Calvin had changed the way Rez’nac had viewed the humans. And for that wisdom he was deeply grateful.
***
Ravinder had tried to intercept those ships, the ships that had arrived with the Harbinger. At the time, she had believed they were under Raidan’s control—that traitorous bastard—however, although a squadron of them remained close to the Harbinger, the rest: about thirty strange-looking ships that Ravinder could not identify, had flown away from their group, past the safety of the defense fleets, past even Ravinder’s ship and the vanguard, and had taken position right in the space where the Dread Fleet seemed on track to appear.
Upon seeing this maneuver of theirs, Ravinder had dismissed them as suicidal maniacs. She had been one of the Fleet Admirals who had messaged Sir Arkwright, asking him to attempt to command these unknown vessels to retreat back to the defense fleet’s position, or else join the vanguard, some order that would get them to not die instantly. But the top of the chain of command, whether it had come from Sir Arkwright himself, or the queen, had decided to allow these rogue vessels to captain themselves independently. This, to Ravinder, seemed like little more than a death sentence. And, when the Dread Fleet began to appear, her first thought had been, Goodbye strangers, whoever you are.
That had been before she’d seen them in action, however. Even now, as her ship led the vanguard, speedily rushing toward the Dread Fleet—whose swarm of warships seemed to grow by the second—the strange squadron of thirty brave ships had actually deployed rams and physically collided with several of the Polarian battleships. She could imagine the boarding actions taking place and, although the battleships carried soldier squadrons of their own, and it seemed only a matter of time before the strangers on the thirty ships would be overrun, they continued to ram battleship after battleship, turning the Polarian warships’ own guns against their comrades, forcing ships in the Dread Fleet to destroy other ships in the Dread Fleet. Then the thirty strange ships would disengage and attach to new targets.
Although, in comparison to the thousands of ships pouring into Capital System, all part of the Dread Fleet, these thirty strange ships were just a drop in a vast bucket, they successfully had thrown the Dread Fleet’s first arrivers into disarray. While the Dread Fleet’s vanguard attempted to assemble itself into formation, in order to deploy the phalanx shield, they first had to deal with these gnats that were not only costing them ships, but ultimately—for the time being—preventing the Polarians from getting their vanguard into formation.
Ravinder doubted the tactic would last long; no doubt the thirty strange ships would be targeted and destroyed within minutes, if not seconds, once the Polarians got into firing positions, but they were buying Ravinder and her fleet time—and giving them a much more vulnerable set of targets to engage on their first pass. For that, Ravinder was grateful. And she inwardly saluted the strangers on the strange ships, whoever they were, for their courage and very probable sacrifice.
“Time to attack range?” asked Ravinder; she sat in the command position of the ISS Hyperion and pressed her hands together forming a triangle, a habit she often fell into when trying to control her nerves.
“The fleet will be in beam weapon range in thirty seconds, as for missiles and guns, that will take approximately fifteen more seconds,” reported her Defense chief.
“Ops, can your scanners identify whether or not the phalanx shield has been deployed?” asked Ravinder.
“It has not,” said the Ops chief. “The Polarian ships are not yet in proper formation.”
“Excellent,” said Ravinder. “General order to all ships of the Third Fleet, clear for action and fire all beam weapons at the enemy before they can get that shield up. We’ll be most effective if we concentrate our fire. Mister Galloway, forward several pre-determined targets to the other ships.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral,” said the Ops chief.
“Broadcasting order,” said the Comms chief.
“Mr. Walker, clear us for action,” ordered Ravinder.
“Clearing for action,” said the Defense chief. Immediately, the klaxon sounded and the alert lights came on.
“Shields to maximum, double front. And standby all beam weapons,” said Ravinder.
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied the Defense chief.
“Weapons range achieved,” reported the Ops officer.
“All ships acknowledge your order, sir,” said the Comms chief.
“Target the forward-most enemy dreadnought and hit them with every beam weapon we’ve got!” said Ravinder. “Let’s see if we can take her down before that phalanx can form up.”
