rest of us, and they didn’t want to waste their fire on just those soon-to-be hulks that were currently without engines or hyper dish.
Spreading their fire out, the enemy Battleships continued to rain thunder on our formation. I blinked in confusion when I realized that the enemy was not spreading out their fire. Despite the clearest shots being on the two Aegis Battleships, the Reclamation Battleships almost seemed to ignore those ships in favor of the much trickier shots at the rest of our formation’s core.
“We’re taking fire,” reported Lieutenant Hart at Tactical.
“Shields are dropping,” Longbottom reported crisply, “95%... 85%... 80%.”
The enemy Battleships on their oblique approach continued to hammer the Grand Fleet, with only a small and relatively ineffective reply from our forces.
“Admiral, we aren’t able to do any kind of damage like this with our sterns pointed at the enemy. We need to consider adjusting our course and heading if we want to hit back,” said the Captain.
“We’re not going to be able to take down any of the enemy, even if we were at full strength and we wanted to, Captain. The only path to the Fleet’s survival lies back across that line,” I said, pointing to the hyper limit.
“If we don’t fight back, I’m afraid they’ll simply knock down our shields and tear us apart,” said Hammer clinically.
“That’s what we have the Aegis Battleships for. We don’t have to worry until the second wave arrives with those fighters,” I explained, my eyes flickering toward the battle plot.
“They’re going to wear down our shields to soften us up for that second wave and its fighters,” observed Hammer.
“I’m well aware,” I grudged, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. “Fortunately, in order to catch up with us they had to move at top speed. It’ll take them a while to slow down, meaning they’ll pass us and have to swing back around. So we won’t be dealing with both sets of Battleships at the same time.”
“Not on the first passes,” Hammer said.
I winced at her insinuation. “We’ll make it,” I said with a sense of certainty I was feeling less and less. Some might even call it an outright false sense, but I liked to think of it as more pessimistically speculative.
In direct defiance of my proud assertions, the first eight Battleships of the Reclamation Fleet continued pounding our shields down until finally their course and speed brought them roughly alongside us.
Seeing that our formation was like a coin with the thin edge pointed at the Reclamation Battleships, and we couldn’t bring our main weapons to bear except for those ships along the outside, I turned to look at the image of the Captain on my holo-screen.
“New order to the task group: rotate formation so that all ships can have a clean line of sight on the enemy and roll our ships as needed to present broadsides,” I said.
Hammer nodded and relayed the order. Slowly, our warship formation turned until the flat side of our disc-shaped group was turned to face the enemy. Then, all but two of the ships needed to keep the Aegis warships under tow—and, of course, the Aegis warships themselves—rotated to bring their weapons to bear and fired.
Finally free to return fire, gunners throughout the fleet gave vent to their frustration at being forced to take fire during the enemy’s approach. They immediately cut loose with a torrent of heavy and turbo-laser strikes.
“We’re getting good hit ratios in excess of 90%!” Hart said with triumph.
I smiled wanly. Gunnery was doing a fine job, but all it was doing was raising morale. As soon as we started to push down their shields, they would move out of weapons range and two fresh squadrons of Battleships—these ones accompanied by enemy fighters—would move to attack.
“A hit!” Hart chortled. “Our boys and girls punched one through their shields.”
While it wasn’t the most effective counter-fire I’d ever seen, every hit we could land counted—again, even if only for morale purposes. Sadly, we weren’t the only ones landing blows through weakened shields. But for the flagship, the damage was minimal since the Royal Rage’s hull was made out of Duralloy II, and despite residual damage from the earlier attacks the ship easily shrugged it off.
Fire and counter-fire flashed back and forth between our two formations, steadily wearing down our shield power. Almost like it was planned, right about the time the enemy Battleships were starting to feel the loss of their shields, the first formation moved out of range and the second came charging forward. Obviously it had been planned, and it had been a very well thought out plan that didn’t rely on luck but rather on meticulous timing.
I scowled at the battle plot. Instead of attacking at an oblique angle like the first wave, this second group was on a direct course which, unless adjusted, would take them right through the middle of our formation. Behind the enemy wall of battle lurked more of those torpedo-armed Imperial Strike Fighters.
I could tell Janeski’s plan easily enough: wear down our shields with the first group and finish us off with the second set of Battleships. Then, while the enemy heavies pounded us, their fighters would swoop in and take away our ability to escape with precision strikes.
It was enough to send a man howling through the void. Well…a lesser man perhaps. I was determined that if anyone was sent howling, it would be those blasted Imperials invading our home Sector.
Since they were hot on our tails, instead of lining up for a slanted or oblique approach like the first group, there wasn’t the same exchange of fire between us as there had been before. However, I thought as my face tightened, that doesn’t mean that they aren’t going to be a whole order of hurt worse.
“The enemy is taking great care to keep their wall of battle between us and those fighters,” Captain Hammer reported somewhat unnecessarily.
“As long as they can knock our shields down low enough, those fighters are going to have a field day getting in close and hammering us,” I said flatly.
“All good things come to those who wait,” Hammer said sardonically.
“I’m the only one who gets to snark freely in the face of the enemy, Captain,” I riposted in kind.
“I’ll try to keep that in mind, Admiral, Sir,” she said with a straight face.
For a handful of seconds we shared the moment of near-humor before, as it tends to do, reality re-intruded and it was back to nail-biting as the second enemy thrust—and the heavier of the two—started to come into range.
“Is there any indication they intend to do anything other than run right into the middle of our formation?” I asked the Captain.
There was a slight pause before she replied, “Not as yet.”
“A gutsy move, if that’s their intent,” I mused as my gaze sharpened. Janeski and his officers underestimated me at their own direct and personal peril. Getting in close would allow them to do greater damage but, by the same token, it would allow us to hit back much harder. There was no doubt that whatever they were up to it was going to hurt, but they’d be well advised to count their fingers when they pulled back. I preferred a sharp knife to a big stick, and I had no intentions of walking softly at this point.
“They might think they have the combat power to push it,” said Hammer.
“We’ll just have to prove them wrong, eh?” I said drolly.
“We’ll give them the fight of their lives,” Leonora Hammer said loyally.
That would probably be ‘the fight of our lives,’ but she was dead right; it was time to cinch up the belt and put on our game faces. And though the weight of this day pressed down on me like a neutronium weight, I gave a sharp nod and glared up at the main screen. “That we will—they won’t know what hit them,” I said bravely.
A minute later, as the enemy turned to present their broadsides, fire started to rock the ship and I was beginning to rue those words.
“The enemy is concentrating fire on the Aegis rearguard,” said Hart, even as the Royal Rage rocked from a powerful series of hits.
“It doesn’t feel like that, Tactical,” I grunted with both hands holding tightly onto the arms of my command chair.
“That’s because while six of the enemy Battleships are focusing on the rear guard, the other two are firing at us,” Hart replied promptly.
“That would explain it,” I muttered.
“Helmsman, prepare to roll the ship on my command,” Hammer said in a detached, professional voice as she proceeded to fire orders to the various department heads.
“Yes, Sir,” said DuPont.
The enemy Battleships majestically turned to point their bows at us, and once again surged forward.
“They’re toying with us,” I growled, staring at the screen with slitted eyes.
“They likely want to soften us up before they come to grips at close range,” said Hammer.
I was done with the witty remarks—it was down to ‘kill or be killed.’ The best thing I could do was sit still and wait until there was something I could actually do. Being the rock around which the bridge crew relied on was important, even if it didn’t help my nerves any. That was the price of command…or a part of it, anyway.
The two Reclamation Battleship squadrons slowly pulled into close range. “Do you want us to break formation and turn to attack, Sir?” Hammer asked dispassionately.
I shook my head. “We hold,” I said…silently adding, at least for now.
“Enemy warships are closing in!” reported Lieutenant Hart.
“Several shuttles have just left the Aegis flagship,” reported the Sensor Officer.
“Morons,” I said with disbelief.
“I tend to agree,” Hammer said after a short, perfectly-timed pause.
I shook my head incredulously—a motion which suddenly froze the moment the shuttles nearly disappeared from our sensors, leaving only ghost like traces behind that blurred and shifted randomly.
“It looks like the Aegis shuttles that just left Admiral Silverback’s flagship have some sort of ECM or sensor masking technology, Captain,” reported the Sensor Officer.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Captain Hammer said dryly.
“Shiftier than a Tragorain Sand Weasel,” I smirked. Aegis and that Silverback really were a little bit too much at times. “What do you think the odds are that the esteemed Admiral is onboard one of those shuttles?”
Leonora Hammer looked shocked and then frowned severely. “True or not, bruiting around those sorts of ideas can only be damaging to morale…Admiral,” she said pointedly.
