“Still…” said Raidan. “One would think that the ships they are in close proximity to would be firing everything they’ve got at Zarao’s squadron.”
“They probably have been,” said Mister Ivanov. “That would explain the roughly thirty-three percent casualties. Combined with the fact that most of those ships have lost their shields and I detect multiple impact sites on the hulls of several, where the armor has been compromised. In a few instances there are actual hull breaches. I estimate Zarao’s force will be entirely destroyed within five minutes.”
“In battle, five minutes is an eternity,” said Raidan.
“I’m assuming that Zarao’s squadron continues to ram and successfully capture the ships nearest to them, which limits the ability of the enemy to engage Zarao’s squadron.”
“Well, I hope you’re right,” said Raidan, feeling strangely inspired by the success Zarao was having—even if, in the great scope of things, it counted for essentially nothing—his courage was something to be admired and emulated. Raidan took it to heart and promised himself he would not retreat the Harbinger, not while the Dread Fleet had ambitions to attack Capital World—no matter what the cost.
“I, for one, hope he has the good sense to retreat his ships soon,” said Mister Mason. “There is no point in him dying. He and his men have done their damage; now would be a good time for them to save whatever they can. Not to be a coward, sir,” Mister Mason looked at Raidan apologetically. “I’m just a prudent man.”
“You have nothing to apologize for; as it happens, I entirely agree with you,” said Raidan.
Then, to his Comms chief. “Mister Gates, send another message to Sir Arkwright and continue sending them, urge him to withdraw the vanguard—what is left of it—until he becomes so annoyed with us he actually complies.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Sir, we’re getting a general order from Sir Arkwright,” said Mister Gates about a half-second later. Too soon to be a reply to the messages Raidan had asked to be sent. “It’s being broadcast to all defense forces in the system.”
“Patch it through,” said Raidan.
“The Dread Fleet is deploying drones. I repeat, the Dread Fleet is deploying drones,” the voice was one that Raidan did not recognize, no doubt the Comms chief of the ISS Victory. “All pilots are ordered to their fighters and to launch immediately. I repeat, all pilots to their fighters for immediate launch.” The message terminated.
It didn’t really affect Raidan; the Harbinger had long lost its complement of fighter-craft, and there were no fighter pilots aboard; however, if the enemy was launching a swarm of unmanned drones, that did represent a threat to the defense force, since the tiny drones, much like the individual fighters, could slip through the shields of larger craft and inflict their damage directly to the hull. They were also difficult for the guns on most dreadnoughts and battleships to effectively target.
“Sir, another general order is being broadcast,” said Mister Gates. Raidan didn’t have to ask to know what this one was. Finally, he thought. “We, and all craft, are ordered to clear for action immediately.” While it would take some time yet for the Dread Fleet to properly organize, eliminate the vanguard and its reinforcements, and then push forward into firing range against the rest of the defense force, there was nothing stopping them from sending tens of thousands of drones ahead to do potentially rather extreme damage before the capital ships even had the chance to engage one another.
“You heard the man,” said Raidan. “Clear for action!”
With that, the klaxon sounded, the emergency lights sprang on, and everyone aboard the Harbinger—Raidan knew—was scurrying to their General Quarters for battle.
“For good measure, send the same order to all ships loyal to the Organization,” said Raidan, knowing they were unlikely to follow Sir Arkwright’s commands unless they came from Raidan and the Harbinger. “Including to the Arcane Storm.”
His people responded immediately. “Aye, sir. Right away, sir.”
And so it begins, thought Raidan, feeling his heart-rate quicken. We will slaughter them and drive them back, he told himself. We have no other choice. The Empire itself is at stake.
***
It wasn’t there. And then it was. Seeming to blink in and out of existence, just like Cassidy had described. Always closer. Ever closer. No matter how much Nimoux ordered the Nighthawk’s sublight drives to burn, the energy vortex—Custos—had the upper hand, drawing ever nearer.
“The beam weapon has no apparent effect,” reported Summers from the Defense post.
“Fire again!” Nimoux ordered.
