A Call to Arms

by Bradley Hutchinson

  “Good job,” Palhares said, banking away towards yet another dogfight that was raging across another construction post. “That’s five, feel free to make it six.”

  “And then seven?”

  “If it isn’t too much trouble,” Palhares said, smirking as he snap-rolled onto a wing, allowing Sabre-Six to pass him… and allowing him to plough a quartet of laser blasts into the pursuing N’xin fighter. The fighter disintegrated

  Despite how easy it was to destroy a Hegemony dry-dock – they were, curiously, almost completely unshielded – Palhares wasn’t planning the victory party just yet. There were more than fifty of those things in these shipyards, to say nothing of the various defence platforms and other orbiting structures – that were all much better shielded than the dry-docks.

  And the Navy also had to contend with the N’xin fighter screen, most of whom had been pulled back from the fleet engagement to defend the shipyards. Neither side could claim an advantage – what the N’xin gained in their small numerical superiority, they lost to the Commonwealth’s technological edge.

  Thus, it became a matter of skill, daring… and luck.

  Palhares just hoped their luck held out, but as he swung his fighter around, he saw the Vindicator take the brunt of a N’xin counter-attack, darts and pulses of deadly energy reaching out through the void and stabbing deep at the Commonwealth dreadnaught.

  *

  “Sir! The flagship has been hit!”

  There was a flicker of light, and a visual of the scene coalesced onto the forward bulkhead of the bridge just in time to see the final shots of the salvo from a trio of N’xin cruisers tear into the now-unshielded starboard side of the mighty dreadnaught Vindicator.

  It was not a killing blow, however, though from the damage reports trickling in, the damage certainly wasn’t minor. Secondary explosions were still spilling out into the cold void, and Lauren could make out the silhouettes of bodies against the brightness of the detonations. Even so, the dreadnaught fired back, and one of its attackers disintegrated, a second spinning away out of control as its engines spouted flames and shrapnel into space.

  Lauren cursed silently, sighing as she punched up the data from the Vindicator – the damage report from the flagship appeared: a series of red splotches began from the midway point and up over the starboard flank, making their way up the dorsal superstructure… where the bridge was.

  “We have intermittent contact with their bridge,” Commander Chang said, hovering over the communications console. “And they’ve reinforced their starboard shield. It’s holding for the time being.”

  That won’t last long, Lauren thought, watching as a pair of N’xin cruisers angled in for a killing blow against the wounded flagship. “Helm, move us into position so we can give them additional cover.” She got an acknowledgement from Ensign Hayes before turning to Lieutenant Avery. “Give them as much cover fire as you can, Lieutenant. If we can keep them distracted, the Vindicator should be able to recover.”

  *

  “We’ve lost communications with Vindicator’s bridge!”

  Captain Celina Yuen grimaced as she braced herself against a glancing blow. The Nagano had so far escaped being noticed by the N’xin, who were intent on trading blows with the heavier warships – the Nagano, being nearly thirty years old, was, on its own, hardly a threat.

  “Helm, move us in closer to provide cover fire,” she ordered. “Try and give our fighters some more cover fire, they’re being hammered out there. And watch that pair of frigates,” she added hastily, quickly tagging the offending N’xin ships with her virtual array. The image on the viewscreen began to pitch as the Nagano manoeuvred sluggishly.

  “Communications from the auxiliary bridge of the Vindicator,” Lieutenant Laverne added. “They’re reporting casualties and moderate damage, but they say they can save her.”

  Yuen sneered. She’d heard that before over the years. Many times, in fact… and only in about half of those cases had people been able to back up that claim.

  *

  The bridge of the Vindicator looked like it had sustained a direct hit. It hadn’t, but the ruined consoles, fires, and collapsed bulkheads and support beams were enough to give an outside person the impression that it had. A coordinated salvo had managed to overwhelm the shields of the Vindicator, dancing up from the ridgeline of the massive dreadnaught, with its finishing blows landing somewhere above, and aft, of the bridge.

