The Phoenix Requiem (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 7)

by Richard Sanders

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said the knight, and he got about his orders, relaying the respective commands to the Fleet Admirals and other ranking officers who still had ships that could reach the system in time.

  “All fleets have been consolidated and reorganized,” Sir McTavish reported some time later. “They are on their way here now, everybody who can, making alteredspace jumps so deep, in some cases, it borderlines on lunacy.”

  “Good,” said Kalila. “Get them all here. I needed them here yesterday.”

  “They’re coming, I promise you, Your Majesty.”

  “And the Dread Fleet is coming, I promise you that, Sir Knight.”

  He bowed respectfully, indicating that he had not meant to get her hackles up.

  “Excellent work,” said Kalila, deciding to be more gentle with him; the man had proven faithful—now that Caerwyn was gone—and he seemed to work hard. Not to mention, every so often, he came up with a strategic insight all on his own. That had helped her in her deployment plans of where to position which fleets inside Capital System. Unfortunately, Raidan, in ending the civil war, had destroyed Capital System’s static defenses. Truth be told, they would have mattered little in such a massive battle, but their presence had always served to boost the morale and false sense of security that the citizens below felt. Now that sensation was gone and, as her ministers reported to her, the state of panic on the surface had reached a fever pitch, and riots, looting, and fires were only a matter of time, once the civilians realized that all starports had been closed down, or else temporarily commandeered by the military—which they were quickly realizing.

  “We will stop the Dread Fleet here,” said Kalila, pointing to the 3D display. “We will hold them in place with these forces and then strike at them with a vanguard from around the planet, trapping them in.”

  “But we’ll still be outnumbered and outgunned,” pointed our Sir McTavish.

  “Not to mention that phalanx shield, spoke another advisor.”

  Kalila had been trying to think of how to deal with that. “Is the shield generated in any central location?” She thought maybe, just maybe, she could knock out the generator, and take away the Dread Fleet’s greatest advantage—second only to the vastness of its numbers.

  “Negative, My Queen,” said the tactical advisor. “The shields are pooled, not generated; they are generated from each individual ship.”

  “That means we’ll have to get in there, up close and personal, to do the damage we need to do,” said Kalila. She was no expert in the exact science of interstellar combat—though she had commanded a few battles.

  “You are correct, My Queen,” said the advisor. “Our beam weapons, many that we have, will all be rendered useless until and if the entire sum of the Polarian fleet’s shields are eliminated. So, assuming their shields remain up, they will only be vulnerable to standard guns and missiles.”

  “And ramming,” said Kalila. Her advisors looked at her like she was crazy. Perhaps she was, a little. “I just mean, if it comes to that…that’s an option,” she said.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” the advisor agreed. “That still leaves us in the delicate position of being vulnerable individually to the enemy’s beam weapons, not to mention the sheer magnitude of them.”

  “If they are bunched up, our missiles should be more effective,” said Kalila.

  “Perhaps, some of them,” admitted the advisor. “But the more ships that detect an incoming missile, the higher the chance that one or more of those ships will incinerate the missile before it gets close enough to impact or detonate.”

  Kalila nodded. “Well, we’re going to hit them with everything we have, and there is no retreating from here, so it will have to be enough.”

  “To be completely candid with you, Your Majesty, I don’t believe it is enough. Not by a tenth. It may be time to reach out to the international community and seek the aid of—”

  “Of the backstabbing, treacherous Rotham?” asked Kalila, remembering the role they had played in the Great War all too well, despite her youth at the time.

  “Even with Rotham help,” said Sir McTavish, “It doesn’t tilt the odds enough in our favor for us to prevail. It doesn’t even make the odds even enough to make it a contest. We’re still as good as dead.”

  “We’ll find a way to do it, and we shall do it. We are humanity,” said Kalila. “We will prevail. One way or another. We always survive.”

  She then shushed her advisors and began to broadcast a short message intended to be received by all Imperial ships currently en route to join the defense of Capital System.