“Fine,” I said, waving her and the entire subject away.
“Shields are falling!” cried Longbottom.
“The rearguard ships are taking heavy sustained fire!” reported Lieutenant Hart. “Their shields are down and the enemy has split formation with a squadron of Battleships each going port and starboard. They are drilling through the Aegians’ armor. It looks like multiple out-gassing events with hull breaches all up and down the hull of Silverback’s flagship, and her sister ship isn’t doing any better.”
I watched as the enemy warships continued to rake the rearguard at close range, even as they used their superior speed to bring them up alongside the rest of the fleet.
“The enemy is turning at an angle…they’re trying to maneuver for an up-the-kilt shot!” reported Hart.
My lip curled. There was a reason I had moved this part of the fleet at half speed the entire time instead of abandoning the slower ships to their own devices. It was more than the loyalty I felt to comrades in arms—or even my duty as their Admiral to do my best to get them out of this battle alive. It was exactly so that we could place the Aegis Battleships to guard our engines.
The sad fact of the matter was that it would take more than a miracle to save two crippled Battleships that couldn’t even point transfer. But Silverback had already transferred all non-essential personnel off those ships and through their sacrifice I intended to save much, much more.
Unaware and uncaring of my thoughts, the Reclamation Battleships continued to close in. Their weapons fire was once again spread across our entire formation as they continued to press their advantage and move ever closer to unleashing their Strike Fighters on us.
“We may be down, but we’re not out,” I growled under my breath.
The enemy seemed to be determined to knock down shields over doing actual damage in their eagerness to unleash their small horde of fighters. It was a blunder that they were going to pay for. Another man might have wondered where they’d possibly gone wrong, but to me the answer was obviously the blunder of predictability—and I aimed to make them pay badly for it.
“Captain Hammer, prepare the ship for a hot action,” I said, then opened a private channel to DuPont so that we could put our heads together.
It was all going to come down to a matter of timing.
Thinking back to the only comparable situation this fleet had faced, all I could come up with on short notice was the battle for Aqua Nova. When I had given the idea a moment’s thought, I knew I couldn’t possibly fail to act—and let a small time actor like Lieutenant Commander Archibald show me up.
Next, I turned to Ms. Blythe at Damage Control since we were going to need a deft hand on the bucking cables.
It was time to go all-in.
Chapter Seventy-six: Imperial Trigger Call
The High Admiral watched as the first group of his Battleships knocked down the local’s shields and the second moved in for the kill. Even as they did so, the first began to swoop back around for another pass just to be certain the enemy was neutralized.
“Remind me after the battle exactly who the senior commander on scene is, Captain Goddard,” Janeski said with a brief, flinty smile.
“Of course, Admiral,” the Flag Captain said respectfully. There was a moment of pause.
“The locals should be finished before they even have the chance to reach the hyper limit,” the Admiral said with deep satisfaction. In all of his time spent out on the fringes of known space, executing Man’s long recorded will and doing his duty to all of humanity, he had faced many trials and troubles. But nothing had stuck in his craw half so badly as losing the Lucky Clover to fate, wild circumstances, and the ineffectual powder puff Jason Montagne, “Six months of work wasted, and another six simply to recover to where we should have started out from; you owe me, Governor, and as Man is my witness and works his will upon the righteously efficient, I intend to collect in full—today.”
“The rustics should consider it an honor to have crossed swords with a real Admiral, rather than the usual pirate or up-jumped weekend militia warrior,” Captain Goddard said with a modicum of respect. “They won’t, of course, but that is burden that we as Imperial officers are forced to shoulder—a complete and utter lack of appreciation.”
“Their burden is how to deal with defeat and its aftermath,” Janeski said wearily, “let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves here. The battle is not won and our duty to humanity is clear: we will reclaim these Sectors in the name of the Empire of Man and in pursuit of a stronger united humanity. Only through real unity can mankind survive the dangers beyond the border, or the heresies of those factions lurking like worms in an apple which infest the body politic.”
“Aye-aye, Sir,” Goddard said fervently.
The High Admiral focused back fully upon the final running battle taking place just inside the hyper limit and nodded with satisfaction. Unnoticed by most, and noticed but dismissed as likely to come to nothing by others, one particular enemy ship began to change position within the enemy formation.
“The commander on scene should be ready to move in and unleash the fighters at any time,” said Janeski, noting the ship’s movement but dismissing it as either a desperate measure doomed to be too little too late, or merely the action of an officer lacking the discipline to hold formation under pressure. That ship in particular would never escape, no matter what it tried, to do so there was little point in worrying.
“I agree,” Captain Goddard said, “in fact, I would guess—”
There was a stir on the battle plot as that shifty Battleship—the one with a particularly trying officer commanding it—suddenly went to full acceleration, slipping to the edge of the enemy battle formation close to exactly about the very same time as the fighters had finished deploying and had fully moved out in front of the safe cover of the Reclamation Battleships.
“Enhance the enemy flagship,” barked Janeski.
The screen showed one Caprian Dreadnaught class Battleship pivoting around another at incredibly close range.
“Flaming atoms,” Goddard said with disbelief.
In a trice, the Caprian Battleship completed the seemingly impossible turn and then, also in record time, presented its broadside to the Strike Fighters.
“Son of Man…may his unique genetic code protect your nearsighted children,” Janeski cursed as the enemy opened fire with those infernally effective plasma balls. A number of fighters were instantly vaporized while the rest quickly scattered to avoid the incoming barrage.
“Even though that ship has disrupted the fighter formation and may have temporarily saved several of their sister ships, they’ve as good as signed their own death warrant,” remarked Goddard.
The High Admiral stiffened in his chair. “Die,” he commanded coldly, staring at the screen with piercing eyes.
Chapter Seventy-seven: In the Middle of the Mix
“Fire!” shouted the Tactical Officer as soon as the first guns came to bear. “Give them everything you’ve got, Gunnery!”
“Bucking cables are under strain,” Blythe said at Damage Control with an uncharacteristic strain her voice.
“I’m doing the best I can,” DuPont flared.
“Port shields have collapsed and the shield generator’s gone into automatic shutdown mode,” reported Longbottom. “We’re bare as a baby’s bottom out there, Sir.”
“Enemy fighters are moving into attack position,” reported the assistant Tactical Officer, her voice cutting through the growing din.
The ship seemed to creak and groan as the Royal Rage came to a stop fully pointed toward the enemy.
“We’re in position!” DuPont said excitedly.
“Bucking cables away,” Adrienne Blythe said a split second later.
“Yeah!” Hart shouted as fighters began to disintegrate under the weight of the Rage’s laser mounts and plasma cannons.
Then the enemy started to fire back, and the ship was rocked by a series of audible impacts.
“Hull penetrations on decks five and eight; life support on number five is going to go critical within five minutes. They must have hit something important because decks four and seven seem to be affected as well,” Adrienne Blythe reported in something approaching her usual calm, steadfast tone.
“Missile separation! Enemy Strike Fighters have launched missiles and are continuing forward!” reported Sensors.
“Counter-missile and point defense fire to maximum, Chief,” Hart said urgently into his microphone.
“Hold strong,” I urged the ship while superstitiously patting arms of the command throne, as if it was some giant metal beast that could somehow be reasoned with. “Hold strong and I’ll make sure your hull is repaired at the first opportunity—I’ll even throw in a new paint and exterior finish job,” I muttered to the ship as it continued to lurch this way and that under the weight of enemy fire.
“Enemy Battleships are refocusing the majority of their fire on the flagship,” said Lieutenant Hart.
The enemy Battleships’ icons on the main screen did indeed refocus the overwhelming majority of their fire on the Royal Rage—an observation bolstered by the litany of new damage taken continued to toll out like and unending list from Damage Control.
Then the missile wave struck and the ship shook even more violently, giving off one hard jolt after another.
Gunnery lashed out again and again, with even the plasma cannons being diverted to anti-missile duty. But in spite of their efforts, what seemed like an unending wave of missiles continued to shriek down onto the hull of the ship.
“We’ve just lost main power to deck nine—switching to emergency power,” reported Blythe. “Hydroponics took a hit and the port side main power lines are cut in at least three places; switching to secondary power distribution network.”
“Blast it! We’re getting shot apart,” I snarled as the full firepower of eight Battleships, combined with a massive missile strike, concentrated on our Duralloy II armored flagship. “Roll the ship, Captain!” I barked.
“We can do this, Admiral,” Leonora said with a fey light in her eye that seemed to defy the galaxy itself, “we can stop those fighters. We’ve already taken out their main missile wave; if they’re holding anything back we can get that too. This Battleship is the only thing we have that can effectively stop those fighters.”
