Unfortunately, the fleet that opposed them was planning just that. Opposite in every way, the streamlined hulls of the opposing force were painted a uniform crimson. Their movements showed clear evidence of having trained together, practicing perhaps for this exact event. The Wardens, on the other hand, were fiercely independent, their individual notions of ‘chain of command’ often ending with themselves. They were a capable bunch, courageous and battle-tested. They were also outnumbered more than two to one.
Oktavius had been the one who’d called them all together, who’d poured oil on the fires of their disagreements, had placed Traditionalists and Progressives side by side and marched them out there to do battle. It was far from a perfect strategy, but what else was there? His guardianship of Atalia was new, untested. He didn’t had a huge variety of options — simply gathering all the ships he could and hammering them into some rough approximation of a fleet had taken all the time and skill he had.
Whilst the forces were mustering up there, down in the catacombs he’d been forced to utter secret words, maintained on encrypted code cylinders stored in a vault only the High Warden had access to.
The words had set in motion a chain of events, the like of which had not been witnessed in generations. Great forges fired up, drawing their heat directly from the tiny molten core of the planetoid. Enormous machines cranked to life, their heavy steel components clashing and clanging against one another as they strove to find harmony. Huge moulds were dredged up on chains, split apart and filled with smelted alloys. An arcane talos, very nearly as old as the fortress itself, was resurrected to oversee the process. Towers that had stood shrouded in stone for millennia now split apart, their ornate facades lowering to reveal launch tubes and cannon barrels close to a kilometre in length. These potent weapons traversed left and right, their alignments tested under the auspice of the talos, as deep within the chambers beneath Atalia’s meeting halls the munitions of war were manufactured.
Oktavius studied it all.
Every movement of the ancient technology was reported and logged for his approval. Though much of it was automated, he took a perverse pleasure in observing the minutiae; such attention to detail had seen his rise from an orphanage on an obscure mining colony to the dizzying heights of Atalia’s First Circle. If the Order’s finest hour was to come while he was at the helm, then so be it. He would be ready; Atalia would be ready, defending itself as it had done numerous times in the past.
The distant past…
Yet nothing was out of place. Everything worked as it was intended to, under the strict supervision of that venerable talos. Hidden within its dusty memory banks were details of previous invasions, attacks on Atalia that had been repulsed by the same weapons it now brought to bear. Oktavius trusted the talos, and the machinery it commanded, as he trusted his forebears. Never before had it failed; not once, in over ten-thousand years, had Atalia been compromised by an enemy.
Even viewed conservatively, the preparations were proceeding excellently.
Only one thing concerned him.
This enemy — a combined force, led by two powerful ex-First Circle members — knew as much about the planet’s defences as he did.
Perhaps more.
Oktavius was a quick study, and had made it his mission to learn everything he could about the defensive capabilities of the fortress he commanded. But he’d been High Warden for a matter of weeks; the sheer quantity of data he now had access to was mind-boggling. At first he’d focussed on the rules and traditions of his Order, needing to be sure that his succession was legal. The lack of a full Conclave had bothered him, raising awkward questions amongst others who might have considered themselves candidates. Kreon, of course, was chief amongst them. Always the cantankerous old Warden had frustrated Oktavius. His methods bore no resemblance to those advocated by the Order; his attitude represented the exact opposite of the teamwork which Oktavius sought to engender. True, the Wardens had long been a solitary and fractious bunch, prone to fighting amongst themselves and sabotaging each other’s efforts. Look where that had gotten them! A civil war brewing, with various Lords siding with one candidate or another. Oktavius knew his own support had slipped, but fortunately he had the advantage of being a clean and uncomplicated successor. His achievements, whilst comparatively modest, had been sufficient to see him nominated to the First Circle. His character was beyond reproach. These elements had helped sway the majority over to his camp, and his election to the chair of High Warden had met with only minor grumbling.
Unless you counted Kreon.
But Sera… she was difficult. There was no debating the point; Sera was a hero. Veteran of countless campaigns, highly-regarded stateswoman, warrior of repute. She was also a traitor; a murderer of innocents, including many under her own command, and a violator of the most sacred Edicts.
If only she wasn’t so damned popular…
Her declaration that she was usurping his position had given the malcontents fuel for their fires. Not many had openly declared for her — not yet, at any rate — but he could be sure she had sympathisers in his ranks. Worse, he could do nothing to root them out, for fear of appearing paranoid and reactionary. His support base depended on him being perceived as legitimate, righteous and unthreatened. Conducting a witch-hunt through his own ranks in order to identify Sera’s agents would undermine everything he stood for; everything that gave him the authority to defy her.
And defy her he would.
Her aims were clear; to take Atalia, then Earth. With government bureaucracy tying itself in knots over the war with the Siszar, the Wardens were the only force capable of stopping her.
Only she knew all their strategies, all their allegiances…
And she had the largest fleet any one Warden had ever assembled.
It wasn’t hers, of course.
