We have to end this, and fast!
The battle broke up into a series of images, each one more violent and shorter than the last. A pair of Terrans dragged a wounded comrade to safety behind a statue before being cut down by a Median officer carrying a pulse carbine. He in turn was almost cut in half by pulse cannon fire from Glaucon. On the other side, Tamara and four Terrans armed with pistols and kopis blades had broken out into a large crew section. They were busy butchering any and every automaton and Medes they could find. Xenophon fired at any targets that appeared, but there was still no sign of the illusive commander. A double-width blast door slid open, and a dozen Medes rushed in; each of these armed with carbines and medium armour plating. Their gunfire pinned down Glaucon’s team, and just as quickly the battle bogged down.
“Watch out!” yelled somebody.
Xenophon didn’t even know who was speaking, but four Median soldiers landed behind the shield and brought down cruel looking axes upon them. Xenophon had never seen these weapons in their hands before, and they swung them with surprising speed and dexterity. Xenophon was no monster in battle, but he was fast and almost as agile as Artemas. He parried the first strike with Clearchus’ weapon and then discharged a round into the face of his attacker. The nameless Terran carrying the shield generator took an impact in the shoulder. The armour absorbed most of the blow, but the impact still rendered his arm useless and forced him to his knees. Xenophon dodged another blow, but this time missed with his return fire.
This is starting to fall apart.
More gunfire came down from the scattering of Median soldiers on the higher levels and onto the open command deck, hitting Terrans and automatons alike. Several were struck before they were able to scramble behind cover. A loud, booming voice roared down like an ancient god, but in a language meaning nothing to anybody but Artemas and the other Medes. As it continued, she grabbed the soldier trying to lock Xenophon’s arm, snapped his neck, and hurled his body to the ground.
“It is Darbabad Qahreman. He is calling all of his warriors to aid in his defence.”
Two more Medes leapt in, and Tamara rushed from cover to knock them both to the ground. She straddled the one and stabbed him repeatedly in every gap in his armour she could find.
“Where is he?” asked Xenophon.
His voice was desperate, almost pleading.
Artemas listened to a few more words and then looked up at the raised platforms, gantries, and walkways. She stopped at one point and smiled while lifting her arm to point.
“There, six floors up on that balcony.”
Xenophon looked up quickly and strained his eyes. Further up inside the ship, the ceiling narrowed to the reverse side of a cylindrical observation window. It looked up into the levels of the gunnery decks and along a series of black granite pillars. A shape moved, and then he saw the form of a heavily armoured leader, resplendent in a tall helm and flowing cloak.
“We have him,” he said quietly, and a smile appeared on his face.
CHAPTER NINE
Carian Battleship ‘Boubak’, Core Worlds
Of all the ships in the Carian fleet, Boubak was the oldest. There were rumours at some of the Median shipyards that this particular ship was the oldest Elamite still operational in the entire fleet. If that were true, it would make her over four hundred years old, a feat that even the fleet’s commander, Darbabad Forouzandeh thought unlikely. The gun ports and fighters’ hangars were all sealed shut behind reinforced plating, giving the warship a sleek and agile look. The symbols and markings running along the flanks of the ship were written in jet black in the symbols of the Ancient Medes. Burn and friction markings covered her hull from a thousand voyages and battles.
“We have arrived!” said the Sarvan.
As he said the words, the large formation of Carian ships transferred their power to the dampeners and stabilisers, and they dropped out of light-speed. Without the incredible advances in ship design and engineering, it would have taken months for such deceleration. The old ship groaned at the immense strains placed on her with the rapid deceleration, but her engineers had built her well. In just a few seconds, the ship had effectively halted in space at the pre-selected coordinates.
“We are at the rendezvous point?” asked Darbabad Forouzandeh.
The Sarvan bowed in affirmation.
“Yes, Darbabad. We are within the boundaries of our objectives.”
“Good work, Sarvan.”
Like her ship, Darbabad Forouzandeh was of a certain age and pedigree that demanded even greater respect within the fleet. Most Darbabads were relatively young, a consequence of the brutal chain of command in the Medes naval fleets. Darbabad Forouzandeh had survived countless battles, encounters with violent officers, as well as the many political purges instigated by Tissaphernes. She was a mature Median noblewoman with more than eighty years of age to her name. Though old by Terran standards, this was only half of a Median noble’s lifespan in this part of the Empire. Forouzandeh was tall, elegant, and well spoken. Her crew respected her in ways no other ship commanders were. Although Forouzandeh was strict, she was also known to be extremely fair and even-handed. If the crew did as ordered, they could expect to be treated well. Disobedience, insurrection, and poor performance were all dealt with harshly, as one might expect in a professional naval unit.
“I would a full deck-by-deck report. All stations are to report in.”
The command deck of the ship was a hive of activity as the crew moved about. Their uniforms were colourful, especially when compared to the smart Imperial Navy uniform, tall black boots, and black gloves that she had been granted during her long career in the Imperial Navy many years earlier. As she watched them move about, she noticed one of the crew glanced at her before turning away to continue with his duties.