  David Garret, likewise, felt that he’d taken a full-on blow to the head… and other parts of his body. He was partially buried beneath what remained of the ceiling above his now ruined-station, the destroyed console cascading sparks onto his torso at random intervals. The air of the bridge was thin, suggesting that there was a breach, and atmosphere was leaking out – what air remained was thick with smoke, making it difficult to breath, stinging his eyes.

  “Damage report!” someone was shouting, but it sounded distant and faint, and David couldn’t make out who it was. “Damage report!”

  “Everyone, evacuate the bridge!” That was Hawthorne, who was standing just a few feet away from David, Numberi standing next to him, their noses buried in the crooks of their arms to try and filter out some of the smoke – the ventilation systems were struggling to clear the air, a task made more difficult by the fires that were still blazing. He glanced down and saw David staring up at him. “You okay, David?”

  “Yeah,” David said, ignoring the throbbing in his head as he pushed off the debris that was laying on top of him. Alson Numberi offered him a hand and helped David up, who supported himself against the charred remains of his workstation. “I’ve busted my ankle,” he continued as he looked around, taking in the chaos around him.

  The starboard side of the bridge was a wreck – the power conduit behind terminals lining the starboard bulkhead had been the first to blow, spraying shrapnel right across the bridge and cutting down every crewman working there. Now, it was ablaze, the heat stemming from the green-red fire almost unbearable – the fire suppression system was out.

  “Get everyone out,” Hawthorne snapped as a damage control team hurried onto their bridge, fire-suppression gear at the ready. “The auxiliary bridge has already taken over control of the ship, and the Ravager has assumed command of the fleet.”

  “Aye sir,” Numberi said, though his task was almost redundant, as most of the bridge survivors were already being carried away by members of the damage-control team – Captain Shanthi was among them, the unconscious woman being carried out.

  David had taken a shaky step when he realised something. “Where’s Hunter?”

  James Hunter had taken a direct hit to the head – first by his console exploding in his face, then by a falling bulkhead, which had pinned him to the floor a few metres from where he’d been thrown. His face was blackened and burned, and blood streamed from his nose, temple and one of his cheeks, and his left arm had been broken. He lay deathly still, flickering flames reflecting off the blood that smeared his skin.

  “I don’t think he’s got a pulse,” David said as he checked, first the neck, then the wrist, his fingers coming away wet with blood.

  “We need a medic!” Hawthorne shouted as he helped David heave the bulkhead off James’ prone torso – a sharp edge had lacerated James’ torso, opening him up from his left breast to his right hip. “He’s not going to make it, David.”

  Chapter Four

  “I’m surprised she’s up there.”

  “What do you mean?” Troy asked Michael, his gaze unwavering from Jennifer, who stood at the podium a hundred meters away, her movements swanlike as she put the Bastion Philharmonic through its paces as they played Verdi’s Requiem.

  “Jennifer,” Michael said, and Troy felt his blue eyes boring into him. “The fleet left for Horus hours ago.” He shrugged. “I’d be a wreck if my wife was off fighting in what’s probably going to be a slaughter.”

  Talk about being a pessimist, Troy thought sourly, but it wasn’t the first time
Michael had said something flippant about the war… It just never used to bother me, Troy realized, his mind flashing back to those awful hours he’d spent on Titus. Visiting that warzone, that… massacre… had changed him in ways he couldn’t begin to fathom.

  “She’s got to do something to take her mind off of it, Michael,” snapped Troy impatiently, offering a small gesture towards the podium. “She can’t stay home and brood – she’s been doing that enough as it is the last few years.”

  Michael pondered that, just as the male voices – obscured in the dark choir pit behind, and above, the orchestra – began their liturgy after being prompted by a graceful wave of Jennifer’s baton.

  “I suppose you’re right.” Michael slouched down into his seat, and Troy felt him fidget some more, and Troy was beginning to regret bringing him to the concert – normally his father accompanied him, but Patrick had been summoned to Earth – along with most major business CEOs – for a major conference on infrastructure. “Still –”

  “Michael!” Troy snapped, a little louder than he would have liked, drawing irate looks from nearby audience members, who proceeded to shush him. Troy smiled and waved them off – thankfully he hadn’t been loud enough to throw the orchestra off their game – just as well, because if he’d done that, Jennfier would have murdered him. “You seem to be missing a key ingredient of what a recital requires.”