  “To all the brave sons and daughters of the Empire, I address you as your queen and your guardian. I will be frank with you, heroes of the Empire, the battle ahead of us will be the most challenging we have ever faced. And the stakes are higher than they have ever been. Perhaps even higher than they shall ever be again. But I am here to tell you—to promise you—as queen, that we will prevail!” she paused for effect.

  “One way or another, we shall win the day! Why? Because we are not just survivors, we are warriors! We are human beings! Our ancestors built this mighty Empire to protect us, and now it is our turn to protect it, so the next generation may grow up in peace and safety, like we did. The battle is coming; Polarians are coming to slaughter us, women, children, our infants, it makes no difference to them. They cannot be reasoned with, and so they must be stopped! It is you and I who have the tremendous honor of standing between them and our loved ones, most precious of dear, and being able to draw our swords and cry out You shall not have them! Not today!

  “Prepare yourselves for battle, men and women. Prepare to bleed and die if necessary. But most of all, prepare for the victory that is just within our reach. The victory that our families and loved ones depend on. The victory that—come hell itself to oppose us—will be ours. For we are the Imperial Fleet. We are the storm that can never be stopped! We are the fortress than can never be toppled! Non sibi sed Patriae! We will rule the day!” With that, she terminated the transmission.

  “Rousing words, Your Majesty,” said Sir McTavish. Kalila just looked at him. They’d felt like empty words to her. As much as she longed to believe them, it was impossible for her to imagine any way that her forces in all their might, could repel or destroy the unstoppable Dread Fleet.

  “I just lied to them, didn’t I?” she asked, staring Sir McTavish in the eyes. He didn’t seem to know how to respond. “I lied,” she repeated.

  “You don’t know that for sure,” piped in the other advisor.

  “So, you think our forces can take the Dread Fleet in open battle?” Kalila rounded on him. The man flushed when their eyes met.

  “I—I don’t know. I just meant, you only lied if we lose. We haven’t lost yet.”

  “I promised them hope for a tomorrow that will never come.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” said Sir McTavish, “Besides, even if it was a lie, it was a lie the people needed to hear. Don’t underestimate morale.”

  “I never do,” said Kalila. “Which is why I would say the same thing again, and again, a hundred-thousand times if necessary. But at the end of the day, it’s still a lie. We’re still doomed to our violent fate. Aren’t we?”

  The advisors had no answer for her.

  CHAPTER 04

  If there had been a designation of starship beyond alpha-class, it would have belonged to the ISS Victory. Four-times as massive as the ISS Andromeda, with a dozen more gun decks, twenty more missile launchers, six-fold as many beam weapon emitters, and more armor plating than a deep space outpost—all smoothly and perfectly contoured into the aesthetically beautiful frame that was the Victory. The only downside to the titan-like Victory was its propensity to draw fire, as the biggest and most obvious target.

  Traditionally, the Victory, and all previous ships to bear its name, served as the flagship of the entire Imperial Navy, not to mention the personal vessel of the reigning monarch. That meant, cu
rrently, the ship belonged to Queen Kalila, and was bound to follow her orders. During the Civil War, Sir Arkwright—who had held command as guardian-steward of the vessel on behalf of Caerwyn Martel—had chosen to do all he could to keep the Victory away from any and all violent encounters between human ships. Ships that once had been—and still should be—allies.

  When he’d learned the war had ended, he happily had returned the ship to Kalila, since humanity had once again united under one fold. Only, to his surprise, she hadn’t chosen to take the vessel as her personal flagship, and instead ordered Sir Arkwright to retain command of the vessel, charging him also with the duties of keeping the Fleet Admirals in line and serving as flagship for all future battles. Sir Arkwright had accepted this charge graciously. And with some overconfidence, he took the vessel, along with command of the second fleet, and joined the rag-tag group of fleets and fleet admirals in an attempt to mount a defense against the invading Polarian horde by making a stand at Centuria System. Neither Sir Arkwright nor the Victory had been able to make the kind of difference he had hoped. By the time he called for return, with the queen’s permission, the action had proven a spectacular failure: heavy human losses, few enemy casualties, and, ultimately, the destruction of a planet that had been home to billions of lives.