Demios, the original traitor and the murderer of the previous High Warden, had apparently thrown his lot in with Sera. And he had a lot to throw in. Whereas Sera had survived on her reputation, Demios had benefitted from just about every side hustle a Warden could run. Selling arms. Selling favours. Selling relics. Selling immunity. His twin Priestesses were infamous, being sent on regular visits to test out his rivals. Demios had quickly risen to prominence in Silban, the system his family ruled, and rather than using those ties to aid his work as a Warden he had instead used his position in the First Circle to further enrich his family’s holdings. Now capable of fielding an army that outnumbered most sector fleets, Demios had the raw power to do almost anything he pleased.
And it seemed that, right now, putting Sera on the High Seat of Atalia was what pleased him.
Even if he turned Atalia to rubble in the process.
A crackle in his ear brought him back to the present. He never got great reception up on the roof; the sheer quantity of stone between his receptors and the command staff who were calling him gave a fuzzy reverb to every word they transmitted.
The voice Oktavius heard now was a younger tech, a man he’d known as a wide-eyed candidate come to enlist in the great Warden’s stronghold. Rufine was a man he trusted, despite his young years — though at well over sixty, Rufine had already devoted half his life to serving the Wardens.
“My Lord — it’s starting.”
They were the words Oktavius had been praying not to hear.
“Very well then,” he replied, taking care to let neither frustration nor anxiousness colour his tone. “I’ll come back inside. Please have our defensive capabilities brought up to full readiness.”
“Very good, My Lord.”
“Oh, and Rufine?”
“Yes, my Lord?”
“If I die before I get down there, then you’re in charge.”
It wasn’t much of a joke, but given his mindset it was the best he could do.
He resettled the cloak around his shoulders and made for the elevator. The view was great from up here, but if the defences had to fire, the shield surrounding Atalia would have to open m
omentarily to do so. The two systems were closely synchronised, so the fortress would only be vulnerable for the barest fraction of a second — but add enough of those seconds together, and there was a chance something would get through.
Of course, the fact that the bubble of atmosphere surrounding Atalia would evaporate once the shield started opening was more than enough motivation to move.
Oktavius entered the elevator car, making his way directly to the command dome. For him it was only a short ride away, his private elevator capable of taking him to all the most significant points in the fortress. Right now, part of him wanted to ride it all the way down to the catacombs, down the the private vault he’d inherited from Lord Erekasten — the one with its own airlock and life support, with food stores and nutrients, the one which held an escape pod capable of tunnelling out of there and achieving interstellar flight under its own power. Oktavius had made an inspection of the craft and its systems as part of his preparations for the coming battle.
Erekasten’s sense of humour had been fondly regarded by those under his command, so perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised to discover a note tacked to the window of the craft. ’Only For Use In Emergencies,’ it read.
But those thoughts were not for now. For now, all the might of Atalia was his to command — both fleet and surface defences, as well as a few more esoteric tricks. The single most important thing was to maintain control. Order and discipline; these were the qualities that won battles, and Sera’s forces would have them to spare.
“Report,” he said crisply, as he stepped from the elevator. Around him, monitors fed back data from the scanners in realtime, channeling it into a three dimensional display that hovered in the centre of the room. Live humans made corrections to the data, separating the fighters from the missiles, using their own displays to draw tactical analyses on the model.
It was efficient, Oktavius had to admit. Even without him there, it would still be proceeding in a similar fashion. He hated to issue unnecessary orders. He had no need to throw his weight around, to establish his authority for the sake of it. His people knew what they were doing; he felt a moment of pride, realising that the force under his command undoubtably comprised the most skilled and experienced combatants in the galaxy. What they lacked in cohesion, they more than made up for in inventiveness, lethality, and downright deceitfulness.
He just hoped it would be enough.
“First battle group reports full engagement,” Rufine reported. The man had noted his arrival, and was speaking to him directly rather than on comms. “Second battle group is spreading to maintain a defensive screen above the fortress.”
“Belay that,” Oktavius told him. The greatest strength of his forces lay in their unpredictability. “Authorise both groups to engage as they see fit.” He knew this battle would not be won by conventional tactics. A free-for-all was less than ideal from a traditional tactical standpoint, but he was well aware of the Wardens’ strengths. They did not lie along conventional routes, and they would not forgive him for treating them as such.
“Second battle group redeploying,” Rufine reported.
Oktavius could see the result on the display himself; the blanket of ships that had been drawing back to cover Atalia now rocketed forwards, splitting up into individual squadrons and taking the fight to the enemy. The tactical holographics threw their own interpretation onto the display, colouring some sections red for hotly-contested, whilst others remained amber and clear.
“Remind them that individual heroics will count for naught against such numbers,” he cautioned. Most of the combatants had enough combat experience to handle themselves, but not many of them would have fought in large-scale engagements. That was normally the purview of the military. Oktavius clenched a fist in a bout of frustration. If it hadn’t been for the damned Siszar and this hopeless war, he’d have been able to call on several sector fleets to swat Demios and his pesky ambitions right back to Silban.
