Tyra’s own stomach grumbled at the thought of food. There was never enough of it, and she regularly wasted hers by trying to get Theola to eat. Tyra’s gaze drifted around the hangar, her eyes unfocused, her mind blank. The other prisoners moaned and muttered constantly. The sounds blurred into a regular rhythm and cadence: the dissonant refrain of human suffering.
“If they do not decide our fate soon, nature will decide it for them,” Brak whispered.
Tyra nodded slowly, but said nothing to that. Her gaze drifted down to where Theola sat on the deck beside her. She had a vacant expression—her lips parted slightly, features slack, and dull staring eyes.
Something hot and ugly rose inside of Tyra at the sight of her daughter’s suffering. It bubbled up from a dark, primal place and tore from her lips in an thunderous scream.
Heads turned, eyes widening at the sound of her outburst, but Tyra didn’t care. She screamed again. And again. Theola began to cry, and other nearby prisoners cringed and looked away, a mixture of pity and unease crawling behind their eyes.
Abaddon would pay for this, Tyra vowed. He couldn’t keep them locked up any longer, in these conditions, awaiting an uncertain end. Better that we choose our fate, she thought. She scooped Theola up and stood on shaking legs, her eyes wild as she looked around the hangar. All the exits, grilles, and access panels inside the hangar had already been checked for a possible avenues of escape, but Tyra refused to accept defeat for even a second longer.
“You all want to die in here?” she demanded, scowling at each of them in turn.
Objections rose from several prisoners. A few of them climbed to their feet.
“It’s been five days!” Tyra went on. “We haven’t heard from our captors or even seen them in five days.” Whenever they came to deliver food it was always with shadow-robed slaves and six faceless soldiers in matte black armor. Abaddon and the blue-skinned Faros had yet to make another appearance since they’d all arrived in the hangar. “I say, enough is enough!” Tyra roared. “If we’re going to die, then let’s die on our feet! Let’s die fighting!”
Shouts of indignant fury rose up to replace the dismal sounds of human suffering. Heads bobbed and more officers climbed to their feet. Brak stood up beside her, too, but swayed unsteadily, still weak from the injury Abaddon had inflicted. Gors had remarkable healing abilities, but even they had their limits.
“The next time they come to deliver our meals, we ambush them! Let them try to stop us! If we die, we die free, the masters of our own fate. There’s six hundred of us and only six guards. That’s a hundred to one. I like those odds, don’t you?”
Shouts of agreement tore out of the crowd and Tyra pumped her fist in the air. “Death to the Faros!”
The others prisoners echoed that sentiment and began to chant: “Death to the Faros! Death to the Faros!”
When their cries died down, Tyra said, “All former captains and bridge officers please join me to discuss our strategy. Everyone else, stand by for orders.”
The majority of people sat back down, but a few scattered individuals wove their way through the crowd, heading toward Tyra. Before long, there were twenty officers standing around her in a circle. Tyra gestured for them all to sit, and then she began speaking in a hushed voice, outlining her plan of attack.
Every eight hours the Faros came to deliver their meals and a few basic supplies. At that time, several dozen shadow-robed Faro slaves would come in, pushing hover gurneys through the hangar, passing out meals and re-filling jugs of water. While they distributed supplies, six faceless, black-armored Faro soldiers would stand outside the hangar with the doors open and their rifles aimed, as if inviting an attack.
That attack had already been tried and failed. Within just a day of imprisonment, a small group of officers had tried rushing those guards, and they’d all been gunned down in seconds.
But this time would be different. This time they would surge out en masse, all acting as one, and drawing on their superior numbers to overwhelm the guards. And they had a secret weapon: they had Brak. His cloaking ability would allow him to slip out of the hangar unseen and attack the Faros from behind, distracting them at the precise moment that everyone else rushed them from the front.
“Are you all clear about your roles?” Tyra asked.
Officers murmured yes, ma’am, and aye, captain, but with dark eyes and grim expression. This would be a blood bath, and they all knew it, but they also had a good chance of success—at least in overpowering those first few guards. After that, six of their Marines would don the enemy soldiers’ armor and attempt a more organized resistance.