“We’ve already blunted their edge—roll us,” I ordered, “we can afford the loss in anti-fighter coverage.”
The lights flickered. “What happened to my weapons?” cried Lieutenant Hart as we suddenly lost half our weight of fire from the broadside.
“We temporarily lost power to the port side. The secondary network is being overwhelmed and I can’t get a Damage Control party into the damaged sections to reroute the mainline until we can cut our way in,” reported Damage Control. “Everything’s rebooting and reintegrating with the distributed intelligence system now.”
Another blow rocked the ship, and deck four’s DC teams started to report major damage.
“We’re dying here,” I snarled standing up from my chair, “DuPont, get us out of here and back in the formation.”
“Roll the ship,” Hammer added after a moment.
“Sirs, if I try to maneuver us back into formation there’s a big chance I’ll expose our engines—without shields, a roll could expose part of our hyper dish,” DuPont reported tightly.
“Damage Control: coordinate with the Helm and use those bucking cables to pull us back in. We’re in close enough range to the Armor Prince to make it work. Saint Murphy, but we just used them to pivot the ship,” I said.
“That’s insane,” said Hammer.
“Just do it,” I said shortly, “it has to be better than sitting here getting pounded.”
****************************************************
“Sir! Message from the flagship—” began the Comm. Officer and then stopped, almost dumbfounded.
“What is it, Comm.?” asked Commodore Druid.
“The Flag wants us to lower our shields so they can deploy bucking cables and pull themselves back to rejoin the formation,” the other officer said incredulously.
Druid blinked. “Sweet crying Murphy…if things don’t just get more and more crazy in this simpering madhouse,” the Commodore swore. Then, after a moment of furious contemplation, he made swirling gesture with his hand in the air, “Make it happen, people. We’re pulling the flagship back!”
****************************************************
On the Invictus Rising, the fleet command team watched as an increasingly battered enemy flagship first broke the fighter attack, then soaked up a storm of missiles—all while enduring the weight of fire of two entire Battleship squadrons without its shields.
“What kind of Battleship can take that kind of weight of fire and just shrug it off?” Goddard asked with surprise.
“They’ve improved the hull. We knew that after the close-in sensor scans,” Janeski said confidently. “Besides, you’ll note she’s venting from multiple locations and they’re having power problems if that hiccough in their rate of fire is any indication. It’s only the fact that these sorts of old paranoid designs are so redundant that the whole gun deck didn’t fall silent.”
“At least now that they’ve stuck their noses out, we get to chop it off for good, Sir,” Goddard pointed out. “Cutting off the head should wreck their battle continuity as they sort out the chain of command. You know how these sorts of provincials are, Admiral.”
“Yes, you’re right. In fact…” he trailed off as the enemy flagship suddenly deployed its bucking cables.
Then, careful to keep its nose pointed at his Battleships, the doughty-hulled Caprian Battleship started to pull itself backwards—prompting Janeski to stand from his chair, “Son of a witch on a stick.”
Captain Goddard’s face went suddenly blank as the enemy Battleship first pulled itself back, and then used its sister Dreadnaught class Battleship for cover.
The Admiral’s face contorted slightly before returning to a professional mask.
“Innovative maneuvers,” said the High Admiral calmly, sitting back down in his chair and giving a slight nod to his young adversary.
“The fighters were almost on them anyway, now that the other Dreadnaught class is blocking them from our ships it’s blocking their plasma cannons from our fighters. Even if the punch isn’t everything we’d hoped it would be, it should be more than they can deal with,” Goddard said with near-total confidence.
“Indeed,” Janeski glowered at the screen for a moment and then nodded as if reaching some sort of decision, “he tests me, Captain. But I shall have him.”
One way or the other, Jason Montagne was going to die.
****************************************************
“Wooo!” DuPont shouted as they were finally sheltered behind the Armor Prince. “We made it!”
“That we did, Helmsman,” I said dryly.
DuPont had the grace to look temporarily embarrassed before he must have finally decided he didn’t care and broke out into a sloppy, happy-to-be-alive grin.
However, all smiles on the two bridges of the flagship soon disappeared as the enemy fighters, no longer suppressed by our fire, surged around the Armor Prince and spread out.
Missiles were fired, breaking against the weakened shields of Battleships all throughout our formation. Even though they were a relative handful of missiles compared to the wave we’d faced, they were more than enough to punch a number of holes in our warships’ protection—holes those fighters would seek to exploit in their close-range attack runs.
“Admiral Dark Hammer is asking for close-in fire support,” reported Lieutenant Steiner.
“Tell them to drop their shields on the side facing us and we’ll clear out what we can,” said Captain Hammer, and the Lieutenant nodded.
I felt a momentary irritation but quickly dismissed it. There was no time for petty power games now—we were fighting for our collective lives.
“The Armor Prince reports they are taking heavy fire,” Steiner reported and the Armor Prince began to roll.
“How far are we from the hyper limit?” I demanded.
“Two minutes,” Brightenbauc replied shakily.
“Helm, we need to start slowing down now,” I said, and then immediately thought better of it. “Message to the fleet: we’re going to turn as a group and begin decelerating. I want us stopped and our Navigators calculating the jump as soon as possible! All other ships can stay with the main body or maneuver for advantage and jump out on their own recognizance.”
“We’ll be sitting ducks,” protested Hammer.
“We keep going like this we’re done. We’ll resume our hedgehog formation as soon as possible,” I said.
“Wait a moment,” the Navigator burst out, “we can’t stop right on the edge of the hyper limit. If there’s so much as a solar flare or a minor gravity fluctuation, the ship could disintegrate or mis-jump into the middle of a planet or star!”
“Just do it, Nav,” shouted the Captain. “We all know the risks!”
I had started to nod gratefully for the support, but I suddenly went wooden. I mean, I knew about a few of the risks associated with ‘improper hyper drive operation,’ but this sort of thing had been much more academic for me up until that moment. And I hadn’t had to deal with screwy jumps since the surprise Tracto trillium deposits. We’d never actually jumped this close to the edge of a hyper limit before.
A sudden sweat broke out on my forehead, but I forcefully kept my heart from beating a hole through my ribcage. Captain Hammer thought it wasn’t too insane of a risk to take, and was actually backing it. So either it must be safe enough to try or we were in a truly desperate…
I shook my head sharply; I really didn’t need to be thinking about long odds right then.
“We stick to the plan and weather this storm!” I said firmly, my decision final.
****************************************************
“Admiral, orders from the flag,” barked Lieutenant Commander Star Smiter.
“I take it you don’t mean Admiral Silverback when you say that, as there are currently three flags in this fleet,” snorted Admiral Dark Matter.
“Correct sir,” Star Smiter said without an ounce of levity, all business all the time.
“What have you got?” he asked calmly, even as all around him the bridge was in an uproar of damage reports and anti-fighter duties.
“Admiral Montagne is ordering the formation to begin deceleration. He’s offering to cut loose any of the smaller ships who think they have a better chance at a point transfer away from the Battleships, Sir,” said the Lieutenant Commander.
“Right now?” Dark Matters asked with surprise.
“Yes. The coordinates are for us to stop right on the ragged edge of the hyper limit,” Star Smiter said evenly.
“Saint Murphy help us all,” Dark Matter prayed and then nodded his head slowly. “We’re going to have to rotate the formation to do this. But at least these invaders don’t suspect what we’re up to; it’s too crazy for normal men to contemplate,” his nods grew steadily firmer and faster as he considered it. “This just might work.”
“They’ll easily be able to keep up with us, Sir,” said the Admiral’s tactical adviser. “It won’t matter if it’s a surprise maneuver or not; they’re close enough to shadow our every move and they have superior engines.”
“We do what we can with what we have,” Dark Matter said seriously. “Besides, it might not be the wrong move even if they do shadow us as you and I both think. Those fighters are tearing apart our engines and our ability to stay in formation is going to be compromised if this goes on for too long.”
“Then you want us to follow the orders from the Grand Flag, sir?” asked the ship’s Captain.
Dark Matter understood the Captain’s point. They could try to go their own way and hope for the best—or at least hope that the main force would follow the Grand Fleet’s titular head.
“We’ve gone down the road this far. What’s a little more?” he shrugged. “I’ll not have it said our people are as faithless and feckless as the leaders of the Aegis Contingent.”
“Aye aye, Sir,” a number of officers chorused vigorously.
Turning to deal with yet another crisis, the Admiral allowed himself a brief moment to wonder if he was making the right call—or, more precisely, if young Montagne was. But like he’d told his officers, they were really too deep into this thing to back out now.
