War Master Candidate Omnibus

by Will Crudge

  “Ma’am! The Broadsword Squadron has jumped into the wrong point in space!” Scottish-hottie-guy shouts.

  I wave him off and nod. They came out exactly where the universe needed them too! I think to myself. Obviously, some form of human error was factored into the cosmos’ grand scheme of ‘stuff,’ so I don’t panic. Besides, they’re now in full formation… directly to the rear of the enemy thruster arrays… and at the relatively point-blank range to boot.

  The Broadsword Squadron opens up with a massive salvo, and the Mwargoth ships are still committed to keeping their shielding concentrated towards our valiant cruisers that are facing them head-on. Plumes of vented atmosphere and debris obscure the visual sight of the squadron, but they will likely maintain their assault until the ‘squid-tards’ get smart and begin to counter them.

  Then a massive surge of light energy floods our visual display, and energy detection warnings flash red throughout the CIC. I catch myself nervously biting my lip in response. Either an enemy ship has gone nuclear, or they jumped away by whatever advanced FTL method they use. I have no clue either way, so I make sure my composure maintains a confident disposition. Head erect. Shoulders back and squared. The face of steel.

  The screens begin to clear up, and the sight is horrific. Blue blips are now roughly half of what they were before, and we’re badly outnumbered. It appears to me that about a third of the enemy ships have jumped away. This is likely by design. Their powerful FTL transition sent shockwaves through our plain of existence, and the resulting energetic release has annihilated hundreds of thousands of human lives.

  I could vomit right now… but gastrointestinal pyrotechnics will have to wait. Even with so many alien ships gone, our remaining forces are critically outnumbered and badly outgunned. The worst part of it all… Fleet Marshal Darius is nowhere on the scan. Neither is Throat-Slasher.

  LRF-90’s can avoid most detection at the range, but we should be able to track their ion trails easily enough. The battlespace is far too chaotic to try and find a needle in a stack of needles right now. It’s time to refocus, yet again.

  “I need a status on our fighter squadrons, and an estimated casualty count, ASAP!” I shout. I don’t direct my order at anyone in particular. I just know someone will jump on it. I have faith in this tiny crew of misfits and red-eyed coffee hounds.

  “Fighters cleared the battlespace, and are rounding their apex!” Anders reports. I have no clue what ’apex’ means, but I’m guessing it’s their furthest point out during their arcing maneuver.

  “We’ve lost at least twenty ships of the line, and scores of support vessels!” Scottish guy reports. “Broadsword Squadron is down to sixty percent strength, but their flagship is unscathed!”

  As shocking as the report of carnage is, I can’t help but try and be grateful for the minimal losses that Broadsword sustained. Perhaps the energy release of the alien FTL was deflected by the forward and flanking shields of the other squid ships that didn’t jump. But now is no time to devote any mental energy to formulating theories.

  “Enemy ships are breaking formation!” Silvia calls out. They sure as shit are. It appears as if they’ve decided to abandon a formation and embrace the chaos of war.

  But they don’t get too far…

  Meanwhile inside the Doom-Raptor…

  Darius pushes hard on the throttle lever while yanking the stick back. The view from the cockpit canopy is dominated by alien hull plating. Too close! He tells himself, as he drops throttle and rolls into a tight banking maneuver.

  “Cooper has ordered an arcing maneuver for the squadrons,” Doom reported. Darius let his upper lip curl in annoyance.

  “Any sign of the ‘hammer’?” Darius asks. He knew the answer was a definitive ‘no,’ but his mind was too clouded to grasp onto reality.

  “No. I’m sorry, boss.” The NAV replied. “Jep and Jimma are joining the heard. Shall we?”

  A devastating surge of defeatism surged through Darius’ entire being, and he knew he had to relent. He even wondered if he should surrender full control over to the NAV. He knew Doom was a highly competent warrior, and would always make objective tactical decisions.

  “Do it,” Darius mumbled. He released the hand controls and buried his face in his hands before slumping back into his seat. The limp body movements made his armored chest plate seem to rise as he settled, and his neck sunk down into the collar of the armor.