What is it?
All Median commanders had a duty to be paranoid, both for their own safety and for that of the ship. That one look reminded her of her past life, one where she had been expected to reach high positions, perhaps even fleet command in the Imperial fleet. Instead, she was a mere Darbabad in command of the old Elamite in the provincial Carian fleet of Tissaphernes. She sighed quietly so that no one might hear her dissatisfaction. She had no love for her Satrap, but at least she had escaped the purges following the debacle in the Ionian territories that almost destroyed her Imperial task force.
I won’t let that happen again, never.
All it took was a nod, and four Carian security guards moved from the shadows and approached the automaton that had attracted her attention. They moved like shadows, and as quickly as they moved to the deck, they were gone, along with their target. It might have been nothing, but Darbabad Forouzandeh was not taking chances. As she turned, a flicker of light caught her eye. It was nothing but her reflection, the movement of her long white hair that stopped her. It ran down past her shoulders and was as light as a feather. It moved like a low cloud before settling back on her shoulders. She was hardly young, but her hair, face, and figure suggested otherwise. This was what the peak of Median physical and genetic manipulation could do.
“Prepare for battle. Lord Tissaphernes may need immediate assistance.”
Her ship was filled with automatons, much like the other Median ships, and they continued to prepare the ship for battle. With the engines powered down, it was now possible to redirect the massive amounts of energy to the shield generators and capacitors. The generators ran off the main engines and could maintain shielding for some time, yet a single heavy hit could deplete them faster than they could be recovered. The capacitors were a way of temporarily storing several seconds worth of energy to pump into the shield in an emergency. Every extra second they had before battle was a second’s more energy in the capacitors.
For every group of automatons doing their jobs on the ship, there was a single Carian to watch over them. This was something rarely found in any of the Median ships, yet Darbabad Forouzandeh was a firm believer in maintaining a large c
adre of pure-blood Carians to ensure stability and discipline on her ship. Only those born to Carian families naturally could ever be considered part of the caste, and it meant that at least ten percent of the ship’s company were guaranteed to be loyal and completely trustworthy. An automaton was no match for a true-blooded Carian noble. The Carians were also all armed and armoured, unlike the automatons. This was both a deterrent and also gave her a powerful core of warriors in case of infantry combat.
Nothing can stop Boubak, thought Darbabad Forouzandeh as she looked at them.
Unlike most of the Median ships, this one contained a command deck closer in shape and size to a Terran ship. In the past, several of her commanders had tried to modify the internal configuration to match the more modern design, but she demanded the interior walls and stations were reinstalled to match the Laconian inspired interior. Few officers in any fleet could expect to be given such leeway, but although Forouzandeh had a black mark against her name, she was still known as one of the greatest ship commanders in any fleet in the Empire. This level of recognition granted her a degree of autonomy unmatched in the Empire. The change in the ship’s internal configuration meant it required less crew due to the automation, but this did place greater demands on the skill of the crew; another reason for the larger numbers of Carian officers on board.
“Get me a full tactical assessment.”
She then looked to her communications officer, a young Carian male, almost a boy in his looks. His left cheek was marked in a long black shape that ran down under his collar. It was the mark of one of the engineering families of Caria, a trade that demanded all offspring to follow in the same tradition.
Another wave of ships appeared right behind them and formed up into a tight formation. These were smaller than the Elamites but still almost double the size of the light cruisers that had first arrived to attack the Terran ship. As with Boubak, these ships also carried the black glyphs of Caria, giving them a unique look compared to those ships already engaged in battle at Larissa.
Seconds after their arrival, the gun ports on their flanks slid open and weapon turrets pushed out to expose their weapon systems to the elements. Even before the gunports opened, every single ship in the fleet was already scanning space via their targeting computers. In seconds, Tissaphernes’ ship, the scouts, and the Terran ship had all been flagged and thoroughly assessed. Satisfied that her wave of vessels was sufficiently prepared for whatever might occur, Darbabad Forouzandeh gave the order she had been dreading.
“Make contact with Lord Tissaphernes. Inform him of our dispositions and our battle readiness.”
“Yes, Darbabad,” answered the communications officer.
Darbabad Forouzandeh moved to her command position and looked at the bank of screens that mimicked a section of the VOB system used by the Terrans. It was raised half a metre above the rest of the deck and only visible to her and half a dozen of her senior officers. As with all other Median ships, the rest of the crew were kept contained and shown no more information than was necessary for the operation of their particular parts of the ship. As she waited, the image from the bow vanished to be replaced by the dour looking Tissaphernes.
“My Lord,” she said with the bare minimum of sincerity.
“Darbabad Forouzandeh. What are you doing here? My orders were for you to wait with the rest of our ships.”
Forouzandeh felt a shudder of fear running up her spine as she realised something was wrong. There was no possibility of making mistakes in the fleet of this Satrap, however. Rather than tell the truth, she simply smiled and nodded.