“Again, no effect.”
“Then channel all energy from the beam weapon to our shields,” said Nimoux, feeling a sense of panic start to overwhelm him. It was an unusual feeling; he had been trained for years to operate with grace under pressure. But, he knew Calvin depended on him—everyone depended on him—and he wasn’t sure he could think his way out of this one, and brute force seemed not to be the answer.
“Open a hailing frequency, speak something to it in Polarian—try to convince it our intentions are peaceful,” said Nimoux, knowing that Custos—if was sentient at all, and able to receive radio transmissions—would never believe them. Not after this much fighting. Still, Nimoux had to try.
“No response,” said Jay from the helm.
“I thought not,” muttered Nimoux, just as a crash of energy slammed into the Nighthawk, lighting up its shields.
“Custos is upon us,” announced Cassidy in a grim voice.
“Then give Custos everything we’ve got! Fire all our missiles, all our guns, everything—except not the beam weapon. We’ll need to keep routing the power from that into our shields,” ordered Nimoux.
“Aye, aye, sir,” they acknowledged him.
“And, Pilot,” said Nimoux, getting Jay’s attention. “Keep us on the move, as fast as possible.”
“We cannot outrun the Custos energy vortex,” said Jay, sounding defeated.
“Not in a direct line, perhaps,” said Nimoux. “Try a random trajectory. Maybe it will have as much difficulty predicting our position as—” Nimoux was interrupted by another crash of energy from the Custos vortex slamming into their shields.
“Shields down to fifty percent,” said Summers. “I’m re-routing all non-essential power to augment them.”
“Reroute everything, essential or not,” said Nimoux. “We have enough air to breath for a while, and we’re strapped in so the loss of gravity won’t make much difference; I want every system available pouring all of its energy, and reserves, into our shields and sublight drives.”
“What about our weapons?” asked Summers.
“Have they had any kind of effect?” asked Nimoux.
“Not that I can tell. Not the beam weapon, nor the missiles—”
“Nor the guns,” Nimoux interrupted her. “Reroute power away from them too. At this point, we run and we hold out as long as we can. Provided we can keep those shields up, we will survive to retrieve our people.”
“And if we don’t?” asked Summers.
Nimoux didn’t feel that her question needed answering.
So instead, he said, “Come on, everybody, get those systems routed. Shields to maximum!”
***
“Sir, another transmission from the ISS Harbinger,” reported the Comms chief. Sir Arkwright was sorely tempted to order that damned Harbinger to have its communications systems locked out for all the harassment. Queen Kalila had placed Sir Arkwright in charge of the defense of Capital System, and that was exactly what he meant to do. He had no time to be micromanaged—especially not by a lying, stealing, treacherous captain whose greatest feat was the destruction of Capital World’s static defenses—defenses that would have been useful in this war.
“Let them eat white noise,” replied Sir Arkwright, deciding he’d had enough. He had a battle to run. The battle that would determine the future of the Empire—whether or not it c
ould hope for one.
Unfortunately, that damned Raidan was right. The vanguard was failing at its mission—the Dread Fleet was not divided, other than a few pockets of warships—and now the vanguard was being positively slaughtered, despite the reinforcements Sir Arkwright had sent. He knew he couldn’t just leave them out there to die. If they were going to die this day, they would die side-by-side with the rest of the defense force, not out on their own while their allies looked on from a distance.
“Give the order,” Sir Arkwright said, after some hesitation. “Pull the vanguard back. Full retreat.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” reported the Comms chief. Then, a few moments later. “Fleet Admirals Ravinder and Faried acknowledge. As does the Rotham Proxitor commanding Bravo Flotilla. The remains of the vanguard is withdrawing to our position.”
Whatever is left of it, thought Sir Arkwright, upset that their plan to divide the Dread Fleet had failed, and that so much life had been lost in the effort. And all of it pointless. To him it seemed like an omen for how the day would end. So many, many ships.
“Casualties,” he demanded.
“I have only a poor estimate of enemy casualties,” said the Ops chief. “But hundreds of ships have been destroyed, mostly enemies. The ratio is about three to one.”
