“And what is that?” asked Kalila.
“Necessity,” said Sir Vasquez, meeting her gaze. “The Dread Fleet has come here with a singular goal, it would seem, to destroy us. But their survival and well-being does not hinge upon that goal. And so, while they are here, for whatever reason, to destroy us, our reason in being here, and fighting this battle, is one far more compelling, one that will force our people to fight harder, suffer longer, and resist death and defeat with unparalleled courage.
“And that thing, Your Majesty, is, as I said, necessity. To the enemy, either they win this battle or they go elsewhere. To us, either we win this battle, or we all die, and with us so too perishes all that we love and care about. That necessity, that desperation, if you will, can often be the thread that, when pulled, controls the tide of battle. And it favors us, Your Highness, not them. So, while they do outnumber us and seem to be an unstoppable force, we have gathered here in all our strength and refuse to be moved. They will come, and let them, as Sir Arkwright has said. But there is no greater resolve to empower a soldier than desperation to survive. And we all know, as do our people, that our continued existence rests in the need to prevail this day. And because of that, Your Highness, I say we have a chance.”
Kalila nodded, accepting this. She did not think such a thing made such a difference as having thousands more ships, but she agreed it was not irrelevant, and that it did favor the defenders. Though she could not steer herself around the very apparent fact that her forces would ultimately all be destroyed, and soon after, her with them. I am the last monarch of the Empire, she thought.
“And what say you?” Kalila turned her gaze toward Fleet Admiral Lawson. “You’ve been notoriously quiet over there. I’m sure you have something to say about our situation, or some advice to give.”
The old admiral looked up, but hesitated before speaking. Eventually, when she did speak, she was as coarse and candid as ever. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but if you are looking for reassurance, or hope, or whatever the hell else might allow you to believe we will win the day, you will have to look elsewhere.” Fleet Admiral Lawson looked away from Kalila and down at the displays. “I cannot count so many dots,” she said brusquely. “But, from where I’m standing, they have come to kick our asses. Sure, like they say,” she motioned toward the other two advisors, “We will fight hard and fierce, doing all we can to defend our lives, and freedoms, and all that crap. But, in my experience, ideals do not win battles. Numbers win battles. And the truth is,” she looked up, meeting Kalila’s gaze once more, “The enemy has the numbers and we do not. Sure, there will be a lot of blood spilt, many starships destroyed, and much fighting before the end comes. But the end is coming. It is at our doorstep. And there is nothing we can do to stop it.”
Kalila nodded, accepting that that was probably true. Even though, deep inside, she yearned for some sort of hope to cling to. Unfortunately, her inner search for that hope came up empty, and she found herself back where she had been, leaning over the displays, watching the massive swath of red dots begin to move toward the green and blue dots, and realizing, for the hundredth time, just how tremendously outnumbered the defenders were.
***
Nimoux saw the light through the window and knew, before Summers reported it, that the Nighthawk had taken another massive blow from the energy vortex.
“Shields are beginning to fail,” said Summers from the Defense post. “A few more like that and we will have total collapse.”
“And once the shields fail,” said Nimoux. “How long can the armored hull survive before a breach?”
“I have no idea,” said Summers. “I’ve never fought anything like this before. But, at the rate it is destroying our shields…I would say, not long.” She looked at him with a kind of desperate sorrow in her eyes. He couldn’t see her green irises very clearly from his position in the command chair, but Nimoux got the vague impression that she wanted to tell him something else, something personal. Like she wanted to say goodbye. Or apologize. Or something?
“Sir, I keep moving the ship, like you asked,” said Jay, stealing Nimoux’s attention. “But wherever I go…it’s like somehow this damned vortex knows we’re going to be there and hits us again. I…I can’t get us away from it. If I accelerate to top speed, it catches us; if I move us about randomly, it still finds us.”
“Ops, is there anything you can feed the helm about the movements of the vortex that can help us avoid it?” Nimoux asked.
Cassidy shook her head. “It keeps blinking in and out of existence, either that or our scanners have given out. I can’t make sense of it. All I can tell you is that wherever we go, it goes. I have no idea how.”
There was another flash. Nimoux grimaced. “Shields?” he asked.
“Holding, but not by much,” said Summers. “At this rate…” her words trailed off.
We’re dead, thought Nimoux. We’re all dead. And Calvin is counting on us to be there for him. The entire away team is. He cursed himself, knowing it was his duty to keep the Nighthawk in one piece. And that was getting more difficult by the second.
“Keep moving us about, Mister Cox,” said Nimoux. “Ops, if you can find any more power, feed it to the shields.” They had already drained secondary and tertiary power, and rerouted power from the beam weapon, most of the sensors, and any other system from which power could be redirected, including gravity. The only thing keeping them all from floating away from their stations was the restraints they wore.
“I’m trying everything I can,” said Cassidy. “And I mean everything.”
We’re not going to make it, thought Nimoux. No matter how hard he tried. No matter how much he wanted to. The ship was not going to survive. Custos, as the Polarians called it, was indeed a vengeful entity. And it would have its blood.
Another flash of light appeared.
