Fire from Ashes

by Sam Schall

  “If I may, Admiral?” When he nodded, Lucinda continued. “The groundside defense is in far better shape now than it was when we arrived. For once, the Callusians didn’t completely destroy the infrastructure as soon as they landed. Because of that, once we retook the capital, the local army was able to bring their systems back online. Repairs have been made to them and to the defense platform controls. More than that, the locals have had a taste of what it would be like to live under Callusian control. They will do all they can to prevent that from ever becoming their reality. That lets us use my Marines more to our advantage which, right now, means keeping them shipboard and ready to respond where they are most needed.”

  She didn’t like it. The Warlords were much better trained to deal with the enemy, but she was also a reality. If the Callusians managed to defeat the taskforce, the surviving Marines would have little chance of holding them off-planet. Every one of them would die and for no reason.

  Damn Hale for not sending the reinforcements she’d asked for!

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we should know more about what we’re facing in another few hours. Until then, let’s expect the worst and plan for it. Hopefully, we will be pleasantly surprised,” O’Malley said.

  “Sir, I hate to say it, but shouldn’t we at least consider withdrawing, even temporarily, from the system?”

  Lucinda forced herself not to frown. Instead, she glanced around the table to locate the speaker. When she spotted him, she no longer fought her frown. In her time with the taskforce, she learned Commander Hunter Idell much preferred playing from a position of power. Not that she blamed him. She preferred it as well. However, she learned long ago that wasn’t always possible in war. Sometimes, you simply had to meet the enemy head on.

  “Commander, I appreciate you broaching the subject and the answer is no. We haven’t fought this hard to protect the system just to walk away.” He waited until Idell nodded before continuing. “Add to that the fact we would have to leave the Perry and most of its crew behind if we were to withdraw. I am not willing to do that.”

  For the next few minutes, the pros and cons of withdrawing the remnants of the taskforce were debated. Lucinda watched O’Malley, wondering how long he’d let the debate continue before putting an end to it. She understood why he let it continue, even after he said the taskforce would remain in-system. None of them wanted to die, which very well might happen in the upcoming hours, but they had sworn an oath to do so if necessary to protect Fuercon and her allies.

  “All right, ladies and gentlemen, we have a great deal to do before the enemy is close enough for this fight to resume,” O’Malley said as the debate wound down. “We will meet, not necessarily in person, every two hours until the enemy is an hour outside of weapons range. The taskforce will go to General Quarters an hour before that. In the meantime, make sure your people know what our current status is and get them ready.” He stood, and they quickly followed his example. “It has been an honor and a pleasure serving with each of you and I have every confidence we will come through this upcoming battle victorious.”

  “Ooh-rah,” Lucinda said just loud enough to be heard around the table. Then she paused, listening to the latest report coming in over the battlenet. “Sir, Tactical has probable locations for the Odins ready for your approval. Once you’ve given it, the shuttles will be ready to launch.”

  “Then let’s be about it. Dismissed.”

  Callusian Warship Sobek

  Ludo Jurić stalked onto the bridge. As he did, he growled for someone to silence the alarms. They were still too far out for them to be sounding and they were giving him a headache. Without a word, doing their best not to bring his attention to themselves, the members of the bridge crew did as he said. They had served with the commander long enough to know not to do anything to draw his ire when he was in such a mood.

  “Status?” he barked as he slouched in the command chair in the center of the bridge.

  “The enemy appears to have remained in-system, Commander.” As he spoke, the man activated the holo-display at the front of the bridge. “Their relative position has not changed over the last half hour.”

  “Are they aware of our approach?”

  “They should be.” The scanners operator hunched his shoulders, as if expecting a blow.

  “Should be?” Jurić climbed to his feet. A moment later, he stood behind the younger man. As he rested his hands on the man’s shoulders, Jurić smiled slightly to feel him flinch. Like so many others who had risen through the ranks of the Callusian military, he often resorted to assassination to do so. His crew knew it and knew, some by first-hand experience, that he did not accept anything but their complete loyalty. Failure to follow orders and to bring him the glory of victory always resulted in pain and, all too often, death.

  Goran Ivanishvili swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, sir. If their scanners are operational, they should be aware of our approach.”

  Jurić tightened his grip on Ivanishvili’s shoulders enough to make him wince. Then he stepped back, his expression thoughtful. Inside, however, his blood boiled. The Fuerconese had surprised him time and again since the taskforce’s arrival in-system. He had underestimated them and that allowed the Fuerconese to force him to flee. Even outnumbered, the enemy had managed to withstand everything he threw at them during that first encounter. Oh, he’d hurt them, but they had hurt his command worse. He had no choice that day but to withdraw and make repairs before attempting to retake the system.

  Bad as that had been, the continuing interference of his Midlothian “advisor” had been worse. The late and unlamented fool kept telling him – HIM! – how to fight the battle. Worse, the fool wanted him to send for reinforcements. He didn’t understand that would not only be an admission of failure but an open invitation for anyone who wanted his command to try for it. The last thing he needed was to be constantly looking over his shoulder in case someone should decide to assassinate him. He had a battle to fight and win.