“All right, go spread the word and get your crews in on this plan. When those doors open again, we need to be ready and waiting.”
“Yes, ma’am,” one of the ship’s captains said. Tyra recognized him by his dark skin and silver eyes. It was Captain Orisson. She nodded back to him, and with that, the group of officers fanned out, whispering her plan to nearby prisoners and asking them to pass the message along.
Within just a few minutes everyone knew the plan, or at least some distorted version of it, but hopefully the gist remained. The plan wasn’t complicated: swarm the guards; take their weapons; remove their armor; don’t let any of them escape.
Tyra made her way to the hangar bay doors with Brak. The crowd parted for them as they went, and they reached the doors in short order. Tyra moved to stand to one side of the exit and wait. Theola squirmed and fussed in her arms. Tyra kissed the top of her head and whispered calming words. Then she felt something warm and wet trickling through her fingers and running down her leg, soaking into her already filthy uniform. Tyra paid no attention to it. She’d already been peed on so many times that her uniform had dried into a hard shell, creaking and cracking around her whenever she moved.
A familiar rumbling noise ground out, interrupting Tyra’s thoughts, and a sudden, ringing silence fell among the prisoners. The doors were opening.
Tyra blinked, shocked that the Faros had come to deliver food again so soon. Had it been eight hours since their last meal already? Then came a collective rustle of cloth as hundreds of people simultaneously leapt to their feet, followed by a loud shuffling of feet as they all crowded closer to the doors.
Panic gripped Tyra, and her heart seized in her chest. It was time to act, and suddenly she realized she couldn’t. She couldn’t charge into battle with a baby, and she couldn’t set Theola and run into battle by herself either. What if she died? Who would look after Theola?
“Stay back,” Brak whispered. The air shimmered around him, and then he disappeared, having cloaked himself.
Tyra flattened herself against the wall and gazed back into the brave, desperate faces of the officers arrayed before her. A few of them nodded to her, and Tyra nodded back, still warring with herself. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t.
The rumbling stopped, and Tyra heard a familiar voice call out: “Well! It looks as though you have finally found your back bones. Good. I was hoping you might.”
There was no mistaking that voice. It was Abaddon. Precious seconds passed while Brak crept into position. The crowd fidgeted nervously. They must have been waiting for Brak to create a distraction, but surely by now he was already poised to do so. What were they waiting for?
“Well? What are you waiting for? Ah, I see... you weren’t expecting me, were you?” Abaddon said.
Tyra couldn’t see the Faros from where she stood beside the doors, but she could imagine Abaddon’s smug smile, and the stolid expressions of the two Elementals standing to either side of him.
Captain Orisson stepped out of the crowd. His dark skin gleamed with a fresh sheen of sweat, but his silver eyes blazed with a desperate, animal courage.
“Kill them!” Orisson roared, his arm snapping straight as an arrow to point at their tormentors.
Before anyone could so much as twitch, a blinding ball of plasma streaked out and exploded on Orisson’s chest with a deafening boom. He f
lew backward, knocking over half a dozen people as he went. The crowd turned to watch as he skidded to a stop in their midst, and for a moment Tyra thought that would be the end of it.
But then they turned back to the fore, and Abaddon spoke again: “Who wants to die next?”
The prisoners roared with one voice, and surged forward like water rushing from a broken dam. They ran at top speed toward their enemy, their hands outstretched like claws. More radiant balls of plasma streaked out, three at a time, but the Faros’ rate of fire wasn’t fast enough to stop this many people. People fell as they were hit, but they were trampled and forgotten as the ones behind them rushed on.
Theola thrust out her hands toward the surging mass of humanity, her hands curled into tiny claws of her own, and something snapped inside of Tyra, her questions for Theola’s safety all suddenly answered.
No one was going to walk away from this, and she didn’t want to be the last one standing, left to suffer whatever retribution Abaddon had in store. Better to die a swift and merciful death than to be left at his mercy.