“The shields will fail soon,” said Summers, before Nimoux had to ask. “After that—”
“The ship will come apart,” said Nimoux, knowingly.
If failure is inevitable, then there was no need for all of us to die, thought Nimoux. His mind briefly flicked back to the image of the three caskets about to be buried, each covered in the Imperial flag. He wondered, if he could save some of the life on this ship, if it would undo any of the evil he had committed when he’d killed those three officers. Probably not, he concluded. Still, if he could save even one life, he was going to.
He made a snap decision. “Miss Dupont, restore the gravity immediately.”
“But sir,” she protested, “We’re using that power to help reinforce the shields.”
“And we’ll use it again,” he said. “This order is only temporary.” He then looked at Summers, taking the briefest of instants to examine her awesome beauty one final time. Then, after a short breath, he said, “Commander Presley.”
She turned and faced him. “Yes, Captain?”
“I am ordering you to undo your restraints and go to the pod immediately.” Calvin’s away mission had only taken two of the three pods attached to the ship. One remained. “You will use it to ferry as many survivors as can be fit into it to escape.”
“But—” she began to protest.
“That is a direct order,” said Nimoux. “Do you understand?”
“But…Lafayette,” she looked at him earnestly, like she didn’t have it in her to abandon her post in a moment of crisis, even to save her own life. Especially when it meant her comrades would not be so fortunate.
“I gave you an order, Commander,” Nimoux took a very firm tone. “Now get to that pod, on the double. Those survivors, whomever will fit into the pod, will need a leader. And I have decided that leader must be you.”
She looked on the brink of arguing but, as another flash appeared, and she glanced at her terminal, no doubt noting the sorry state of the ship’s shields, she nodded. “Yes, sir,” she said, her tone very businesslike and not at all approving.
“Good, now go!” said Nimoux.
“I’ll take it. Now move, on the double, Commander!”
She quickly undid her restraints and got up. As she hurried off toward the elevator, she stopped, for the briefest of moments, and looked at him. Again her beautiful green eyes seemed to be telling him something. But the message was lost in translation. Then she went into the elevator and disappeared.
Once she was gone, Nimoux tapped the control for the ship-wide intercom.
“To all souls aboard the IWS Nighthawk, this is Captain Lafayette Nimoux. I am in command of this ship. I hereby order all off-duty personnel to immediately report to the pod and abandon the ship. Stuff that pod with as many of you as can fit and then get the hell out of here. I cannot express the urgency enough, so go now!
As for the rest of you, members of the crew who are at stations, or who cannot fit into the pod, I won’t lie to you. The situation is grim! But hold your positions, men and women; stay at your posts and fight on! If we die here, we die in the service of our Empire. Every one of us swore an oath and every one of us knew that the possibility existed that one day we may be called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice. That day may be upon us. But take pride and be strong! And together, we will fight until the end! Make your Empire proud; make your loved ones proud; and make yourselves proud; let us show our enemy that we are not afraid!”
He released the transmitter, then paged engineering. “Mister Cowen, I need you to keep us together for as long as you can. I’ll keep things under control up here.”
“Aye, sir. And, I just want you to know, while I have the chance to say it,” the chief engineer’s voice came through the speakers, “It’s an honor to die with you, sir.”
“We’re not dead yet, Mister Cowen,” said Nimoux. “Now see what more you can squeeze out of that tertiary power!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Nimoux released the intercom and unstrapped the restraints. He darted to the Defense station and fastened himself back in. “Mister Cox, as soon as you get word that the pod has launched, tell Miss Dupont. Midshipman Dupont, when Mister Cox gives you the signal, draw power away from gravity and put it back into the shields.”
“Aye, sir,” they both acknowledged.
There was another flash as the Nighthawk was slammed by a massive energy wave. Nimoux looked down at the monitor. Shield strength was now only at five percent and seemed to be falling.
At least it will be quick, he thought. If this really is the end.
***
Captain Adiger, in the command position of the Black Swan, watched the lights on the tactical display as his ship, and all the ninety he commanded, raced around the planet, as fast as they could, to join what promised to be a battle of epic proportions.
Adiger did not expect to live through this battle and so, as his crew worked diligently to control the ship and get it into position, and communicate and coordinate with the other vessels in the Seventh Fleet, Adiger remained mostly quiet, keeping his thoughts to himself, only giving out commands when necessary.
This gave him a chance to reflect on life generally, and his life in particular. He was proud of the many decades he had devoted in service to the royal family, the capstone of which, very likely, would prove to be the sacrifice of his own life. But he could not help but think of all the things he hadn’t done, the experiences of life, normal life, that he had given up in favor of his lifetime of service and military career.
Whether or not he had regrets, he was unsure. But it was indeed a strange experience to be in a place, from which he could easily flee—were he cowardly enough—but instead remain, voluntarily, staring the Reaper in the eyes and knowing that the cold, black end of all things, death, was fast approaching. Most people had the luxury of not knowing when their time would expire. But here, in this place, as part of the vastly overmatched defense force, and seeing the enemy that had come to attack them—a merciless foe by all accounts, that took no prisoners and offered no quarter—he had the opportunity to know how and when he would die.