“Firing,” said the Defense chief.
Most of the Hyperion’s beam weapons could not be seen through the forward window; however, at least two of them could. Flashes of light blinked before their eyes as the energy slammed into their target of choice. Its own shields endured the blow, lighting bright as it tried to repel the damage. Still the Third Fleet, the vanguard, held their course and speed, fast approaching the enemy.
“Continue firing on that target,” said Ravinder. “I want it destroyed.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said the Defense chief.
Their beam weapons struck it again, this time scarring its armor and hull—the shields had fallen—and their firepower was joined by fire from some of their allied ships; combined, they managed to destroy the target in seconds. As the dreadnought tore itself apart in an instantaneous explosion that seemed over as soon as it began, it left behind a spray of debris.
“Hurrah!” a cheer filled the bridge.
“Acquire second target and commence firing,” said Ravinder. “That was one of many thousands of vessels we must destroy today.”
“Firing, sir,” said the Defense chief. “We are also in range to use missiles and guns, shall I fire them too?”
“Fire the missiles but do so sparingly, we will need them once the phalanx shield is raised. As for the guns, keep them ready, but hold them in reserve for defense,” said Ravinder. “We’re bound to have missiles from the enemy heading our way. I don’t want a single one to reach this starship; is that clear?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” said the Defense chief. He coordinated with his staff, and the Hyperion’s beam weapons lit up once more, flashing and striking the shields of another target. By now, they had gotten the attention of the enemy—despite the distraction caused by the thirty strange ram ships—and the Hyperion itself was struck. Its shields glanced the energy blows, but did so at cost.
“How bad is the damage?” asked Ravinder.
“Our shields are at seventy percent and holding. I’ve stabilized the shields to equal parts fore and aft,” said the Defense chief, “Now that much of the enemy is behind us.”
It was a wise decision, Ravinder knew; since the Third Fleet had held steady with their course and speed, they were now in the midst of the enemy host, firing everything they could spare, further entangling the enemy fleet into a pattern of disarray. Ravinder watched the ships on the 3D display and, although the lights representing the vanguard, her two-hundred ships, were vastly outnumbered by the lights of the Dread Fleet—which seemed to be increasing even faster than they could be blinked out—the vanguard was in a much better fighting formation and that meant their first pass through the Dread Fleet was proving to be a devastating punch, with minimal casualties of their own. The second pass, Ravinder knew, would not be so easy.
“Sir,” reported the Comms chief. “Message from Captain West; he suggests we hold position and continue firing, now that we’re inside the Polarian formation, we won’t have to worry about the phalanx shield—even when it raises.”
Although Ravinder could see the value in such a plan—despite its suicidality—it differed from the orders the queen had given her. Which meant, even though the queen’s plan was likely just as suicidal, Ravinder was going to make damn certain the Hyperion, and the rest of the Third Fleet, did exactly what the queen had instructed.
“Tell Captain We
st and the rest of the fleet to hold course, steady and true, until I say otherwise,” said Ravinder. “We’ll have the enemy at our rear soon, so all ships should standby to switch their shields to double aft.”
“Yes, sir, relaying message,” said the Defense chief.
After a few more seconds, they’d reached the heart of the Dread Fleet, which left them most exposed to enemy fire. That meant it was time to divert course and get away from the enemy, hopefully—if their plan worked—they would draw pursuers, dividing the Dread Fleet into two, making their phalanx shields weaker. “On my command,” said Ravinder, as she stared intently at the 3D display, watching enemy and friendly ships blinking out of existence. “All ships are ordered to pitch ninety-degrees negative Z, remaining at full speed. Shields to double aft.”
“Yes, sir, relaying command,” said the Comms chief.
“Now!” said Ravinder. The view out the window changed as they plunged downward, fast accelerating away from the bulk of the enemy force. As they did, they continued to fire their aft weapons, and continued to take hits from the enemy, but the majority of the Third Fleet, including the Hyperion, managed to clear the distance. They successfully drew the pursuit of about forty battleships and twenty destroyers, which the Third Fleet quickly eviscerated, but, unfortunately, they had failed to split the Dread Fleet into two. At least on their first pass.