Tyra threw her head back and let out a shrill cry, and then she ran into the fray.
Chapter 32
The Lost Etherian Fleet
“Halcyon’s shields are failing!” Major Ward announced.
Admiral Wheeler grimaced, watching as hundreds of Faro battleships surrounded the capital facet of New Earth. Crimson lasers speared the giant wedge-shaped facet from all sides. Tiny gouts of escaping atmosphere and debris appeared as those lasers punched through the facet’s shields.
“They need to evacuate,” Wheeler said, shaking her head. The muffled roar of an explosion rumbled through the bridge and shook the deck of the Gideon.
“They can’t,” Major Ward objected from the gunnery station. “They’re surrounded. If they evacuate, their shuttles and transports will be cut to pieces. They’re better off hiding below decks on Halcyon.”
“For how long?” Wheeler demanded. Silence answered that question, and she nodded slowly, coming to a decision. “Rally our fleet. We’re going to clear a path for them to evacuate.”
“But our orders are to hold the line at the wormhole and prevent more ships from coming through,” Major Ward replied.
“New Earth’s crusaders can hold the line without us for now,” Wheeler said. “The High Praetor and all of the chief councilors are on Halcyon. If they all die, there’ll be chaos.”
Major Ward gave a shallow nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Helm, come about on a course for Halcyon. Full throttle.”
“Aye, Admiral.”
Wheeler’s gaze fell from the holo dome to the displays at her control station. She checked the number of ships remaining in her fleet, wondering if she even had enough firepower to protect Halcyon. On her contacts panel, the grouping titled Lost Etherian Fleet now numbered just ninety-five ships. Wheeler’s heart sank. That count had been a hundred and twenty-four just a few hours ago.
She was becoming so desensitized to their losses that she’d lost twenty-nine more ships without even noticing. Her fleet had started out with more than a thousand vessels, and now it was reduced to just under a hundred. The worst part was, all of those ships had been filled with refugees from Astralis. And the people from Astralis were actually better off than most. Halcyon wasn’t the first of the other facets to fall. New Earth had arrived with more than half a million facets, and by current counts—Wheeler checked the contacts panel again—there were less than three hundred thousand left. Almost half of New Earth was missing—along with half of its people.
A soundless scream built up inside of Wheeler’s chest at the thought of so many people dead. Where was Etherus? Where were the Etherians? Humanity had been left to fight this battle alone, and they were losing. All they could do now was hope that Lucien and his team succeeded in destroying the Forge.
Wheeler watched her fleet streaking across the grid to reach Halcyon. The distance between them ticked down steadily.
“Ready weapons!” Wheeler ordered.
“Standing by to reach firing range,” Major Ward replied.
The nearest Faro ships slowly turned from their assault on Halcyon and lit their engines. Etherian ships had superior weapons range, so it was in the Faros’ best interests to narrow the gap as quickly as possible.
“Range!” Major Ward announced.
“Open fire!” Wheeler replied.
Green lasers snapped out from Wheeler’s fleet in staccato bursts, raking fire across enemy hulls.
Two capital enemy ships cracked apart in a matter of just a few seconds, drawing a feral grin from Wheeler’s lips.
Then the enemy reached range with them and their lasers lanced out in crimson waves—followed by glittering clouds of enemy missiles, slower than lasers, but deadlier by far.
“Flight ops, get our fighter screen to take out those missiles,” Wheeler ordered.
“Yes, ma’am,” the officer at flight ops replied. She was new, but a necessary addition to the bridge crew now that Wheeler actually had fighters screening her ships.
Waves of Paragon fighters rushed out ahead of the Gideon, their twin engines glowing bright blue and winking at her as converging squadrons intermittently occluded each other’s engine glows.
Pulse lasers stuttered out from the lead fighters in needle-thin green lines, each bolt flashing out on a slightly different trajectory from the last as they tracked incoming enemy missiles. Explosions pockmarked the void as missiles exploded one after another.