The opening feints flashed across the tac-display, a stream of information and wire-frame analysis that belied the violence and death happening above. Demios had sent feelers out, three larger craft each supported by a swarm of smaller ones. Without a centralised plan, several of the Wardens had gunned their engines, flaring out to attack head on. Oktavius felt the tension as a tight band across his chest. He’d figured out early on that most of his work was done; gathering the scattered Wardens and their allies had been a difficult and thankless task. But now they were all here, and battle was upon them… he had precious little chance of controlling them.
Larger ships moved in now, though most of these were the great crimson warships of Silban’s Defence Force. The more nimble ships employed by the Wardens danced around their adversaries, scoring kills where they could in an uncoordinated and haphazard manner.
Oktavius moved from monitor to monitor, absorbing the data. Tactics suggested themselves to him, but he knew the rag-tag fleet above would not obey him. His reputation was that of a diplomat rather than a warrior, though he’d seen plenty of both in two centuries of service.
He could give warnings though, and he issued a flurry of those as the larger ships in Demios’ fleet settled into a covering formation. They would advance together, using their shields to absorb the firestorm in front of them; anyone caught directly in their path would quickly find themselves overrun.
The battle became messy as both sides committed themselves to the centre. Atalia could only be taken by eradicating all its defenders; likewise, Demios would not retreat from his objective unless catastrophic losses could somehow be inflicted. It was a fight to the finish, and Oktavius had a horrible feeling it was his Wardens who were finished.
He paced the command dome, listening to panicked mayday calls and shrieks of triumph over the comm. Part of him wished he was up there, laser cannons loaded, taking the fight to the enemy. But he knew his duty. Atalia could not be allowed to fall into the hands of an aggressor. When the battle above was done, if Demios held the field, Oktavius would organise the defence of Atalia from the ground. There would be no evacuation; every person living in the fortress knew their lives depended on how well they fought, and that there was no escape once a siege began.
Oktavius’ final duty, of course, was to set the timer on the giant fusion-bomb suspended in a magnetic forcefield within the planet’s molten core. The age-old Edict of leaving no solace for the enemy would be adhered to in absolution.
This fortress was the repository of wisdom collected throughout the ages; within its vaults lay secrets that never needed to see the light of day.
So unless the battle went exceedingly well, Oktavius’ last act as High Warden would be to destroy Atalia completely.
Several of the command dome monitors gave real-time video feeds of the battle itself, transmitted from any one of a thousand tiny satellites scattered throughout Atalia’s vicinity. Oktavius was staring right at one when a ripple seemed to run through the space it depicted, followed by a wave of something that could only be described as plasma. The wave swept towards a pair of red-hulled cruisers, washing up against them in a tide of sub-space distortion. Both vessels instantly shrank, crumpling in on themselves as though being consumed by a black hole.
If Oktavius had’t been looking right at it, he wouldn’t have believed it. “Sydon’s Name! What was that?”
“Unknown,” Rufine replied, but it came from Lord Zineas’ flagship.”
“Contact him!” Oktavius demanded. “Tell him to get out of the way before reprisals take effect. Call Lord Praxis to put up a screen.”
Deploying such a weapon had been a risky move. Lord Zineas had painted himself as a target to the entire opposing fleet — any of them that didn’t want to be crushed down to the size of a ration pack, anyway. The ambitious Warden had obviously acquired and integrated some exotic alien weaponry into his flagship, but it was going to win him some less-than-secret admirers. As Oktavius watched, three battleships brought their main guns to bear on Lord Zin
eas’ flagship. A hailstorm of high-energy bolts flashed his way, the tac-holo reporting multiple missiles headed the same way. Zineas’ shields flared from the bombardment, obviously heavily augmented as well, but the onslaught didn’t let up. Missiles began to impact, tearing ragged holes in the flagship’s superstructure.
“Send Praxis to intercept!” Oktavius yelled—
But it was too late.
Lord Zineas had played his hand, and was reaping the rewards. Another pair of heavy cruisers had swung into the fray, targeting his flagship exclusively. A series of powerful explosions rocked the vessel from stem to stern, as missiles, turbo-lasers and thermal lances each took their toll. In seconds, the ship was carved into pieces; an immense explosion consumed the drive section, setting off secondary detonations in the chunks that were drifting away. A final fireball flared up, as whatever powered the alien weaponry went nova. Lord Zineas’ flagship was utterly destroyed, taking most of his private armada with it.
Oktavius clenched his fists, looking around for something to hit. That one blow had robbed him of his most experienced operatives, of the commander of the only private fleet that even came close to rivalling that of Lord Demios.
But even as the remnants of Lord Zineas’ fleet fell back in disarray, a surge of ships shot forward to avenge him. Zineas had been well-liked and respected amongst the Wardens; there were plenty amongst them who would take his death personally.
More ships peeled out of the defensive layer above Atalia, racing forward to claim their own measure of vengeance. The two cruisers that had obliterated Zineas’ flagship were ringed around, taking heavy fire from every direction. A carpet of missiles swept in, hitting in waves, tearing great chunks off the ships. In seconds they were both ablaze, out of control. The cloud of smaller ships around them scattered as the two behemoths collided with a force that made Oktavius wince.
Warden's Fury Page 35