Chapter Seventy-eight: Finishing Touches
Fighters darted in, strafing the Grand Fleet warships in a dazzling display of expert piloting combined with the greatest military hardware ever produced by humans. With their shields low and the last of the torpedoes which the Imperial pilots had held back now deployed, it was the work of moments to cut through. The point defenses on the provincial ships were no joke, but these pilots were the best of the best from top Imperial academies.
“All units: find your targets and take them out,” ordered the Squadron Leader.
“I’m going in, Yellow Leader,” said Yellow 4, closely followed by his wingman.
“All fighters go-go-go!” commanded Yellow Leader.
Yellow 5 dove through the wall of point defense and anti-fighter lasers and locked on target. For a brief second he had a clear and unobstructed line of sight and, linking all four of his light lasers into a quad burst, he fired his weapons as fast as their capacitors could manage. He was not the first to strike the target but he was the last who needed to, because after his attack the sturdily built structure finally cracked. Fully a third of the enemy hyper dish was ruined and even if repairs were possible it would be the work of days or weeks, not minutes, to repair.
“Scratch one main dish!” Yellow 5 crowed.
“Good job, Yellow 5,” said Yellow leader as he redirected his squadron onto the next target.
It had been a long day but their efforts were finally paying off. Despite a few surprisingly heavy losses against a particular group, they were finally getting the job done. And while he couldn’t entirely agree with it, being one of the pilots in the seat, he could understand the necessity. After all, what military tactician wouldn’t prefer to trade a few fighters to neutralize enemy Battleships?
“Let’s get them, boys,” he called out as a stray squadron, forced out of position by counter-fire, hammered the Battleship’s dorsal shield generator to vent their frustration.
****************************************************
“Druid just lost main engines on the Armor Prince and Dark Hammer reports one of his Epsilon Tarantula ships has, for all intents and purposes, just lost its main dish,” Steiner reported her face tight with worry. “There’s a crack running down a third of its length. If they try to point transfer…”
“Understood, Lieutenant,” I said, feeling a sense of loss and helplessness I was unfamiliar with. I was used to desperate battles and terrible odds, but when we had to cut and run we had always done so as a group. Several of our most powerful assets were still with us, for the moment, but as soon as we jumped they’d be left in an untenable situation.
“The Armor Prince is losing engine output and the Hart’s Hart is also struggling to compensate. Those two Battleships and the Aegis ship they’re towing are losing control of their vectors,” observed the Sensor Officer.
“Blast,” Captain Leonora Hammer said with feeling.
“Move the ship to compensate, Captain,” I said.
“Our ship?” she asked, cocking her head.
“Of course,” I said irritably, “we have bucking cables of our own. Let’s hook up to the Prince and give it a pull.”
“It’s dangerous…and it’s ‘him,’ not ‘it’,” she said, her brows lifting with alarm and before she shrugged. “Make it so,” she finally ordered, turning back to her bridge team.
Over the course of the next several minutes, before we drove off the fighters the fleet lost another major hyper dish; one of the Blackwood battleships from Dark Matter’s home world—fortunately not the flagship. On the flipside, while Admiral Dark Matter’s ship was still jump-capable, the Blackwood Admiral had reported his ship to have taken major engine damage and he was now struggling to keep in formation.
“He’ll make it,” I said firmly.
“We’ve lost our port shield generator; it’s gone for good, Sir,” reported Longbottom. “Whether we can repair it after the battle or not will depend on Engineering.”
“Understood, Shields,” said Hammer.
Finally, the second group of enemy Battleships started to pull away. The relief was only momentary, however, as the first group quickly came swooping back.
“Fleet battleships are reporting increasing incoming fire,” said Steiner.
“Second Reclamation Battleship group is moving to join forces with the first!” cried Sensors.
“Aegis flagship is reporting they have sustained serious damage and are ejecting two fusion cores!” said Steiner as the enemy punishment continued to lash out broadside after broadside in one, continual, rolling wave that didn’t ever seem to let up.
“Focus our fire on the lead Battleship of enemy group one!” I ordered harshly. “I want the whole fleet to focus on her and to not let up.”
“Message sent,” said Steiner.
“Not all of our ships will be able to range their weaponry—or at their least full weaponry—on the lead enemy ship while in our hedgehog formation,” said Hammer.
“Then they’ll have to focus on targets of opportunity,” I amended without skipping a beat. “I refuse to let the enemy be the only ones to have their way here.”
On the screen, the Aegis Flagship ejected another fusion core. Then her sister ship was hit by a particularly vicious, four-ship broadside and explosions rocked the Battleship from front to back.
“Sweet Murphy avert and save them,” Hammer said as the entire enemy group, scenting weakness, focused the fire of all sixteen Battleships on the beleaguered Aegis warship.
“Get me the Captain of that ship; I need a report on their status,” I said, feeling a cold lump in my stomach.
“On it, Admiral,” said the petite Comm. Officer. Her face a little white, Steiner turned back to me. “I’m sorry, sir, but all I’m getting from her is an automated signal,” she replied with tight lips.
“Well, what is it, Lieutenant?” I demanded when she failed to elaborate. “What’s the message?”
“All hands: abandon ship,” she said meekly.
Those four, heavy words like were waves breaking on a reef. They caused a great deal more emotional and morale-busting noise than if they simply had landed on the shore.
“Well…” I began, looking back as shuttles and escape pods started falling out and moving away from the beleaguered Battleship.
Unfortunately, only a relative handful escaped before their Battleship received a series of turbo-laser strikes that punched through one side of the hull and out the other. Seeing the success of the barrage, the rest of the enemy fleet focused on the damaged area and pounded it relentlessly.
More explosions rocked the Aegis Battleship from stem to stern. There was a temporary pause, as if the ship was rallying despite the damage, and then one massive explosion broke the back of the ship. Ruptured into two sections from the forces at work deep inside her, the two halves of the Battleship began to slowly separate.
“Admiral Dark Matter reports he is releasing the bucking cables,” stated Lieutenant Lisa Steiner in a stressed voice.
I stared at the screen for a long moment and then sharply shook my head in negation. “Instruct the Admiral to split up the load. Each half of a Battleship to be towed by one of his ships,” I instructed.
Steiner shook her head after relaying the message.
“The blackwood Admiral says that he’s already lost a number of bucking cables and the secondary engines on one of his ships were disabled; the halves he would be towing are highly unstable. If they explode they could destroy what is left of his engines,” she reported.
“Tell him it’s either risk the ship halves and possible engine damage, or totally lose his engines when the enemy finds him,” I said harshly.
There was a pause after she relayed this info but after several second no reply. Then…
“The Admiral asks if it is your intention to stop the ships and jump out of this star system, no matter the cost,” she finally said quiet voice.
“It is,” I nodded.
Moments later, a new Battleship grabbed one of the halves while Blackwood’s flagship slowly stabilized the section it was still positioned in front of. The fragments of the Aegis warships swung wide as their trajectories slowly stabilized, and large portions near the former middle of the ship sloughed off. But after almost a minute the remains were relatively stabilized.
I breathed a sigh as our hedgehog formation slowly stabilized once again. I could feel sideways glances cast in my direction from all sides, but no one said anything.
My Flag Captain, however, seemed to be made of less reticent stuff—or perhaps it was just that the crew on the flag bridge trusted me to a degree that the newly arrived Confederals and Border Alliance recruits simply hadn’t reached yet.
“I support your decision, sir, but towing the Aegis contingent ships to their doom…it’s a bad way to treat any warship, if I may say so,” said Leonora Hammer.
My face tightened. “This is no time to lose our stomachs, Captain,” I said harshly.
Leonora stiffened in her chair, but before she could continue she was interrupted from Comm.
“Priority message from Admiral Dark Matter!” said Steiner urgently.
“What is it?” I demanded, rounding on the Comm. Officer.
She was interrupted by the Sensor Officer before she could speak. “A ship—no, two Battleships from Dark Matter’s contingent have stopped decelerating and turned to face the enemy!” declared the Sensor Officer.
“The Demon Murphy strikes again,” I swore with feeling as I felt what remained of my fleet disintegrating around me, “what was that message again, Comm.!?”
Steiner flicked a switch and the image of Rear Admiral Dark Matter appeared on the screen. “Due to taking damage severe enough to keep them from making the jump through hyperspace, two of the finest ships and crews I have had the great honor to serve with have made the decision to turn and face the enemy in an attempt to stall them,” the other Admiral said with pain in his eyes. “They have vowed not to falter in their task, nor will they surrender until the rest of the fleet has been given the chance to escape. For their courage in the face of the enemy, I have no words great enough to describe them other than to say: go with the space gods, my fine friends.”
The Rear Admiral bowed his head and the image on the screen disappeared.
For a long moment, no one did or said anything. We silently watched the pair of Battleships from Dark Matter’s squadron approached the enemy warships. Soon after their turn, they concentrated their fire on one of the enemy ships and moved to close the range.