That went on for several seconds while Wheeler’s fleet traded fire with the enemy. Then the Faro fighters reached range with Wheeler’s and tore into them. Her fighters abandoned their straight-line intercept course with enemy missiles, now juking and jinking furiously to evade enemy fire, while simultaneously firing on the incoming ordnance.
“Our fighters are getting cut to pieces!” Flight ops announced. “Request permission to engage enemy fighters.”
“Not yet...” Wheeler replied. Her fleet’s fighter screen reached point blank range with the Faros’ missiles, and then flew right by them. Wheeler nodded. “Now. All pilots engage enemy fighters at will.”
“Aye, ma’am.”
“Major Ward, prioritize interception of enemy ordnance with our guns and convey that order to the rest of the fleet. We don’t want any of those missiles getting through.”
“Switching target priorities...” Ward replied.
“Comms, get me High Praetor Serenity Talos.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A moment later, the head and shoulders of the leader of the Paragons appeared. Her usually stoic expression was now grave, and her normally clean white uniform was torn and smeared with dirt. “High praetor, we’re clearing a path for you and the council to evacuate. I suggest you get to your shuttles as soon as you can. We’ll escort you to safety.”
“Your orders were to defend the wormhole,” the high praetor said as she coughed into her hand.
“With due respect, ensuring the survival of our leaders is more important than...” Wheeler trailed off as the high praetor’s hand dropped to her side revealing a trickle of blood leaking from one corner of her mouth. “You need medical attention, ma’am.”
The high praetor waved a dismissive hand. “It is too late to evacuate. Get your ships clear of the Halcyon, Admiral.”
“But, ma’am—”
“No buts. Follow your orders!” The high praetor’s rose-colored eyes glittered with deadly intent. “We’ve been boarded,” she said, speaking more quietly now. “There are thousands of enemy soldiers on board. It won’t be long before they find us use us to force a surrender. I refuse to let that happen. Get your ships clear.” With that, the high praetor coughed once more, splattering the lens of the holocorder with blood, and then she vanished.
Wheeler gaped at the spot where the high praetor had been a moment ago. Now, in her stead, she saw Halycon, gushing fire and atmosphere like blood from hundreds of different puncture wound
s in its hull. The Faro fleet encircling them fired mercilessly, heedless of their own troops on board.
“Missiles incoming! Brace for impact!” the sensor operator warned.
Streaking silver bullets appeared out of nowhere, swelling against the black of space as they spiraled in on hot red thrusters. Muffled explosions shivered through the deck one after another, setting Wheeler’s teeth on edge.
“Shields falling below fifty percent!” Engineering announced.
“Helm, you heard the praetor! Come about and get us clear!”
“Aye, ma’am.”
More missiles chased them out of the engagement area, explosions booming like peals of thunder. Wheeler turned her control station to face aft, watching as the Halcyon shrank into the stars with their retreat.
Then, suddenly, the space around it seemed to shiver and a bright flash of light consumed the facet. It flew apart in a fiery hail of debris that tore through the encircling Faro fleet and ripped it apart. Wheeler winced away from the glare and shielded her eyes.
“They self-destructed...” Major Ward said slowly.
Wheeler nodded quietly, observing a moment of silence for the hundreds of millions who must have just died aboard Halcyon.
Another explosion boomed and shuddered through the bridge, interrupting that moment of silence. Damage reports popped up at Wheeler’s station, and alarms screamed through the air.
“Engineering! What was that?”
“One of their missiles got through our shields and scored a lucky hit on our reactor! We’re losing integrity in the containment field!”
“Lock it down!” Wheeler ordered.
“Here comes another wave!” the sensor operator warned.
Wheeler’s eyes skipped down to the grid, and she saw dozens more missiles streaking in. The Gideon’s laser cannons licked out, tracking them, but those cannons were heavy weapons, and poorly suited for point defenses. They weren’t going to get them all.
Dark Space Universe (Books 1-3): The Third Dark Space Trilogy (Dark Space Trilogies) Page 85