  During the last encounter with the Fuerconese, the Midlothian – What had his name been? Kevin Goto? – met with an unfortunate accident. At least that was what his report said. Unofficially, Goto met his fate with a fatal walk out an airlock at the point of a gun. Well, walk might not be exactly the right word. The man had been dragged, screaming and pissing himself in fear. It had been a joy to witness and something Jurić recommended each of his fellow commanders saddled with one of their new allies as “advisors” take.

  Unfortunately, he hadn’t acted sooner. The constraints put on him by his own senior command meant he had to listen to Goto and give him enough rope to hang himself. Those constraints cost him ships and people. But now he had a free hand and he would make the Fuerconese pay.

  “What is the current estimate of the enemy force?” he asked as he returned to his seat.

  “Initial estimate matches that of our last encounter, sir,” Lieutenant Willem Corso answered. “We won’t have a better estimate until we have closed on their position.”

  “Time to intercept?”

  “Twelve hours at our current speed, sir,” the navigator answered.

  Jurić leaned forward, his brow furrowed. “The enemy’s speed?”

  “They appear to be holding position, sir.”

  Jurić turned his attention to the small plot at his right knee. As he did, he reminded himself not to react to the news the Fuerconese commander appeared to be holding his ships in their current location. Part of him hoped it meant the enemy ships had been more badly damaged in their last encounter than believed. But another part, the part that had kept him alive all these years, warned it might be a trap.

  “Helm, slow our speed by one quarter,” he ordered, carefully considering the plot. “Comms, send word to the bay. They are to launch a probe. Let’s see exactly what the Fuerconese have in plan for us.”

  “Commander,” the communications officer began a few moments later. “The bay reports we have no more probes. We launched the last of them as we w
ithdrew last time.”

  Jurić ground his teeth together even as he pulled up the latest report. He quickly scanned it. As he did, his lips peeled back and anger spiked. Everyone on the bridge cringed when he personally sent for the boat bay officer. Silence, the silence of those who knew they just avoided the executioner’s block, settled over the bridge. Jurić ignored it, turning his focus instead back to the plot and all its unanswered questions.

  A few minutes later, the lift doors slid open and the boat bay officer stepped onto the bridge. Jurić glanced at him. As he did, the commander had to give it to the man. Since sending for him, the bridge crew had all but pissed themselves in an attempt to avoid coming to Jurić’s attention. The BBO looked a little pale but otherwise appeared calm and confident. That meant he either felt he held the upper hand and the only way he might is if he had better political contacts than Jurić himself or he was a fool. Jurić’s money was on him being a fool. Not that it mattered. Any connections the man might have were far from there and would never learn the truth of what happened to the man.

  “I understand we have no probes to launch. Is that correct?” Jurić almost smiled as all but Chehallis hunched over their work stations, becoming as small of a target as possible.

  “We launched the last of them as we departed from the field last time,” Chehallis replied. “Sir,” he added, looking but not sounding contrite for showing the proper respect.

  “And you reported this when?”

  “In my initial report after our withdrawal.”

  Jurić frowned. Chehallis seemed too sure of himself. Suspicious, the commander glanced around the bridge. Could the man have allies among the others? It wouldn’t be the first time a ship’s commander had been assassinated on the bridge. The gods knew, he had done it himself.

  Leaning back, doing his best to look relaxed and non-threatening, Jurić slowly, carefully eased his right hand closer and closer to the pistol hidden in the arm of his command chair. As he did, a slight smile lifted one corner of his mouth. Chehallis might believe he held the upper hand but he, and any working with him, would soon learn differently.

  “I see. So tell me, Mr. Chehallis, where is that report? Perhaps you wrote it but forget to send it because it is not in my comms queue.”

  “Perhaps the commander accidentally erased it.”

  Oh, he was smooth. He was also edging closer toward a quick death. Normally, Jurić wouldn’t consider killing a member of his crew this close to battle but he saw no other option. He didn’t dare allow insubordination fester into mutiny when his attention was on the enemy.

  “Mr. Chehallis, it is clear one of us is a fool and I assure you, it isn’t me.” His thumb depressed the hidden button on the arm of the chair. Soundlessly, the top of the arm slid back and the pistol slipped into his grasp. “Either you failed to do your duty or you believe yourself – or someone else – would be a better commander of the Sobek and the taskforce. Which would it happen to be?”

  Whatever Chehallis had been about to say, he fell silent at the sight of the pistol pointing at his forehead. Sweat suddenly dotted his upper lip. Jurić noted the way he glanced to his right, to the communications officer. Well, at least he had a decent back up. Besides, two bodies always made a point better than one.

  “M-me, sir?”

  “Very good, Mr. Chehallis.” He nodded in approval. “And would you have been so foolish as to convince others to work against me on my own ship?”

  “N-no, sir. I-I haven’t tried to work against you, sir.”

  Chehallis took a step back. Before he could take another, Jurić fired. The needler ripped through the man’s forehead, obliterating the top of his head. Without pausing, Jurić turned and fired into the back of the comms officer’s head. Several of the others on the bridge, started nervously and left their stations momentarily. Then, eyeing their commander warily, they returned to their chairs and got back to work. Jurić smiled grimly, confident he wouldn’t have to worry about them deciding to mutiny any time soon.