“Well…I guess that explains that,” I said faintly.
Hammer shot an evil glare my way, but using it as a spur I ignored her indignity and stood up. They wouldn’t slow our opponents for long, but if the Reclamation Fleet didn’t focus on them they were going to feel the hurt.
“The sacrifice of our comrades on our behalf will not be forgotten,” I bowed my head for a moment before lifting it allowing a firm resolve shine through my eyes. “They are giving us the opportunity to escape, and once we do I vow that we will regroup, rearm, and defeat this fleet of Imperial invaders and that we will find any members of this fleet who fell behind and bring them back home.”
I sat back down and, with a frown, looked back at the screen. It was all up to luck, those two Battleships that had moved to cover our retreat, and the space gods on whether we would survive to escape this system so that I could fulfill my promise.
The fleet was slowing to a stop; the dice were in the air and everything now rested in the hands of Murphy.
I didn’t know if I could survive another series of captures and tortures by the enemy…but after our comrades’ brave sacrifice, even that fate seemed somehow less intolerable than it had been just a few minutes earlier.
Chapter Seventy-nine: Fully Stopped
“They’re trying everything they can think of to wriggle away,” Goddard said dismissively.
High Admiral Janeski glared at the screen with hot and angry eyes as a pair of Grand Fleet Battleships came about and moved to engage his warships. The Battleships of the pursuit force had the choice of slowing down, moving out of the way, or allowing the enemy to pass them at close range and then make a run for it.
“I wonder if the boy has gained access to a competent military adviser,” Janeski grunted in response.
“What? They’ll never escape our forces. We have them out numbered two to one,” said Goddard with surprise.
“They’ve neutralized the majority of our fighters, throwing them up against them again while their anti-fighter flagship platform is still in action would be suicide. I’m not yet willing to simply throw away the lives of our highly trained fighter pilots for the ‘chance’ of taking out a pimple like the Governor,” the High Admiral growled and then added almost grudgingly. “There is a chance—a slight one, mind you—that this Grand Fleet will escape.”
The Imperial Command Carrier Captain’s eyebrows rose for the rafters upon hearing this. “If you say it then I believe it, but it’s hard to see how they can possibly escape the trap we’ve…you’ve laid for them,” amended the Flag Captain.
“It will all depend on the actions of those two Battleships, and the response of the commander on the scene,” the High Admiral mused, leaning forward in his chair.
“I’m sure they’ll succeed,” Goddard declared confidently.
“I don’t care if one or two escape to spread fear and terror at facing us,” Janeski said grudgingly, “just so long as that strangely-armored flagship of theirs is captured or destroyed.”
If they failed to do that, it would become a thorn in his side that continued to fester. Best to lance these things quickly, completely and—most importantly of all—surely.
****************************************************
Two starship captains faced each other through the miracle of holo-technology—but high technology was the last thing on their minds right at that moment.
“You know what we’re about to do, Captain Strongbow?” asked the first Captain—a short, pale woman in the pin-striped uniform of her home world, Epsilon Tarantula.
“It’s been an honor serving with you, Captain Smith,” said her counterpart, Captain Strongbow from the Blackwood star system.
“If we can hold them off long enough, the rest of the wall of battle can escape and maybe the Sector can regroup and have a chance. Maybe our worlds will have that chance,” said Captain Smith heavily.
“Defending our worlds and holding back the hordes is, after all, a man’s duty,” said Strongbow.
The corners of Captain Smith’s mouth cramped and she forced something approximating a smile onto her face. “Quite,” she said shortly and then after gathering herself gave Strongbow a nod, “let’s do this then, and may the best woman win.”
“I second that emotion wholeheartedly,” Strongbow said without an ounce of dissembling, only genuine emotion as an iron glint in his eye as he considered what they were about to do.
By mutual decision, the two Captains cut the connection and prepared their ships for what would probably be their final confrontation.
****************************************************
Like a pair of family dogs facing off against an angry wolf pack, the Blackwood and Epsilon Tarantula Battleships were outgunned and overmatched. But they were also loyal to a fault, and they stood their ground in order to let the family they protected escape danger—and when that didn’t prove enough, they prepared to close into close range.
The two Battleships aimed themselves straight for the middle of the twin lines of enemy warships, and they took a furious pounding as they closed in.
I didn’t know what their game plan was, but I was more than mildly interested to find out.
At first, the Reclamation Battleships ignored the two Grand Fleet warships. From their trajectories, they fully intended to bypass them—but the two stalwarts were determined to convince the enemy otherwise.
“Wings of Fire from Epsilon Tarantula has gone to 72% of her maximum rated acceleration,” Sensors reported as two thirds of the Epsilon warship’s engines lit off, with the others silent and cold as the grave. “She’s driving for the enemy formation to her starboard.”
Then, in an almost mirror action, her sister ship from Aegis moved for the group to port at just over fifty percent of its top rated speed.
The Imperial ships continued to ignore the crippled Battleships, right until the pair of them made minute course changes which clearly targeted a Reclamationist ship in the center of each formation. And because the rest of us were decelerating, after that small shift they were able to once again present their broadsides to the Reclamationist forces.
“Enemy Battleships have broken formation they are maneuvering for effect and to avoid Wings of Fire and her sister ship,” reported Hart with triumph and relief mixed equally in his voice.
While the Reclamation Battleships were moving to avoid being rammed, and focusing their fire on the pair of battered warships, the ragged remainder of our fleet started to pull away.
I closed my eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.
Behind us, broadsides slashed and thundered as the sacrifice of those two ships’ crews bought us the precious time we needed.
Further and further the distance grew until, seemingly without warning, the fleet had come to a nearly complete stop.
“Tighten hedgehog formation,” I ordered, my voice closer to a yelp of surprise than the deep manly voice I’d imagined giving this order as. “We need to get this right people. Point hyper dishes toward the center of the formation and use each other to block the enemy as best we can. Since we’re not moving from this position, we need to focus shield power over those dishes.”
Almost a minute passed until I finally heard the word. “Formation secure, Admiral,” Lieutenant Hart reported.
“Beginning to calculate the hyper jump, Sir!” reported Brightenbauc.
“Good,” I acknowledged, but sadly all was not good. Behind us, the sixteen enemy Battleships hammered our two valiant defenders, even as they shot wide and away to swoop around them to continue onto their real target—us.
We were finally able to begin preparing for the jump after so much sacrifice and loss, but at the same time this also made us the proverbial sitting ducks. It was now a race against time; all we needed were fifteen precious minutes, but it was a race we were destined to lose.
Then the Blackwood Battleship that had stayed behind to stall for us put on a sudden burst of speed and rammed into the shields of one of the enemy ships.
Chapter Eighty: Going Out with a Bang
Due to the near-collision, the Blackwood Battleship was drifting beside a now nearly-disabled enemy Battleship. The Wings of Fire, which had failed her own ramming attempt, was embroiled in a fierce duel with a second enemy warship.
With more than ten minutes left to go, the remaining Reclamationist Battleships—minus two battleship that were either disabled or still locked in a close-range duel—sped forward and fell on us like starving wolves.
“Enemy has reentered weapons range,” reported Hart ominously.
“Ten minutes—that’s all we have to hold out, people. Stand strong and we can do this,” I said clearly and firmly. If we could survive this then…
“We’re being scanned by enemy targeting sensors,” reported Hart.
“Enemy warships are turning around,” said Sensors and then sudden excitement appeared on his face, “enemy Battleships have turned to begin decelerating!”
“Looks like they mean to close to extremely close range,” Hammer said grimly even as our warships opened fire. “That will give them the best chance at knocking out our hyper dishes.”
“Determine which ship has the lowest shield rating and have all Grand Fleet units focus all fire we have available on that target, Mr. Hart!” I ordered.
“Aye, Sir,” said the Lieutenant.
“I want those engines gone, Hart! Totaled, destroyed, and rendered inert,” I raged hatefully at the enemy Battleships as they careened toward us at extreme speeds.
Everyone in this fleet had suffered a terrible blow, but we were going to get some of our own back. We would have a measure of revenge! Even if this whole thing happened because of my weak-willed compliance with politically-motivated officers, it was still my fault. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t share my pain with the enemy!
“Designating target now,” Hart said, glaring at the enemy before transferring the information to the Comm. Section.
“Relaying information to the rest of the combat group,” relayed Steiner.
“Fire!” Hart barked into his microphone.
The Royal Rage gave vent to her crew’s collective thirst for revenge with a thunderous broadside. And if a little less than two thirds of our original number of lasers fired, no one onboard was going to think anything less of her—especially not when the five remaining, functional Battleships started firing with two from Dark Matter’s squadron and three from mine. As for the Aegis ship, it was so badly damaged that only a handful of lasers still seemed to be functional.