“Status report!” commanded Ravinder.
“Our shields are holding, but down to thirty-five percent,” said the Defense chief.
“And the fleet?” Ravinder asked.
“Most ships report similar conditions, a few are unscathed, most took a beating,” said the Ops chief, who had continuously scanned their forces—as per orders.
“Casualties?” asked Ravinder.
“Forty-six ships destroyed, sir.”
Ravinder felt a sinking feeling. She had known that their maneuver would put them in great danger, but the first pass promised to be the least bloody of all—because the enemy was unprepared and out of formation—and already they had lost twenty-three percent of the Third Fleet. It made her question how many of their ships would survive the second pass—if any.
Still, orders were orders. “Order the fleet to turn about and prepare for the second pass,” said Ravinder. “Shields to double-front.”
“Aye, sir,” her staff responded.
The ship changed position until they again were facing down the very jaws of the Dread Fleet. It looked like an endless ocean of warships, and whatever casualties the Third Fleet had inflicted upon the enemy had been replaced seven-fold by newly arrived warships. And the flow of ships belonging to the Dread Fleet showed no sign of slowing or stopping. Already there were thousands of ships; Ravinder could only speculate at how many more were coming. All she knew for certain was that the defense force was profoundly outmatched and outnumbered. But none of that mattered. All that mattered were her orders.
“Full speed ahead!”
CHAPTER 09
Raidan sat in the command position of the Harbinger; the ship was holding position not far from the First Fleet—the primary defense force for the planet. From this vantage point, Raidan watched the battle begin from afar, knowing that his Remorii allies were out there, slaughtering and dying, and he could do nothing to help them. Not really. He could order the Harbinger, the Arcane Storm, and the Organization’s remaining ships—all of which were in a holding pattern near the Harbinger—to charge into the fray, but their forces alone would make little difference. Combined, he had one dreadnought, forty warships, and thirty support ships. The Imperial vanguard had two hundred ships, a far superior force, and it was currently outmatched by, at last count, seven thousand warships—with more arriving all the time.
“It’s a damn suicide,” muttered Raidan, as he thought both of Zarao and the Imperial vanguard.
“Sir, did you say something?” asked Mister Mason.
“No, nothing,” said Raidan dismissively.
To their credit, Zarao’s people, combined with the Imperial vanguard, had destroyed at least three hundred warships belonging to the Dread Fleet, and had successfully delayed the Dread Fleet’s deathly phalanx formation. Those were tiny victories, however, that meant little in the grand scheme of this battle, especially since the vanguard—an under-equipped, under-powered force—had thus far failed in their directive, which had been to lure the Dread Fleet into two pieces, making them easier to attack, and destroy.
“Report,” demanded Raidan; he could get a sense of the battle from watching the 3D and tactical displays, however the scope of it was so large that even mighty battleships appeared just as blips of light. That made it hard to get a truly detailed sense of what was going on.
“The vanguard continues to pass through the Dread Fleet, this must be their fourth pass. Each time, they lure some vessels out of formation, but not enough to divide the fleet,” said Mister Ivanov.
“And casualties?” asked Raidan.
“Over fifty percent of the Third Fleet has been destroyed,” said Mister Ivanov. “As for enemy casualties, I am still trying to calculate an estimate. It’s difficult with new ships arriving by the second.”
Half the Third Fleet, thought Raidan. And for what? A strategy that had clearly failed? Now there were two-hundred—strike that—one-hundred Imperial warships attempting to take on seven thousand enemy warships, and that number of enemies continued to grow.
“They should be called back,” said Raidan, wishing he had overall command of this engagement, and not Sir Arkwright and the queen. “They’re just fodder out there.”
“There are reinforcements on the way to support the vanguard,” said Mister Ivanov.