  Michael grinned. “And what would that be?”

  Troy leaned in and growled in his ear. “Being as silent as the grave.”

  *

  “Hard to port, and give me a forty-degree climb!”

  Even as Lauren snapped the order, she felt the ship move under her, the stars projected on the forward bulkhead slipping to the right and down as the Endurance swung out over the bow of the wounded Vindicator, which itself was manoeuvring to starboard, presenting its undamaged profile to the N’xin and unleashing a full broadside from its portside batteries.

  “Admiral Hawthorne is transferring his flag to the Ravager,” Chang reported as the deck bucked beneath them.

  “Portside shields holding!” Avery reported.

  “Noted,” Lauren said, barely heeding the words as a N’xin frigate flashed past the bow of the Endurance, its forward weapons ports blazing, a squadron of Commonwealth fighters zipping past in pursuit. “There, lock onto that frigate and pursue. All ahead full, and fire at will.”

  The turn to port was reversed, and the Endurance rolled onto her starboard wing as Ensign Hayes started their pursuit. Not that the pursuit would last long if the Endurance didn’t kill her prey quickly – frigates were considerably faster and far more manoeuvrable, and could easily escape in a dogfight if they weren’t dispatched with prejudice quickly enough.

  “The Adjudicator has engaged the starboard N’xin dreadnaught.”

  “Keep an eye on that engagement, Chang,” Lauren said. With the Vindicator wounded early, the two other dreadnaughts in their taskforce would be hard pressed to hold the line for long without a breakthrough. “And find out the status of the Bellicose or the Roosevelt while you’re at it.”

  *

  “That was a wonderful concert, Jen.”

  Troy leaned against the doorway that led into the conductor’s dressing room. Compared to the hallway outside, the dressing room was sparsely lit – and it wasn’t lit that way because of a lack of lights.

  “Not really,” Jennifer said, reaching up and taking out her earrings as she flung her shoes off. “My tempo was all over the place during the Offertorio.”

  Troy waved his comment away as Jennifer pulled her hair out of its pony-tail – she’d dyed her hair blonde a month earlier, and even Troy had to concede she looked amazing. Combined with her glossy black dress and gold necklace, she was truly enticing.

  It’s a shame James isn’t here, considering his thing for blondes…

  “I don’t think many people noticed,” Troy offered, smiling. “Michael would have come back, but… well, I kinda had to drag him here to begin with, so he didn’t want to hang around too long.”

  “Probably too busy banging his new wife.” Jennifer smiled as she undid the straps to her dress. “I hate this thing,” she muttered. “Come in and help me out of this, will you?”

  Troy closed the door behind him as Jennifer presented her back to him, pointing to the zipper up the top.

  “Has there been any word?”

  Troy hesitated as he unzipped her dress, unsure whether to play for time and ask her to elaborate – he decided against it: she knew he would know what she was talking about. He waited till she’d gotten out of it before answering. “No, no word yet…” his voice trailed off as she took off her bra, throwing it down onto the ground with her dress as she stalked over to her wardrobe.

  “Would you even tell me if there was?”

  Her tone was even, but there seemed to be a hint of accusation in her tone that Troy didn’t like. He didn’t bring it up though – after all, he could have been imagining it. And even if I’m not, she’s probably seeping emotions into everything she says or does.

  “Have you ever known me to lie, Jen?”

  She smiled sweetly, taking a step over to him, a hand reaching up and stroking his cheek. “Only about your age, job, number of guys you’ve been with… and the size of your equipment.” She continued to look at him, hand on his cheek, and Troy began to feel uncomfortable, doing his best to avoid looking at her chest, and not really succeeding.

  “They’re called tits, Troy. You wanna give ‘em a squeeze?”