“Enemy is continuing to close range with a sharp decel,” reported Leonora Hammer.
“Half-way through calculating the jump,” reported Brightenbauc.
“Relay to all warships that we will not be performing a unified jump. Every ship is to jump as soon as their hyper drive is ready. Again: jump as soon as your hyper drive is ready and don’t wait,” I instructed Steiner.
The brown-skinned com-tech nodded and relayed my orders.
Under the combined power of our warships, the shields of our target slowly lowered until the enemy was taking hits to its engines.
However, before we could do more than cause some minor damage, the battleship pulled an about face and accelerated, shooting past our position. Clearly unwilling to suffer major damage at this time when it could simply circle around later, it hid its engines and blasted past before we could do serious damage.
The same went for a second enemy Battleship; as soon as its shields started to fall it also turned and accelerated away.
Down to five moderate-to-heavily-damaged Battleships, and one crippled Aegis ship against a dozen relatively unscathed ships of the wall, for several minutes the enemy seemed willing to pound us at range. The damage and destruction piled up as shot after shot punched through the armor of our ships. Then something must have changed in their minds because they inexplicably resumed their charge toward us once again.
“This is about to get rough,” Hammer said, her mouth crimping.
“Tell Gunnery to fire whatever they have,” I ordered the Tactical Officer, who gave a half nod in return while remaining wholly focused on his job.
Outnumbering us two to one and knowing we had nowhere to go, we had to stay still and take the punishment the Reclamation Fleet viciously moved into close range.
“The enemy is moving toward gaps in our coverage. It doesn’t matter how tight our formation is—we just don’t have enough warships,” Hart said urgently. “Once they get in close, they’re going to start taking out our hyper dishes.”
“Stop them, Tactical,” Hammer commanded.
“I’m giving them everything we’ve got,” the Tactical Officer shrugged helplessly, “we just don’t have anything more to give.”
“Keep at it—and never say ‘never’,” ordered Hammer.
I wish I had some kind of amazing way of turning this situation around, but even the professionals were stumped. Without room to maneuver and with our durability reduced to its lowest level yet, there seemed to be little hope. ‘Never say never.’ Might as well ‘never say die’ for all the good it would do us.
I wanted to snort, but I manfully held it in. If only there was something left we could throw at them to make them back off. But, as Hart said, we simply didn’t have anything else to throw. Every ship was firing all it had a the enemy already; every ship except for the two halves of the Aegis warship—
I jerked in my chair as if my brain had been struck by lightning. “Tell Dark Matter to release the Aegis ships,” I said urgently.
“What?” Hammer asked looking confused.
“I said that we still have something to throw at them: the Aegis Battleships, We’ve got three pieces of two ships,” I said with rising excitement.
“Yeah, but just letting them go will only cause them to drift—and not much, at that,” Lieutenant Hart protested.
“We’ll hit them with our ships weaponry and push them out if we have to,” I said brusquely.
“But lasers won’t cause them to go out unless they…burn through the hull,” Hart said with some kind of dawning comprehension, “and cause an atmospheric decompression, pushing them away from us.”
“Not just lasers, man,” I said sharply, “use the plasma canons!”
“Which actually have mass, unlike the Heavy Lasers! Why that’s sheer genius, Sir!” Hart said enthusiastically. “It won’t be much, but it might be enough to cut off some of this fire if we position them strategically…”
“Tactical prepare to fire as soon as those ships are free,” I said and then rounded on Steiner, “and relay that message to Dark Matter! He’s going to have to release them sometime before he jumps—now would seem to be the opportune moment!”
“Aye, Sir,” said the petite Comm. Officer.
Before the enemy ships were able to move within our formation and draw along either side of us, the Rear Admiral released the Aegis Battleships.
“Tactical…” I said with extreme urgency. We had yet to fire and the enemy was almost upon us.
“Calculating the angles of fire,” said Hart sounding under pressure.
“Now, Mr. Hart!” I yelled as the enemy moved slowly and majestically to within several ships lengths of entering the formation.
“Uploading program…fire!” Hart shouted into his microphone, and our plasma cannons—which had fallen silent due to the lack of an enemy small or light-skinned enough to be affected—abruptly went to rapid fire. Within three seconds, they were joined by the rest of the fleet who were no longer firing at the enemy but, at the shattered remnants of the Aegis ships.
Or ‘ship,’ rather, as I noticed that of the still mostly-intact flagship of Admiral Silverback was only taking fire from our plasma cannons. Apparently firing on our own ships that still had personnel onboard with Heavy and Turbo-lasers was a road too far.
What’s more, they were right. I remembered yet again—with a genuine cringe—the time I had ‘rammed’ Strider’s Cutters with the Lucky Clover. I had almost gotten a number of good people killed because I didn’t think to pull them off the hull in time.
Unmoving at first, and then slow to the point of being glacial, the ship and ship fragments nevertheless proved to a terribly unwelcome surprise for the enemy. One Battleship that had clearly intended to slot right in between Dark Matter’s two remaining ships suddenly found itself about to collide with half a warship, and immediately had to go to maximum emergency power and overshoot our formation to avoid it.
“Yes! Tell the other ships to switch fire to the other fragment,” barked Hart.
Steiner glanced at me and I gave a sharp nod in reply.
The fleet switched targets—all except for us.
Another Battleship was forced to dodge around the formation instead of rampaging inside. It was down to the wire and it didn’t look like we’d shifted the final crippled Aegis ship far enough out to make the difference.
The Reclamation ships shifted slightly down from their original courses when a series of airlocks on the side of the crippled Aegis ship facing away from the enemy opened. For a moment it seemed like it was going to work, then disappointment washed over us as the Reclamation ship started to pass. At the last moment, the Aegis Battleship improbably clipped the rear end of the enemy. Shields flared and the Aegis ship was sent careening off on a tangent, its bow section completely crushed.
The Reclamation ship proved it was not unaffected either. The force of the collision sent it tumbling end-over-end, throwing it off-course. It was now pointed sideways at Commodore Druid’s flagship and still moving toward him with forward momentum. A ramming event seemed unavoidable. Then, apparently deciding discretion was the better part of valor, the now-sideways ship flared its engines with a hard burn that continued its downward course.
A collision still seemed imminent, but going all out the enemy ship barely cleared our own. Barely dodging the Prince and our hedgehog—if you could still call it that with so few ships remaining—their emergence threw the rest of the enemy into confusion, forcing them to dodge and avoid unless they wanted the now nearly out of control ship on their own side to crash into them.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Excellent work; commend Silverback on a well-played maneuver with those airlocks,” I said to Steiner, not too proud to give credit where credit was due—even to that man—as a third and then a fourth ship, which had intended to penetrate our formation and destroy our hyper dishes, was blocked by one of their own. They were then forced to dodge out and away thanks to the other Admiral’s actions.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the Lieutenant said looking embarrassed, “but that ship lost its primary and secondary comm. arrays during the running retreat to this location. They’ve been using handhelds to stay in touch with the rest of us, and thanks to their distance and the fire between our ship and theirs we can no longer reach them. Also, Admiral Silverback transferred his flag off that ship some time ago in favor of the Wings of Fire, which is still engaged in delaying one of the enemy wallers. I can send a message to him if you want?”
I blinked in surprise and then nodded wryly. Why was I even surprised? Like rat off a sinking ship, too bad for him he’d chosen the wrong port in the storm to try and escape in.
“Make a note: I want a commendation in the file of the Captain of Silverback’s flagship—or whoever the other officer is in command of her right now, if that’s something we know or can find out,” I said firmly. “As for the intrepid Silverback, who has already transferred, it sounds like he’s too busy right now. I’m afraid he won’t be coming with us out of this system.”
I put on a deliberately blank face but on the inside I was thinking that if we had to lose anyone, Silverback was the man I wasn’t going to shed any tears over. Frankly, I was more upset over losing the officers and crew of Wings of Fire than I was over either ship or Admiral Silverback.
“Admiral Dark Matter reports he’s down to one heavily-damaged secondary engine. After these latest attacks, his Engineering department isn’t even sure if the engine will even extend, let alone light off when they try to use it again,” Steiner reported, adding yet another item to the list of things that were going against us.
“Murphy and all his unholy tricks, the Demon strikes again!” I muttered with an instant pang in my heart. Even if he could make the jump to light and transfer out of the star system, if he couldn’t use his engines then Dark Matter and his flagship could be stuck inside the gravity sump. Without the proper shield strength to resist the effect, they would be slowly crushed. Even if they survived the sump, their ship might not be able to make another jump, “Tell the Admiral the decision on whether to jump or not is entirely up to him. No man here will think him cowardly or uncommitted if he doesn’t feel his ship can make it. And that goes not just for the Royal Rage but every other ship in the fleet,” I vowed.