  “Let Doom take over, dear,” Sam said with a soothing voice.

  “I don’t know if I can feel her or not, Sam!” Darius said as he began to cry openly.

  “Don’t hold back how you feel. At least that’s what Val would be telling you right now.”

  Darius embraced her words, and let his emotions run free. The pain seemed to manifest inside his body, and he felt his muscles ball up into knots. His sobs seemed to offer no refuge. His pain seemed like a horrible nightmare.

  Then he noticed his breathing began to slow, and sobbing spasm began to wane. The world became dark and peaceful. He slipped into a deep sleep.

  *****

  “Alright, Doom. I’ve got him sedated.” Sam said after double-checking Darius’ vitals. “We can take him back to the Thermopylae now.”

  “Nah, I don’t think so, chick!” Doom snapped back.

  “Why the hell wouldn’t we take him back, you idiot?” Sam fired back.

  “Because this is an LRF-90, and we have aliens to kill.”

  “Excuse me? We have the fucking Fleet Marshal onboard, and he’s incapacitated right now!” Sam lectured sternly.

  “He’s my boss because I’ve vowed to serve his family… For centuries… I might add. He’s not my Fleet Marshal, Sam!”

  “Just what in the hell are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to do what the Arcturians intended me to do… kill the Champions of Permanence!” Doom said as he sent a winking icon to Sam’s node.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Sam asked incredulously. “What do you have to do with an extinct alien race, and what in the flying fuck is a ‘Champion of Permanence’?”

  “It’s the truth that few humans … and even fewer AI’s know, girly!”

  Back to Katherine…

  I hear the footfalls of dress shoes behind me. Heavy footed, and moving with a purpose. I turn around to see an exasperated General Garcia. His hair is slightly disheveled, and he’s breathing hard. His black stubble tells me that he was sleeping soundly when we were first attacked.

  “Report!” He demands. I just stare at him blankly for a moment. I make sure my face resembles someone who isn’t about to put up with his shit, but I manage to hold back how I really feel.

  “I have the CON, by order of the Fleet Marshal,” I say calmly and as a matter of fact. He jerks his head back and blinks out of surprise.

  “Midas, confirm this insanity!” Garcia shouts while keeping his scornful eyes locked on mine.

  “It is confirmed. Fleet Marshal Darius has placed her in command until such a time as combat operations have halted, or he rescinds the order.” Midas says calmly. Garcia is none too happy. He shakes his head and flares his nostrils for several moments before speaking.

  “Very well, Katherine.” He says. “Please update me… As a professional courtesy, of course.” He says with no shortage of passive aggressiveness. I don’t know if he’s sexist, sleep deprived, or just being a sore loser, but he’s certainly more than I care to deal with at the moment. It’s obvious he has no clue that thousands of lives are lost for sure.

  I give him a polite nod, but I take care not to smile… As if I could smile right now… then I point to the display. The casualty counts are rising fast, and he quickly changes his demeanor as a result.

  “Dear, God!” He gasps. His posture sinks down, and he struggles to grasp the back of a nearby seat. He pivots the deck mounted seat and sinks into it slowly. I wish I had time to show him sympathy, but I don’t. I’m only holding it together because I’ve been in the CIC fr
om the beginning, whilst he’s getting the truth bomb all at once.

  I turn back to the screen and see what I had been hoping for. The swarm of fighters are converging on the Mwargoth fleet before they can create any significant distance between their own hulls. This should reduce the casualty count for the single seat Mark series fighters. I can only pray it stays that way.

  But then a new pattern emerges in my mind. A flicker of inspiration, if you will.

  “Midas?” I ask.

  “Yes?”

  “Do any of the Mark-6’s or Mark-8’s have nukes or SK’s?”

  “Forty low yield tac-nukes, five megaton warheads, and twenty-four SK’s to be exact,” Midas replies instantly. I figured I could count on him for exact numbers.

  I tap away at my manual interface pad and jot down a scheme of maneuver with a method of fire and control annex. I double check it, as if I knew what the fuck I was doing, and then send it to Midas.