“What reinforcements?” asked Raidan.
“Imperial forces and Rotham forces are quickly nearing the vanguard’s position; I believe it is their intention to augment the vanguard’s strength and, hopefully, allow the vanguard’s mission to succeed,” said Mister Ivanov.
“I confirm that,” said Mister Gates. He looked back at Raidan, headset on his head, then back to his console, where he and his staff worked to maintain communication with the rest of the defense force.
“It’s a foolish idea,” said Raidan, tapping his fingers on the armrest of his chair, feeling a wave of frustration. He felt pinned to this very spot—since he could not engage the enemy alone, or with his comparably paltry forces—and so he was at the mercy of Sir Arkwright’s ability for strategy. “They will all be slaughtered. How many ships are going to reinforce the vanguard?”
“It’s the Sixth Fleet, sir, commanded by Fleet Admiral Faried of the ISS Colossus. He has command of two-hundred and seven warships, including his own,” said Mister Ivanov.
“And what about the Rotham reinforcements?” asked Raidan. “Are those bastards going to just sit around and observe the massacre that is bound to happen?”
“Sir Arkwright has split the Rotham Fleet into seven equally-sized flotillas. Currently Bravo Flotilla, with a hundred warships, is en route to support the vanguard. It’s under the command of Proxitor E’y—”
“I don’t give a damn what his name is,” interrupted Raidan. He let out a sigh, leaned back momentarily in his chair, and then got up and began pacing.
“Sir, if I may,” said Mister Mason, his XO, we could attempt to contact Sir Arkwright again and suggest to him that the vanguard strategy has failed, and that they are sitting ducks out there.”
Raidan looked at Mister Mason as if he were an idiot; of course that wouldn’t help. But then he changed his mind, thinking at least it was doing something, rather than nothing. “Oh, what the hell, do it. Mr. Gates send a high priority message to the ISS Victory, let them know the vanguard and all ships supporting it are in grave danger and must be withdrawn back to rejoin the primary defense force. Otherwise, they’ll all be killed.”
“Aye, sir, relaying message,” said Mr. Gates, who quickly instructed and delegated to his team.
“It won’t do any good,” said Raid
an, feeling a sense of inevitability overcome him.
“At least we can try to convince Sir Arkwright,” said Mister Mason, a clear attempt to assuage Raidan’s obvious frustration.
“No, I don’t mean the message,” said Raidan, “Although it won’t work either. I mean the defense. Even with perfect strategy, our forces cannot sustain the assault that is coming—the assault that is here. We will all die to a man, and it will have been for nothing. The Empire is doomed.” He returned to his chair at the command position and rested his head on one hand.
“That’s a rather bleak outlook, don’t you think?” asked Mister Mason, who took the XO’s seat next to him.
“Of course it is,” said Raidan. “But nowhere in the history of the universe has there ever been some kind of rule that something bleak cannot also be the plain and simple truth.”
No one replied.
“At least tell me that Zarao died well,” said Raidan, after a brief pause. He would miss the lycan leader, and his sacrifice, choosing to be here, to defend those who would consider him an abomination, showed—to Raidan—that Zarao was a better human than most of the people on the surface of the planet below, the planet they hoped to protect.
“I cannot speak for Zarao in particular,” said Mister Ivanov. “But my scans show that the Thunder Sun, and most of his squadron, are not destroyed. They remain at sixty-sixty percent and are continuing to board and destroy enemy warships.
Raidan leaned forward in his seat. At last some inspiring news. “I should have known it would take more than a meager seven-thousand ships—and counting—to slay someone as fierce as Zarao,” Raidan remarked. “But how in the name of…King Hisato…are any of those ships still intact?”
“Based on my scans and what I can detect from here,” said Mister Ivanov, “Zarao’s squadron is in very close proximity to several of the Dread Fleet’s warships, and the Dread Fleet appears hesitant to fire on them, probably for fear they may strike their own starships.”
The Phoenix Requiem (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 7) Page 17