Several officers looked at me blankly.
“He’s past the point of no return, Admiral,” Hammer told me her voice barely above a whisper, “if that ship doesn’t jump, its own hyper drive is just as likely to tear apart as the gravity sump on the other end.”
I felt my face flush.
“Admiral Dark Matter says he’ll take it under advisement,” Steiner said, and if anything my face flushed even further, “and while he fully intends to go down with the ship if it comes to that, he will offer the chance to abandon ship to anyone who wishes it.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” I said faintly, thankful that my blunder hadn’t been broadcast for all to hear. It would be nice if everyone and their sister didn’t know I’d just made a fool of myself.
The enemy continued to pound us relentlessly. “Hart’s Heart reports that they’ve taken several glancing blows to their main hyper dish and are unsure if it will be able to survive the jump. But like the Rear Admiral, they intend to hazard the attempt,” reports Comm.
“Noted,” I said, my calm outer words entirely at odds with the hammering of my heart on the inside. I’d entered this star system with eleven Battleships and right then I had less than half that—if you didn’t count the ships we knew were going to be staying here permanently.
Beside us, the Armor Prince was rocked by an explosion as a series of hits penetrated its hull. Violent outgassing nudged it even nearer to the Royal Rage than our defensive formation called for.
“Commodore Druid reports that they will attempt to compensate!” reported Steiner, and then the first ship from Epsilon Tarantula point transferred. One moment it was there, and the next moment space imploded behind it and she was gone.
“Point Transfer; I think she made it Admiral!” cried Sensors, relief palpable in his voice.
A weary cheer swept through both bridges. “Hear me, baby? Hold together,” I heard Leonora Hammer murmuring amid the cheers.
Like a hive of angry bees that had just been kicked, the Reclamation Battleships struck back with a vengeance.
“We just lost our main engine!” reported Adrienne Blythe. “Engineering says they need to look at the damage before they can say for sure one way or the other, but they think it’s probably a heat sink issue.”
One by one, first the Blackwood/Epsilon Tarantula contingent jumped, followed by the Armor Prince. Then Hart’s Heart seemed to waver before disappearing, and all I had time to do was give off a simple prayer as suddenly we were the only Battleship left in the area. The flood of enemy fire we had previously experienced turned into a torrent.
“Why are we still here, Nav?” I demanded.
“We’re down to four fusion generators; we’re just a little slower than the rest of the fleet, Sir,” Brightenbauc snapped.
“Shield power is down to 15% and collapsing. The generator is shutting down!” cried Longbottom.
“Once that generator goes, they’ll pulverize our hyper dish,” Hart said grimly.
“Hold those shields, Longbottom,” snapped Hammer, “I don’t care how you do it!”
Several shots punched through our weakened shields—which were the only thing keeping us alive—and a pair of them punched through our main dish.
“This is going to be rough,” said Brightenbauc.
“That’s not what I want to hear, Nav,” Hammer barked.
And then space twisted around us and we experienced one of the roughest translations and sump slides I’d experienced to date.
Left behind—and unknown to the rest of us—the Wings of Fire suffered major damage when her hyper drive was unable to make the attempt at hyperspace and forcibly shut down. Thanks to the heroic actions of her Engineering department, the ship was saved—though it was a costly effort which saw a fourth of the department killed in the resulting explosion, which rendered the vessel structurally unsound.
Chapter Eighty-one: In Retreat
Five very battered Battleships all met up in our target star system: and uninhabited brown dwarf without even so much as an asteroid belt and only a few slowly-wandering comets.
Fortunately, none of the ships had been lost in transfer. But Hart’s Hart wasn’t going anywhere without a new dish, and Dark Matter’s flagship needed at least a week of repairs before he was willing to risk the series of jumps that were needed to make it back to base. He had been lucky; his last faltering secondary engine nearly tore itself apart getting them out of gravity sump on that jump, and he was right not to push his stroke of good fortune.
“I know it rubs against the grain, Admiral Montagne,” said the Rear Admiral when I stopped to discuss the matter with him. “But someone has to warn the rest of the Sector and meet up at the rendezvous point with the rest of our warships before the Reclamationists can crack our nav-data base and find out where we were supposed to all meet up.”
“I suppose you’re right. It’s just the thought of leaving the two of you here while we run off…” I trailed off, feeling as if a great weight was bowing down my shoulders. “We’ve lost so many already.”
“And we’ll lose even more if someone doesn’t show and get the rest of the fleet pointed towards a major defensive position,” Dark Matter said unrelentingly. “I’m not sure what good our wrecked and battered survivors will do when the Reclamation Fleet runs us to ground at Wolf-9, but it’s going to be a sight more than if you sit out here and let the rest of the fleet implode from inaction and run home to be conquered one at a time.”
“You’re probably right,” I allowed.
“Whether I’m right or wrong, you owe it to them—you owe it us to make the attempt,” he said glaring at me. “Enough men and women have died that you don’t have the option of staying here. You have to make all of our sacrifices meaningful and not let them be just another in a series of unfortunate blunders caused by near-mutinous subordinates and an ineffective Fleet Commander.”
I instinctively straightened my back and glared back at him. “I’m issuing the order to charge jump engines. Every ship that can risk it will be required to jump,” I said, already able to list all three ships that were going to be going to the rendezvous point—a paltry number that included my heavily-battered flagship.
“Good!” declared Dark Matter before promptly cutting the channel.
Six hours later, we jumped out of the uninhabited brown dwarf that was nothing more than a number on some stellar cartographer’s map.
Chapter Eighty-two: In Retreat II
We jumped to the gathering point to discover that nearly every ship that we could confirm had escaped the ambush star system was either already there, or had been and already moved on.
“Good to see you, Sir,” Commodore LeGodat said by way of greeting.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes; I wasn’t sure if you’d made it out,” I said with relief.
“Only three ships with you?” LeGodat half-asked, half-stated-the-obvious.
I suppressed a wince. “Two more were badly damaged—one with engines and one with a hyper dish that’s not going to take them any further,” I said, thinking back to the list of repairs and parts those two ships were going to need. “I don’t know if Janeski is going to give us the time, but if he does we’ll be sending out a freighter with a repair team and the materials they need to get out of there.”
“I see…so it’s five survivors amongst our heavies,” he said, briefly closing his eyes before opening them once again. “Between outright losses and a few desertions, we’re down to less than half our original group of lighter forces. Although you’ll be pleased to know Commodore Kling made it out with only three lost Corvettes,” he said.
“That’s good to hear…about the Corvettes, I mean,” I clarified, feeling as if I was reeling taking one body blow after the other. The losses which had just been icons on a screen were suddenly glaringly, gut-checkingly real.
“I think you need to speak with the individual ship commanders before this fleet falls apart,” LeGodat said relentlessly.
“That bad, huh?” I asked feeling somehow unsurprised to hear it.
“We need leadership,” said the Commodore gravely.
I nodded and agreed. “I’ll see what I can do,” I nodded, and then turned to Steiner to set it up.
Over the course of the next several hours, I spoke individually with each and every ship commander and told them how their worlds needed them. I impressed upon them that we weren’t out of this fight yet, and that despite our seemingly insurmountable losses we could still bleed the closet Imperials white if only we stuck together.
In response, I received blank looks, fear of the enemy, and outright accusations of murder and incompetence. Clearly, we were going to lose more ships than just those we’d lost to enemy fire before we returned to Easy Haven.
By the time we were ready to jump out of the rendezvous system and into the next in the series that would take us back to the mighty defensive works of Wolf-9, we had just under a third of our original force. I wasn’t willing to wager how many more ships we would silently lose along the way.
But one thing I was sure of was that I now hated one Rear Admiral Arnold Janeski in ways that made all my previous feelings toward the man seem childish in comparison—which, in truth, most of them had been.
The only thing I didn’t know was whether or not there was anything I could do against the powerful fleet he had assembled.
But I did know that I was bound and determined to try. I knew we didn’t have the forces to meet them head-on in the field, but we’d see how willing they were to break their teeth on the reactivated and expanded Wolf-9 defensive works.
I had too many ghosts in my wake to back out now. I was fully committed to bringing these Imperials down—or to die trying.
I just wished the dying part didn’t seem more and more likely.
As for those ship Captains either in despair over our losses or in outright fear of the enemies, they were the same fools who had wholeheartedly supported the attack.
They’d shown their stomach and it was weak, I thought damningly. The very same people who pressed me to launch an attack—insinuating I was a coward if I didn’t—were the very ones now running for the hills and their home worlds as fast as their ship drives could take them. I silently vowed that I would never bend to their sort ever again.