  “Well done, Katherine,” Midas says. “Orders transmitted… Acknowledgment received.” I let myself enjoy a soothing breath, and pray that I didn’t just send ten thousand pilots to their deaths.

  “And what shall the LRF’s do?” Midas says. I get the strange feeling that Midas is somehow conspiring with the cosmos to fight this battle through my dumbass brain.

  Without a second thought, I type away at the interface pad. I don’t bother looking. I’ll just let Midas decide if I’m an idiot or not.

  “Very – interesting – plan.” He says. My butthole puckers hard at his reaction. What the fuck did I just do?

  Meanwhile, aboard the Star Fury…

  Brigadier General Cooper sat fully erect at his command console. His CIC was abuzz with frantic activity, but he decided to mentally block out the chaos in the background. He focused his mind on his myriad of tasks, and soon the sights and sounds of his command staff and bustling NCO’s faded into shadows in his periphery.

  As if he were on autopilot, he toggled the fields of truncated data that were constantly updating before his eyes. He knew the information was heavily filtered whereby he only would have to sift through details that were relevant to his station. Satisfied his information was up-to-muster, he noted an incoming direct hail in his audio net queue. The data label was an image of a stylized ‘male member’ in full array. He shook his head, cracked a smirk, and tapped to accept the hail.

  “What is it now, Doom?” He asked the sentient NAV system.

  “I have a request, general,” Doom replied in short order.

  “And why is it necessary to contact me directly?” Cooper said with a scowl. “I do have a CAG that can address the needs of fighter pilots, or asshole LRF-90 NAV’s. We are in combat, in case you didn’t realize.”

  “Yes, I know. That’s why I need to speak to you directly. I can’t afford to lose time by speaking through a third party when giga-ton nukes are required!” Doom fired back with no shortage of irreverence in his voice.

  Cooper’s eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead. “Ok, Doom… You’ve got my attention.”

  “I need to make you a trade.”

  “A trade?” Cooper gasped.

  “One sedated space messiah that you call your ‘Fleet Marshal,’ in exchange for a giga-ton space mine, and someone with both ordinance and loading dock experience.” Doom rattled off.

  “Darius? Is he alright?” Cooper asked urgently.

  “Fit as a fiddle, physically.” Doom paused. “Bat-shit crazy, emotionally. Sedating the senior ranking officer in a theater of combat seemed logical. His grief-stricken over the loss of Kara and her crew. We can’t afford for him to make any major decisions when he’s emotionally compromised, after all.”

  “Got it. Now about this other thing…”

  “Right! I’ve analyzed the enemy formation… They’re not flying chaotically out of panic. It’s a ploy to fain confusion. They want us to commit to a concentrated attack. Then they use their high-energy FTL transitions to take out the bulk of our remaining combat power.” Doom explained.

  “So, you came up with this yourself, or is this what Midas thinks?” Cooper asked with a suspicious tone.

  “Unless you know something I don’t, then can you really afford to question me?”

  I hate it when he’s right! Cooper thought to himself. “Ok, so you need a dock-master with an understanding on nukes… I don’t have one of those. If I did, then we couldn’t just arm a nuke and then load it up. It’s too high of a risk to my ship.”

  “That’s why he or she will have to hitch a ride. Besides, I need a strong back to hurl that sucker out of my main hatch.”

  Cooper let the NAV’s words digest in his mind for a few moments. Then a thought came to him in a flash.

  “What if I can get you Mark-8 pilot who’s both nukes certified, and slings cargo for his civilian career?” Cooper asked.

  “Perfect, who is he?”

  “Call sign, Turnbuckle. He’s a recently activated reservist that spends his civilian time as a captain of a freighter. He’s also got an up to date nuclear ordinance certification.”

  “Hot damn! I’ll take him!” Doom spouted, as he sent an icon of a pair of hands clapping to Cooper’s console display.

  “Recalling him now,” Cooper said as he worked to transmit the order. “The mine is being unboxed and prepped as we speak. I’ll send you the approach pattern.”

  “Approach pattern?” Doom sneered. “Pfft! You might as well hand Pablo Picasso a box of store brand crayons! I’m a two-thousand-year-old sentient NAV aboard the most powerful fighter-hull known throughout all of history! Just give me the docking assignment, and let me worry about the telemetry, you feel me?”