“And what about our casualties?” asked Sir Arkwright.
“The Third Fleet has taken the worst of it,” said the Ops chief. “Of the original two-hundred ships…only thirty-seven remain.”
“Thirty-seven…” said Sir Arkwright, resisting the urge to shake his head. That meant one-hundred and sixty-three Imperial warships had been destroyed. And with them had gone the lives of hundreds…No, thousands of Imperial citizens that had composed the crews.
Still, even thousands paled in comparison to the utter massacre that had happened on Centuria V. Billions of lives lost, and for no reason that Sir Arkwright could ascertain. And he, like Fleet Admiral Ravinder, was guilty of leaving those people to die. Just so he could save his ships, and himself, to be ready for this battle. What futility!
“But the Hyperion has survived?” asked Sir Arkwright. The Hyperion was the flagship of the Third Fleet and Fleet Admiral Ravinder’s assigned vessel.
“Yes, sir. In fact, the Hyperion is one of the ships in better condition, of the remaining thirty-seven,” said the Ops chief.
So, you’re still able to fight, thought Sir Arkwright about Fleet Admiral Ravinder. Perhaps the two of us here, today, may scrub clean our hands by shedding our own blood…
“Some of the thirty-seven are in pretty bad shape,” continued the Ops chief. “About half of them are still in fighting condition, though most have battle damage. As for the rest…” He looked over to the Comms chief, who had been in contact with the retreating vanguard ever since the withdrawal order had been given.
“We’re getting reports of fires inside the ships. Hull breaches on multiple decks. Some of those ships are in really bad shape, sir. From what their crews report,” said the Comms chief.
Sir Arkwright was not surprised. “Order the most damaged ships to the rear of our formation and have them dock with support ships if necessary.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said the Comms chief.
“But make it clear, they are to tend to their wounds as quickly as they can, then return to the fight,” Sir Arkwright’s eyes narrowed. “We still need them.”
“Yes, sir,” said the Comms chief. He gave instructions to his staff and they began sending out the orders.
“What of the reinforcements to the vanguard?” asked Sir Arkwright. “How did they fare?”
“They are in full retreat as well,” said the Ops chief. I detect that their surviving ships, along with those of the Third Fleet, have cleared the enemy’s range of fire and will arrive at our position in less than one minute.”
“Are the drones a threat to them?” asked Sir Arkwright.
“No, sir. Our retreating forces are away from the drones,” said the Ops chief.
“Is there any chance of the drones overtaking them?” asked Sir Arkwright.
“No, sir,” said the Defense chief. “Our ships, and the Rotham ships, are faster than the drones.”
“But the drones are on their way?” asked Sir Arkwright.
“No, sir,” said the Ops chief, after checking his scanning equipment. “Like the phalanx of enemy capital ships, they appear to be gathering into a swarm, but otherwise remain stationary. No movement from either the drones or the capital ships has been made in our direction, or any direction, for that matter.”
“Not yet anyway,” said Sir Arkwright, knowing the situation wouldn’t last long. “What about casualties to the Sixth Fleet and the Rotham support flotillas?”
“The Sixth Fleet remains mostly intact, as far as I can tell,” said the Ops Chief. “Of its two-hundred and seven ships, including Fleet Admiral Faried’s flagship, the ISS Colossus, one-hundred and seventy warships remain. Of those, about eighty percent remain in fighting condition. As for our Rotham allies, the Bravo Flotilla seems to have lost about ten percent of its original one-hundred.”
“So ten ships,” said Sir Arkwright.
“Yes, sir, that is correct,” said the Ops chief.
Sir Arkwright shook his head. Cowardly bastards, he thought. We lose a combined two-hundred ships in the initial engagement, and they, the spineless aliens, those Lizards, they only put ten of their precious seven hundred ships at risk.