“Yes, my Lord. The rest of our ships remain, awaiting your orders.”
“Well? Explain yourself,” he said, his tone becoming more agitated.
“I received information from scouts at Larissa that enemy agents were planning on isolating your ship and taking you captive.”
Tissaphernes moved back a short distance, his brow creased as he considered her answer. His lip quivered, and she began to doubt he would accept this new information.
“Very well, you did the right thing. Send over the details to my command. We will deal with this appropriately.”
A Terran officer might feel guilty, but not Forouzandeh. Her quick thinking had just saved her skin, at least for another day.
Now all I need to do is to find out who sent that fake communication from the Satrap.
Even as she thought that, a terrible idea came to her. She looked at Tissaphernes, but his expression remained the same.
Surely not, could he have sent it as a test of loyalty?
“Darbabad,” he said with a slight change in the pitch of his voice.
“Prepare three boarding parties. I want this Terran ship secured and fast. I have a battle to fight, and I need their commander captured and interrogated within the hour.”
“Understood, my Lord.”
* * *
Terran Titan ‘Valediction’, Larissa System, Core Worlds
The great Titan shuddered as streaks of gunfire raked her bow. Several damaged sections along the one flank marked where an enemy cruiser had managed to punch through the shields long enough to bombard the breach with plasma charges. On any other ship, the damage would have been terminal, but on a Titan it was nothing more than a flesh wound. The casualties were just a few dozen, and most had survived the bombardments and were now being attended to in the ship’s cavernous medical bays.
The remaining ships of the Zacynthian fleet had formed up into a short line to protect their remaining battleship. Most of the fire was coming from the plasma projectiles, but they could do no more than knock down the shield for just a few seconds before the engines boosted their power capacity momentarily.
“Get the assault parties ready!” growled Chirisophus.
“Strategos,” said Jeane Coxand.
He looked to the tactical officer and did his best to hide his smile. He had been initially concerned that the ship’s company might not have accepted him as their Strategos. Instead, perhaps due to this battle, they had done so without even a moment’s discussion. As the next most senior Laconian in the fleet, there was not one among them that would question his right to command in the middle of battle.
That’s the difference between us, and them.
He looked to the ships that were trying their best to escape. The few Zacynthian ships still offering resistance drew in nothing but scorn from him. He had little respect for any of the other Terrans, but there were few lower in his opinion than those that would fight against their own. The irony of his thinking was completely lost on him, however. As he busied himself, he knew deep down that when the fighting was over, the internal struggle for command of both the Laconians and the Legion would proceed to the next stage. He had little doubt that victory would be an issue on board Valediction, but the others prized themselves on their own political ideals, and a situation that had no interest to him at all.
Those damned Boeotians and their confederacy, what idiots. They are nothing compared to the Atticans and their foolish dreams of a utopian mob rule. Look where that got them!
The Boeotians were unique in that they had managed to create a peaceful and powerful realm comprised of dozens of autonomous Terran states. They each considered themselves equals, an idea that amused Chirisophus perhaps more than any other. They had been allies of Laconian in the past, and no doubt that would continue into the future provided one thing remained the same, their enmity towards Attica, their ancient rival. Both sides had fought for centuries over the border worlds that lay between them, especially those of Phocis and Plataea.
The fools!
The thought of the democratic idealists drew a laugh from him that surprised the other officers on the deck. He waved them on, to continue the battle while he recalled the last days of Attica, prior to their defeat and occupation by Laconia.
Good days, indeed. And after my victory, this entire fleet will remember that a Laconian is the only real choice for survival...and vi
ctory!
It was strange, but these thoughts of old victories had completely distracted him from the momentous events occurring right under his nose. His smiling was halted by the report from Jeane Coxand, one that it seemed he had repeated now three times. The Kentarchos waited patiently alongside him.
“Strategos?” asked Kentarchos Broge Monsimm.
Chirisophus scowled, not liking the look he was receiving. The mere audacity of these officers suggesting he hadn’t been paying attention angered him more than the enemy he was supposed to be fighting. Two more officers overheard him before he forced himself to calm down.
“Report.”
Kentarchos Monsimm spoke first.
“Strategos, we are in the middle of the enemy formation, but we are taking damage.”
Jeane Coxand nodded smartly in agreement.
“We have breaches along the dorsal sections. The battleship is focussing fire on the damaged sections as we move past them.”
He looked at the VOB unit and quickly realised what had happened. Although the ship’s officers had full controls over their individual stations, he had no interest in yielding tactical control of the battle to anybody but himself. He had trusted the Titan to get them into the middle of the enemy vessels unscathed, yet even his Titan seemed to be letting him down. He shook his head angrily.
“Why must I do everything myself?”
He stormed over to the tactical officer’s station and pointed to an area of space slightly ahead of their ship. Jeane Coxand waited alongside him, waiting for the next barrage of complaints.
“Rotate and continue forward. Present our underside to them, but do not stop firing! You should be able to do this without my intervention.”
Black Legion: 04 - Last Stand Page 15