  “No thanks, I’m good.” Troy let out a nervous laugh, shaking his head as his gaze moved up to her eyes. Despite her sharp tone, she was smiling, though there wasn’t much humour in her tired, worried eyes. She offered him a light slap to the cheek before she returned to the wardrobe.

  “I will tell you if I hear anything, Jen.”

  *

  Lauren picked herself up off the deck, bracing herself against the arm of her command chair as the deck beneath her threatened to give way again. The Endurance had been caught, while arcing back towards the Ravager, by a full broadside by the surviving Hegemony dreadnaught, and had been savaged by it – the shields had held, then failed, allowing a dozen or so bolts of high-energy plasma to lance into her ship’s hull.

  “Casualty reports coming in from all over the ship,” Chang told her, only managing to remain upright by holding on the communications chair for dear life. “We’ve lost propulsion, and shields are gone.”

  “Status of weapons?” Lauren barked, managing to make it into her chair, holding the shredded remains of her seat-belt up and sighing. “Weapons!” she barked again, turning to face the tactical console.

  “Avery’s dead, ma’am,” Ensign Jinping, her junior Weapon’s officer, said. “We’re out of torpedoes… and our portside batteries are gone.” He tapped at his barely functional control board. “Starboard batteries at seventy percent.”

  Lauren cursed softly – the starboard weapons were facing mostly friendly targets, and without any propulsion systems she couldn’t move her ship around to bring her functioning weapons to bear.

  “Don’t shoot anything,” Lauren cautioned. “We’re a sitting duck, we can’t afford to take chances until we get some repairs underway.” She pressed the intercom on the arm of her chair. “Engineering, report!”

  “Heavy damage to primary reactor; we’re functioning on auxiliary power only.”

  “Get me shields and a means to move, stat!” Lauren cut the line sharply, almost smashing the membrane of the control pad. She turned to face the communications station. “Chang, get me a sit-rep. I need to know what the hell is happening out there!”

  *

  “The Endurance is in trouble.”

  “I know, I know,” Commander Palhares said as he dove his fighter over the bow of the burning wreck of the Christchurch; the poor Murmansk-class destroyer had been mauled about thirty minutes earlier – most of its once sleek lines had been reduced to jagged, burnt e
dges of twisted metal: a drifting testament to more than a hundred dead soldiers. “There are a lot of ships in trouble out there.”

  He was momentarily blinded as the N’xin dreadnaught he was hurtling towards detonated – something near its stern exploded, and the fireball raced forward down its centreline, chunks of the ship the size of frigates hurtling away at supersonic speeds in a flash so bright it threatened to sear the optic nerves of Palhares’ eyes.

  “Two dreadnaughts down, one to go.”

  Palhares punched up data and coordinates on the surviving dreadnaught. Unsurprisingly, it was the dreadnaught in the very centre of the Hegemony formation – its shields were weakened, but still functional, and its weapon systems were still fully operational, their lethality only checked by the number of friendlies surrounding it.

  “Let’s focus our efforts on the remaining one,” Palhares said over the Fleet-Com. “Take it out, scare the N’xin, maybe they’ll get the hint and fuck off and leave us in peace.”

  “Were it so easy…”

  *

  As a doctor in the military for nearly thirty years, Lê Van Lam had seen a lot of terrible things in her time, but the patient before her – brought from the nearly destroyed bridge of the Vindicator – was a contender for the worst; he was certainly the worst of those brought from the bridge.

  A superheated support beam had fallen on top of him during the initial onslaught, caving in the front of the man’s skull, burning through his flesh; as if that wasn’t bad enough, his torso had been torn open, cracking his rib cage and crushing a lung. Even if the injuries hadn’t killed him – which they had – then the resulting loss of blood would have.

  “Too much damage, too little time,” Van Lam murmured to herself, deciding not to comment on the obvious futility of trying to resuscitate. A re-life was this poor sod’s only chance. Lê looked at the frightened nurse. “Lieutenant Frost, TOD… 1323. Download his VA into the main computer, in preparation for re-life.”