  He would never forget the projection of the planet on the 3D display as a black swarm of countless ships surrounded the gem that was Centuria V…

  Ever since that battle—slaughter, actually—he had moved the Victory to Capital System, where the Dread Fleet was predicted to attack next, and had commanded all fleets under his jurisdiction to do the same. During that time, while the queen was busy consolidating broken fleets and putting them under his direct command, Sir Arkwright had been spending every waking hour he could afford studying the tapes recorded of the Battle of Centuria. Anything that could be learned from it might reveal a weakness in the enemy. If not, however, it should still hopefully help him from repeating the same kind of mistakes he’d made defending Centuria—before ultimately withdrawing.

  “Layheri Alpha fell to almost no resistance,” he thought aloud, as he manipulated the tactical display before him. “And then Centuria V fell too, almost as easily. Despite the presence of so many Imperial warships. Why?”

  He knew why. It had been because of that damned Polarian Phalanx technology. After witnessing its effectiveness first hand, Sir Arkwright had asked his engineers how to construct and make use of a similar tactic. If the Polarians could combine their shield strength into one massive whole, what stopped the Empire from doing the same?

  The reply had been overly technical, but the ultimate response had something to do with the fact that Imperial ships generated their shields differently than the Polarians, making the human ships stronger individually, but it was not possible for such shields to combine into one. Sir Arkwright couldn’t help but think the supposedly-backwards Polarians might have come up with the better idea after all, no matter how “state-of-the-art” human warships were.

  What he didn’t understand was why the Dread Fleet cared so much about humanity that it had to exterminate them? True, the Polarian Confederacy could control much more of the galaxy without the humans and the Rotham to contend with, but the way the Dread Fleet had scourged several of their own worlds en route to here suggested some other motive. Something much darker.

  The Dread Fleet was the very sword of evil itself, Sir Arkwright decided. And hearing the queen’s earlier broadcast, picking up on her iron will to stop the Dread Fleet in its tracks—draw a line and allow the enemy never to cross it—all of that had buoyed his spirits some. But, as one of the few who had been at Centuria V—and lived to tell about it—he could not imagine how the re-organized shambles of the Imperial fleet could hope to withstand the Dread Fleet in all its numbers. Their blackened ships had been so numerous as to seem to obscure the very stars, at one point.

  “Oh, mighty God in heaven,” he knelt and prayed aloud—he was the only religious person on his ship, and the only person he knew that still clung to the ancient monotheistic ways that had appeared so early on in human history. “Please, God, hear my prayer. For a great evil lurks, an evil that will destroy us if you do not intervene. I beg of you for my people, our Empire, my wife, my unborn daughter, and all the innocents of the galaxy that they may now be spared the wrath of the Dread Fleet. I tell you now, Lord, if there must be a price paid in blood for this, then let it be mine. I will gladly give up my own life if it means I can save the others. Please help us. Help me. I beg of you, Almighty One. Amen.”

  After that, he stood and headed for the bridge, needing to make certain all fleets that had arrived were cleared for action and awaiting orders. We draw the line here, he thought. Here and no further. Because if the Dread Fleet defeats us today, or tomorrow, or whenever they finally come…there will be no Empire to save humanity, and shortly thereafter, no humanity left to save anywhere.

  ***

  The ISS Hyperion had escaped the battle at Centuria V relatively unscathed; for that, Fleet Admiral Isolda Ravinder was grateful. However, both Queen Kalila and Sir Arkwright had entrusted her to act as Fleet Commander of the initial attack force dispatched to Centuria V, despite Sir Arkwright’s presence. At the time, it had been her greatest honor. Now, though, as she stared out the window at the blackness, from her seat at the command position of the Hyperion, she felt only shame.