True, Sir Arkwright had only dispatched one Rotham flotilla to support the vanguard, one-hundred ships in total, but, to experience ten-percent casualties, while the humans had endured roughly fifty percent casualties…that, to Sir Arkwright, was a display of cowardice. He would make certain to deploy the rest of the Rotham flotillas, including the surviving ninety ships of Bravo flotilla, in such a way that he could ensure that their allies would equally experience the brunt of the enemy’s assault, once it finally came.
“Let me know the instant any of those drones are coming our way,” commanded Sir Arkwright.
“Yes, sir,” replied the Ops chief.
Not long ago, they had detected a horde of drone starfighters launching from the enemy carrier ships; Sir Arkwright had appraised the entire defense force at once and had ordered the deployment of all human starfighters—and any Rotham starfighters, if they’d brought any—as a response. Like the capital ships, the friendly starfighters seemed vastly outnumbered by the drones, although exact counts had not been provided to Sir Arkwright.
“Can someone get me a reading on the configuration of the enemy fleet?” asked Sir Arkwright.
“Our sensors detect between seven and ten-thousand enemy ships, including support ships,” said the Ops chief. “It is impossible to get an exact count. They are too close together.”
“Too close together?” asked Sir Arkwright. “Does that mean…?” he allowed his question to trail off.
“Yes, sir,” replied the Ops chief. “The enemy force has successfully organized into Phalanx Formation.”
“And the shield?” asked Sir Arkwright.
“They have begun to pool their shields; I estimate that, within thirty seconds, they will have successfully pooled the shield strength of the entire collective of starships together,” said the Ops chief.
“Making them damn near impenetrable,” said Sir Arkwright. He had seen this happen before, back at Centuria V, before he and Fleet Admiral Ravinder had retreated, abandoning the planet to its doom. He remembered how Ravinder’s force had charged headlong into the enemy, as ordered, only to discover that their beam weapons were entirely useless. Of course it came as no surprise that they would employ the same tactic here.
If only our vanguard had succeeded, thought Sir Arkwright. If only we could have split them in half—or even smaller groups. That damned phalanx shield would be so much the weaker…
“That estimate, seven to ten-thousand ships, does that include the drones we detected?” asked Sir Arkwright, praying that the answer was yes
. But, of course, that would be too gentle a kindness for the universe to offer them.
“No, sir,” said the Ops chief. His voice did not betray any fear, but he seemed to tremble slightly. Sir Arkwright was unsure whether it was a trick of his aging eyes or not. He suspected not.
They’re afraid, he thought, scanning over the dozens of crewmembers scrambling to operate the many systems of the ISS Victory’s bridge. We’re all afraid. As he took half a second to watch them, some of them hurrying about from one station to another, he reflected on the fact that they were essentially walking corpses. For, no matter what they did, and how hard they fought, the force they had mustered was no match for seven to ten-thousand ships. Not to mention the damned drone fighters…
“How many drones do we detect?” asked Sir Arkwright.
“Impossible to tell,” said the Ops chief; Sir Arkwright was unsurprised. “Perhaps…one-hundred thousand. Maybe more.”
“One-hundred thousand drones?” said Sir Arkwright. “God Almighty…” he said, mostly to himself. Perhaps ten-thousand capital ships, albeit some support ships, and a hundred-thousand drone starfighters. What a force! And all of it here to end them. To end humanity. To end everything, it seemed. But why? Sir Arkwright believed there was a divine plan for all life, just as surely as he believed there was a Divine Creator. But even with all his faith—a faith he had clung to despite existing in a purely secular society—he could not fathom what kind of Creator would allow for such an evil force to assemble, and wreak the carnage and chaos they had wreaked—and would continue to wreak—and how any of that fit into some kind of Divine Plan. But then again, he was merely mortal and he could not expect himself to comprehend such things. Just because he could not understand the reason did not mean the reason failed to exist—or failed to be reasonable.
Please God, he prayed silently, deliver us from this evil. Then, he went to work.
“Until that enemy formation, or any of its drones, starts making any kind of attack run against us, we have some time to form up and prepare for them,” he said, his voice a beacon of authority. Then, to his Comms chief, he commanded that his next words be broadcast to the entire defense force.
The Phoenix Requiem (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 7) Page 18