  “Mr. Ivanishvili, contact their seconds and inform them of their promotions. Have them report to their new duty stations without delay.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Ivanishvili did as ordered, Jurić once again leaned back in the command chair. He looked at the plot, wondering what they would find when they were finally within weapons range. He could tell little about the enemy’s formation. The fact the Fuerconese weren’t coming out to meet his ships could mean several things but his gut told him it meant one thing only – he’d hurt them badly in their last encounter. It was possible, at least one ship was badly damaged. With luck, it was their flagship. He had no doubt if they managed to destroy or capture it, the other ships would fall in short order. The Fuerconese, despite all they managed to make the rest of the sector think, were nothing but cowards. They didn’t understand the glory of battle, much less embrace it.

  “Helm, maintain course. Make sure the damage control teams understand I expect repairs on our weapons systems to be completed before we engage the enemy,” he said. “Inform section chiefs that anyone failing to complete their assignments before we enter the enemy’s weapons envelop will find themselves spaced along with their crew chiefs.”

  The helmsman swallowed hard before acknowledging the order.

  Jurić nodded in satisfaction. Soon, he would do what none of his fellow commanders had been able to accomplish since this war resumed. He would defeat an entire Fuerconese taskforce instead of just a ship or two.

  Oh, the glories that would be hung on him when he returned home.

  The Campbell rocked as an enemy torpedo made it through the ship’s defenses. Lucinda Ortega cursed as the deck seemed to roll under her, throwing her against the bulkhead. Even though her battle armor absorbed the impact, it still jarred her sore muscles. The last six hours had been hell as the two taskforces exchanged fire, each trying for a kill shot that might finally turn the tide of battle.

  Doing her best to tune out the almost continual requests for damage control teams and medics, Lucinda continued toward the bridge. She paused next to one of the many utility ladders and cursed again. Even though the ship still had power, she knew the dangers of being caught in a lift if the enemy managed to get in a lucky strike. That meant using ladders between decks. For not the first time, she wished they dared turn off the artificial gravity. Moving from one deck to another would be so much better in low- to zero-grav.

  “Sorceress, Agni.”

  The sound of her LAC commander’s voice stopped Lucinda for a moment. Then she stepped to the side as yet another damage control crew slid down the last few rungs of the ladder. Once they moved out of the way, she started up, knowing she should be on the bridge just then to direct her Marines as they waited for a chance to finally take the fight to the enemy.

  “Agni, Sorceress, go ahead.”

  “We’re taking a beating out here, Sorceress,” the young lieutenant said. “But we managed to break through and are proceeding to the target. Anything you can do to get us some help?”

  “Doing my best, Agni.” She paused and swung to the side of the ladder as two Navy ratings climbed down. Then she once again started up, calling for anyone ahead of her to make a hole. Rank had some privileges after all, even in a battle.

  “Roger that, Sorceress. We’ll keep at them as long as we can. Agni, out.”

  Ortega gritted her teeth and quickened her pace. A few minutes later, she strode onto the bridge. All around her, men and women worked to carry out Admiral O’Malley’s orders. The admiral paced the bridge, his expression calm but his eyes . . . his eyes looked haunted.

  “Admiral, Agni reported in. They’ve broken through but requesting any assistance we can give them.”

  O’Malley jerked his head in the direction of his ready room. Lucinda followed. A moment later, they stood in front of the hatch, their backs to the bridge.

  “Lucinda, I don’t have anything to send them.” Regret filled the admiral’s voice and s
he understood. He felt every death they’d suffered just as much as she did. “Unless you want to send in the battle shuttles.”

  She closed her eyes. He had just tacitly given his permission to send in the shuttles and she was tempted to do so. Their LAC numbers had been whittled down by enemy fire to little more than a single fighter group. That meant she had fewer than one hundred LACs still in the battle. Something had to be done to assist them before they were all lost.

  But the battle shuttles. . ..

  Lucinda closed her eyes and considered the option. The shuttles might help keep the battle from tipping firmly to the enemy’s favor. Even so, she knew sending them in would be little short of signing their crew’s death warrants. Heavily armored, the shuttles design made them perfect for boarding enemy ships. But they were slower, less maneuverable than the LACs. Perfect targets, easy targets for enemy fire.

  But if it helped keep the taskforce safe even a few more hours, it might let them last long enough for Taskforce Sentinel to arrive.

  “All right.” She ran a hand over her face. God, she hoped she was making the right decision. “My recommendation?” She waited until O’Malley nodded. “We launch the attack shuttles from all ships except this one and the Perry.”

  “Reasoning?” he asked.

  “The Perry’s shuttles can help protect it and pave the way if we have to withdraw. I want our shuttles available in case we finally manage to capture one of their ships. We need a way to send over boarding parties.”

  O’Malley considered her recommendations and then nodded. “See to it.”

  “May I use your ready room, sir?”

  “Of course.” With that, he turned and moved back to his command chair, asking for a status update as he did.