Do I regret this? He asked himself. He didn’t have a chance to fully consider the question, or reach an answer. One of his officers interrupted his train of thought.
“Sir, the enemy formation is on the move!”
“The phalanx of capital ships, or the drones?” asked Adiger.
“Both, sir,” said his Ops chief. “Though it appears the drones are leading the attack, and will strike first.”
Adiger was not surprised. Were he commanding the enemy fleet, he would deploy the exact same way. Hearing this news sent a jolt of electricity through him and all thoughts of regrets and worries about a life well or poorly lived went completely away. His attention now fully surrendered to the battle at hand.
“Time before we reach the First Fleet’s position?” asked Adiger.
“Less than one minute, sir,” replied the chief navigator.
“And the defense force, is it moving yet? To intercept the enemy?” asked Adiger. From what he could see on the display, the blue and green lights were stationary, but he could not tell for certain.
“No, sir,” said the Defense chief.
“The standing order from Sir Arkwright is for all defensive forces to get into position and then remain there,” said the Comms chief.
Adiger nodded, understanding. Sir Arkwright wanted to deal with the drone threat before pushing their force of capital ships hard, fast, and close into the enemy’s formation. At such close range, the defenders could engage the enemy without needing their beam weapons, which would be useless against such a powerful shield.
“And the vanguard?” asked Adiger, wondering if any of those ships had survived. Now that the enemy was in formation and on the attack, surely nothing must remain of the vanguard—if any of it stayed behind.
“The vanguard has withdrawn, sir,” said the Defense chief.
“All except for fifteen ships,” corrected the Ops chief.
“Fifteen ships?” asked Adiger with surprise, wondering how they could possibly have evaded destruction, and why they had chosen not to retreat with the rest of the vanguard. “Who are they?” he asked.
“Unknown design, sir,” said the Ops chief. “They are part of the flotilla that arrived with the Harbinger.”
“And they are still in the fight?” Adiger found this incredible.
“Yes, sir,” said the Ops chief. “Although I doubt for much longer. They’ve taken fifty-percent casualties and the ships that remain have sustained heavy damage. While the ships have used clever positioning and tactics to avoid being fired upon, or to limit the enemy’s opportunities to destroy them, they will not last much longer. I expect them to be dead within the minute, sir.”
Adiger simply shook his head in disbelief. “Out there and still fighting. Fifteen ships against ten thousand, not to mention countless drones…Give those men a medal! Should any of them survive.”
Of course, to honor them properly, they would not only have to survive their maniacal suicide attack, the Empire itself would need to survive. And, by the looks of it, Capital World was ripe for the harvest, and, although everything the Empire and the Rotham could muster stood in between the planet and the scythe, Adiger could tell it would not be enough. They had come up short, by many thousands, and soon it would all be over.
But not yet.
***
He struggled to catch his breath as he stumbled onto the bridge of the Thunder Sun, nearly losing his balance in the process. “God damn those Polarian bastards…” Zarao paused for breath before continuing. “They can fight hard,” again he had to breathe before continuing, “When they want to. I’ve got to respect that…but damn every last one of them!”
“Zarao? Are you all right?” Gortat asked.
“Never been better,” Zarao replied, as he felt his eyes blank over momentarily and a wave of dizziness come and go. Despite it, he kept his footing.
“Are you sure?” Gortat looked concerned. All of th
em looked concerned. “So much blood,” said Gortat, looking Zarao up and down.
Only then did Zarao glance down at himself and see how shredded his clothing was. It was like he had dressed in torn crimson rags that were soaked and dripping, leaving a trail of his successes—or perhaps his failings—wherever he went. Is that Polarian blood or is that my blood, he wondered. The sight of it made him grin.
“Well, would you look at that?” he said, amused, ignoring the intense pain that was quickly setting in. As the aching increased, he knew it meant he was reverting back to his frailer human form.
“Did everyone make it back to the ship?” asked the lycan at the flight controls, sounding eager. “Is everybody aboard?”
“Everybody who’s coming aboard,” said Zarao, knowing that only he had survived this latest attack. But, then again, they had boarded a Polarian warship with only five lycans. He supposed he should have expected nothing less.
Apparently, this was good enough for the lycan at the flight control, and his bridge crew retracted the ram and began to move the ship. Zarao watched out the window, momentarily, but then felt the sudden and compelling urge to lie down. He resisted, for a second, but when it became clear his two choices were lie down on the ground, or fall down on the ground, he chose the former.
“They’re getting smarter, you know,” he said, to no one, as he stared up at the bridge’s ceiling. “Those blue bastards are getting smarter. Like…they knew we were coming this time…” he laughed. It wasn’t a joyful laugh. Just a laugh. He raised his hands and looked at his now perfectly human fingers. So small and so weak. And so covered in blood. Most of the blood had dried, but not all of it, and some few drops poured off his fingertips and dripped onto his face. He ignored them, until one stung him in the eye. Then he put his hands down by his sides.
“Zarao, we need your orders,” said somebody, who he knew wasn’t very distant and yet sounded miles away. Zarao laughed at that too. “Zarao!”
The Phoenix Requiem (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 7) Page 20