  “I don’t let a pigeon get within one hundred clicks of my hull unless it follows a pre-approved vector!” Cooper fired back.

  “Noted, and ignored. I’ll ping the dock-master AI with my IDENT code when I get within thirty seconds of my arrival.” Doom continued.

  “Thirty seconds? Are you suicidal? My auto-defense cannons will shred your hull long before then! My approach vector will also include a ‘hold-fire’ command for that ingress pattern.”

  “That’s why I’m going in at ninety degrees, and lead your hull in a ‘T-crossing’ pattern. I’ll DECEL in time to avoid burning your hull plating, and switch to retro-thrusters on final approach.”

  Cooper stood silently for several seconds. That’s either the most brilliant maneuver I’ve ever heard of, or the most idiotic. I can’t decide which. He thought to himself. “So, basically your plan is to use the nuke on the most densely clustered enemy ships after my fighters launch their SK’s and tac-nukes? Thereby triggering their self-destruct safeguards to activate and cause a cascading string of high-yield explosions among their capital ships?”

  *****

  Samantha, the AI scoffed.

  Doom replied sheepishly.

  Sam exclaimed.

 

  Sam fired back earnestly.

  Doom replied with reluctance.

  “You’ve got it, General! Use big nuke to use their own superior tech against them. ETA ninety-three seconds.” Doom reported over the audio link before closing it.

  “Was that so hard?” Sam chuckled.

  “Bite me, Sam,” Doom said under the digital equivalent of his breath. “Now I need you to ask Midas for a data packet that Skull wrote.”

  “Which one am I asking for?”

  “The one labeled, ‘Fuck_With_Kara.exe.’” Doom replied. “Midas encapsulated it with a hexadecimal header packet that w
ill allow me to transmit it directly into the enemy sensor displays.”

  “You’re going to hack the enemy with images of horse penises, aren’t you?” Sam asked. If she had a head, then Doom she figured she’d be shaking it right now. “I suppose this is some kind of absurd aspect of your plan?”

  “Yes,” Doom stated, as a matter of fact. “If you don’t want the alien horde to know that nasty bombs are heading their way, then you confuse them with horse penises. Everyone knows that!”

  “Nobody knows that, you moron!” Sam scowled.

  “Seriously, Sam… You need to read up on General Patton. That’s how he beat Montgomery across the Rhine!”

  “And next you’ll tell me that Hannibal Barca crossed the Alps to invade Rome by using plasma cutters and cyborg elephants!” Sam retorted.

  “Robot velociraptors, actually.”

  HITTING THE FAN

  I’m keeping tabs on all of our combat assets in the battlespace. What’s left of our fleet is falling back to regroup after one-third of the Mwargoth fleet jumped into FTL. The violent energy release from their transition caused catastrophic damage.

  The fighter squadrons aboard the Star Fury were bolstered by marine and naval fighters from the fleet, but I placed two squadrons of Crimson Fleet fighters and a wing of GBE Royal Space Fleet fighters under the command of BG Cooper. They’re all in a final phase of a wide arcing maneuver and are within seconds of being able to range the enemy ships with heavy weapons.

  I’ve kept the Thermopylae back from the engagement area for now. Although I could use the firepower that the juggernaut can bring to the table, it’s the only safe bet to evacuate damaged ships, or any non-FTL vessels from the battle space if things go wrong… or worse than it is now.

  I keep praying that our calls for reinforcements will turn this shit-storm into a victory. The ‘fleet’ I’m commanding, is merely a small ‘pocket fleet’ that can fit within the juggernaut. It’s only one of the hundreds that exist, but space is a big damn place. The data bursts I’ve sent could take hours, days, or even weeks to make it anywhere. I sent out a handful of FTL capable transmitter probes, but there’s no telling if they’ll come out of FTL within range of any friendly assets. The QET calls were instantaneous, but the recipients are stretched out so far across the stars, that the data bursts will likely call in reinforcements far faster… If anyone is even listening.