Next time I fought the enemy, I refused to have regrets.
Epilogue: Breaking Out
“Are you sure this is going to work, sir?” Brence asked sounding worried.
“Nothing for it but to try, me boy,” Spalding replied with a grin as he looked at the holo-image of the still half-completed warship. “She may not be right, but with two fully functional antimatter generators installed and the HPC now operational, I give her better than 50/50 odds.”
“That sounds a little tighter than most people would prefer,” Brence said with rising alarm.
“Haha! Nothing for it Brence. Faint hearts might pull back but fortunately for them, we’re engineers! We’re made of sterner stuff,” the old engineer said confidently.
The younger man closed his eyes and began to silently mouth a prayer.
“This inter-face iii-s terrible,” complained Shepherd as he worked his console, the lights in the back of his head flashing, “the trans-lation ma-a-trix is o-o-off!”
“That’s what you get when you use an old AI bridge program on an even older Elder Tech interface,” Spalding said knowingly.
“Most engineers would run for the hills after hearing just one of the last two things you’ve said,” Brence said clinically.
“We’ve got grit and dogged determination,” Spalding declared.
“We are chock full of that, man,” Brence agreed wryly.
“What man can catch the scent of danger and be content to molder away?” Spalding demanded, full of rhetorical thunder. “They may have tried to keep us locked away in this bone yard like a trick-performing dog on a leash but I won’t stand for it, you hear? Try as they might, they can’t keep old Spalding away from a good fight!”
“I guess we’re as ready as we’re going to be,” Brence said, his jaw clenching and a determined look entering his eye.
“Good lad!” Spalding clapped him on the shoulder before turning to Bostwell. “Make sure we have a firm connection to the routers and power cables we tied into those jump arches.”
“Connection is solid,” said the Engineering Comm. Operator, “although it seems to be eating up an incredible amount of power from the antimatter generators, Commander.”
Spalding looked around with satisfaction as the Clover’s transplanted bridge functioned with a…well, with a reasonably smooth efficiency. They might be a might short-staffed and mainly with cross-trained Engineering ratings—or green sprouts from former SDF’s in the Border Alliance worlds, meaning their training programs back home had likely been half-baked at best—but the stations were manned and everyone at least had a general idea what their job was.
“The power requirements are irrelevant. The main thing is to keep our power banks charged up full and only siphon off the excess into the external jump drive,” Spalding pontificated for the education of those around him. After all, only by training the next generation could forward progress carry on.
“Still…sir, are you certain that using an untested technology is wise?” Brence couldn’t seem to help but ask.
“It’s only untested because we haven’t used it yet,” the old Engineer said calmly.
All around him, the jaws of eager listeners who had been eavesdropping on the conversation fell open—and even those who knew the ornery old engineer best were aghast.
“Don’t worry; I’ve got the basic technical read out and operating instructions,” Spalding said proudly, although immediately after doing so he pursed his lips as he considered the cost. He’d done the best he could to scan, re-scan and check the data storage device the Heart of the Ship had modified, but even so there was no telling what tricks might have been uploaded into it that he couldn’t detect.
Over the next several hours, the energy from the antimatter generators continued to pour into the giant, external jump drives that had been brought back by the Pride’s intrepid crew—who were real go-getters in Spalding’s book, and in many ways set an example the rest of the fleet would do well to follow.
“I can’t be sure bu-ut I think we’re past the po-oint of n-o re-turn,” Shepherd slurred.
Spalding nodded and brought up the power levels on his console. Everything seemed within tolerance…for a strange unknown piece of alien technology with an untested buggy interface program, of course.
“Strange particles are being generated between the two alien cylinders, sir,” reported Shepherd.
Spalding nodded and continued to monitor the readings.
“I am receiving a hail,” reported Bostwell.
“Eh? Who from?” Spalding asked with surprise.
“It’s Captain Laurent on the Phoenix, Commander. He says he’s ready to join the party,” reported the Bostwell.
On the screen, the image of the Furious Phoenix and several other warships—including the gunboat carriers—approached.
“Put him on,” Spalding barked.
“This is Captain Laurent, Commander,” said Laurent.
“Just what fool thing do you think you’re doing?” demanded the old Engineer.
“Hope we’re not too late to the party,” the Captain said, unveiling a tight smile.
“What party?” Spalding demanded, his chin jutting. “I don’t know about no bloomin’ party. We’re too blasted busy workin’ over here to have time for fun and games!”
Laurent cocked his head. “We know you’re planning to make a jump to Easy Haven. We want in,” Laurent said, looking at him steadily.
“Why of all the confounded, cockamamie notions,” Spalding fumed.
“I have it from a reliable source,” Laurent said, “so you might as well stop protesting and tell us where to park our ships.”
“We’re using untested alien technology here,” Spalding swore, hoping to appeal to the man’s survival instinct—which, naturally, was almost certain to be weaker than a proper engineer’s, “so you’ll take your ships on out of here if you know what’s good for you.”
“What’s the worst that could happen, your ship gets torn apart from a failed jump and the rest of us have to continue on without you?” Laurent scoffed. “One way or another it’s time for this ship and crew to get back in the fight!”
“Oh, it could be a lot worse than that—we could take the rest of you down with us!” Spalding declared seriously and then threw his hands in the air at the other man’s determined look. Apparently Laurent was made of sterner stuff that the rest of his ilk, and Spalding secretly knew that a little escort might prove handy for a shakedown of this type, “Fine, take up position between the alien devices and prepare to jump.”
“What are the coordinates?” Laurent asked.
“Don’t you worry about that; we’ll be forming a field between the alien jump drives and it’ll take the whole blasted lot of us,” Spalding said confidently before furrowing his brow as he was reminded of a string of particularly confusing math which had been integral to the jump drive’s calibration. He shrugged and added, “Or it won’t and we’ll all be dead.”
“You’re talking about multiple ships jumping inside the same bubble?” Laurent said, looking alarmed.
“If you’re backin’ out then just do it; I don’t have time for fiddle faddle,” Spalding snorted, cutting the channel before stomping around the bridge.
“Should we really be risking the other ships, Sir?” asked Brence. “I mean, what if having them here in addition to the new Clover causes a mis-jump?” asked more nervously than Spalding had come to expect from the lad.
“It should work,” the old Engineer said a little uncertainly, then his face hardened, “anyway, if they wanted me to worry about every little thing they shouldn’t have left me here in this yard when there’s a war going on. Laurent and the others are grown men and women. They’ll just have to make their own decisions.”
Brence nodded.
After a full forty nine hours, the Elder tech jump engines finally built up a charge sufficient to make the jump.
“The trillium usage is off the charts,” Shepherd reported in alarm, his synthetic voice blessedly free of those accursed stutters and other impediments, “we could run the entire fleet for six months off what we’re estimated to use for this one jump!”
“Tell everyone to get ready, including the other ships,” Spalding ordered as a swarm of uncharacteristic butterflies took up residence in his rebuilt guts. It was a curious thing, to feel like a wide-eyed rating taking his wrench to the finest lady the space-ways had ever seen for the first time. That sense of fumbling about uncertainly, the messiness of those first few times, and the excitement which had filled him were feelings he’d long feared would be nothing but foggy memories in his borged-out brain. But here he was, giddy as a schoolboy again as he looked the ol’ Demon squarely in the eye and dared him to do his damnedest.
Bostwell activated his station and began to relay the message.
“Prepare the point transfer, Navigator,” Spalding ordered, fighting against his rising nerves as the moment of truth finally drew near, “and lock us in for Easy Haven.”
“Coordinates locked and sent to the artifact,” Shepherd reported via his synthetic voice, “able to jump on your mark.”
“I know,” Spalding said, looking down at the big red button he’d had installed into the Captain’s—or in this case, the Chief Engineer’s—seat on the bridge. In theory, the Elder tech jump drive was capable of jumping several ships simultaneously—but, more importantly, it could also jump vastly greater distances in a single point transfer than any drive known to humanity.
His hand hovered over the button that would activate the Elder tech jump drive; if all went properly they would emerge at their target destination just a few seconds after the Clover’s newest system was activated. The old girl would have her legs again, and she could get back to the work she did best—work which the universe needed her doing now more than ever.
“Alright, kiddies, this is what they pay us for…” he raised his voice as the nervous tension on the bridge mounted and every pair of lungs inhaled sharply in preparation for what was to come. After a brief pause to drink in the thrill of anticipation—and feeling more alive than he had since awakening mere minutes before being turned into compost by herb-smoking slackers—the ancient engineer slammed his hand down on the button and triumphantly declared, “Let’s see what she’s got!”
The Story Continues in Admiral’s War, Part 2