  “Eight billion people…” she muttered aloud. And that wasn’t counting the thousands of officers and soldiers who had died when their ships had been eviscerated by the mighty weapons of the Dread Fleet. We moved in close, she thought, we gave them everything we had…and what did it buy us? Nothing.

  The battle had been an unmitigated disaster, and, even though a majority of the human forces were salvaged and ready to fight again, the fact that they had been forced to retreat at all—and abandon all those Imperial citizens—disgusted her on the most profound level. She hated the Dread Fleet for its atrocities, but Ravinder hated herself almost as much for abandoning Centuria V and leaving so many to die, utterly defenseless. True, she had been following orders, but what were orders really? If she had stayed put, she likely would have died, but at least the people of Centuria V would have gotten the best chance of survival possible. And, had she remained behind and somehow prevailed, she would have been subject to a general court martial, but what did that matter? She would accept any penalty if it meant saving eight billion lives, even though her chances of success had been beyond bleak.

  The sight of the Dread Fleet surrounding Centuria V haunted her—it had been like thousands of black beetles swarming around a beautiful glass orb, leaving it in ruins—but there was nothing she could do to change the past. Her defeat was her defeat, and the people of Centuria V were gone now. That meant the Dread Fleet was on the move again. It was a slow force—at least as slow as its slowest ship—but its massive, lumbering, colossal self had the luxury of moving slowly and methodically because its commanders knew that nothing existed that could hope to oppose them.

  And yet, here we are, about to try again, Ravinder thought, just as her ship came out of alteredspace on the outskirts of Capital System.

  “Sir, we have arrived in Capital System,” announced her chief navigator.

  “I can see that, Lieutenant,” she said, seeing the stars that now filled the windows rather than the pure empty blackness. Most of the rest of the surviving fleet had arrived as well, or soon would, although these surviving ships were now subject to re-assignments, the force split up and added piecemeal to other fleets. Other than the Hyperion there were no longer any forces under Ravinder’s command. And, she thought, that is probably for the best.

  “Ops, I want a full scan of the system on the 3D display; let’s see how much firepower we’ve got.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  A moment later, Capital World materialized, the zoom adjusted until several small dots could be seen, each one representing an Imperial warship. In all, th
ere were hundreds of them. It was an encouraging sight to see such a force, even though Ravinder knew firsthand that they were still significantly outnumbered by the Dread Fleet. At least we won’t go down easily, she thought.

  “Sir, we are being hailed,” announced the Comms Chief. He looked to Ravinder, then back to his console—as if to check something—then back to Ravinder once more. “The hail is originating from…the Ancient palace.”

  “What?” asked Ravinder, unable to help herself. Of course she expected to be hailed the moment she arrived within the system, but by Sir Arkwright or another knight, not by Queen Kalila herself. And if the hail was originating from the Ancient Palace—probably because the main palace had been bombed by that traitor Asari Raidan—then who else could it be but the queen?

  Ravinder felt her heart in her throat as she stood up. “Send it to my office; I’ll take it in there,” she instructed her officers, as she walked briskly in the direction of her office. With each footstep, she could feel the condemnation that she was about to receive—the condemnation she deserved for her failure at Centuria V.

  I deserve this, she thought. This is right. No doubt, the Queen intended to pin the blame for the loss of Centuria V onto Ravinder, and why shouldn’t she? Ravinder had been the one meant to first engage the enemy; she had deployed the First Fleet personally, and above all, she had been one of the many to turn and run when the battle got away from them. She hadn’t wanted to—she’d just been following orders—but regardless of her reasons and excuses, she had run from the enemy. And now there were billions of lives lost. No doubt the rest of the Empire demanded an answer for all that blood, and the queen had to hang the millstone around somebody’s neck. It might as well fall upon the one who had led the charge, especially when that same person, despite following orders to do so, had also led the retreat.