“Shields down to 20% on the arc facing that bomber and spotting heavily,” reported Shields in a rising voice.
“Tactical! Get guns on those bombers and blow them out of my firing arc,” shouted Stravinsky.
“Trying, Commander. Just a second—” the Tactical Officer said in a strained voice, only to be interrupted by the enemy torpedo launch.
“Separation! Enemy torpedoes away and closing in fast,” cried Sensors.
“Somebody stop those torpedoes,” Stravinsky yelled just before the first torpedo slammed into their stern shields.
“Shields overload. Shields are down!” cried the Shield Officer.
“Somebody give me some good news for a change,” Stravinsky snapped.
“The automated reboot cycle has been initiated; we’ll have shields back up in fifty seconds, Sir,” reported Shields.
Tactical cheered as the second torpedo, following closely in the wake of the first, was taken out by a point defense laser and detonated early.
“Tell gunnery to keep up the good work,” the Commander said tightly.
“Two more enemy bombers are on close approach!” reported Sensors right before another pair of torpedoes were launched.
“Fire! Fire! Fire! Take those torps out,” Tactical shouted down to Gunnery.
“Alpha Squadron, where are you?” LeGodat demanded, once again forcing open a connection to the Squadron Commander.
“Just one second, Sir. These ships don’t turn on a dime,” the other man said with a trace of irritation, and moments later the Alpha Cruisers turned far enough to the side that their defensive lasers came to bear on the enemy.
A barrage of laser strikes swept both bombers out of the sky before they could flee, but weren’t even targeted on the torpedoes they’d already fired.
LeGodat grunted and cut the channel. He had no more time to focus on the fate of his flagship. Either it survived this or it didn’t; he couldn’t afford to be distracted from the larger battle. He had to trust Stravinsky to fight her ship.
“Echo Squadron,” he said keying open a direct channel to Echo, “it looks like one of Charlie’s Cruisers has taken too much engine damage. As of now they’re moving too slow. I need you to fall back and deploy bucking cables until they can make repairs. Coms, tell Beta that they need to—” LeGodat’s words were cut off as an explosion rocked the ship, forcing him to grab hold of the plotting table to keep from flying to the floor. “What was that?!”
“Structural damage to the housing frame of the second engine,” said Damage Control. “Main plasma feed lines have been severed on the port side and the secondary lines are damaged. Second engine is down. I say again: our second engine is down until they can repair the feed lines and check that frame for stability.”
“Belay the frame check and tell them to focus on those feeder lines,” Stravinsky ordered. “If that engine can’t get back into action we’re done.”
“The chief engineer says five minutes to repair the secondary feed lines enough to reroute the load and bring the engine back online at fifty percent,” reported Damage Control after an emergency consult with the Chief Engineer. “It’ll be a half hour at least to repair the primary lines and get back full power.”
“Not good enough, DC—I don’t have five minutes,” Stravinsky replied harshly. “Get with the Engineer and find me a better solution.”
“Wait one…” the Damage Control Engineer said turning back to his panel and opening a com-channel. Seconds later he turned back to the Commander, “The automated shutdown and reboot cycle on the second engine has just completed. The Chief says we can give you 20% but we’ll be leaking plasma into the ship, that’s without any frame checks and slows down the repair job on the secondary feed lines to ten minutes and extends out the primary line repair to as much as an hour.”
Stravinsky glared at the man for a long moment and then looked back at the screen, “Do it.”
“I am compelled by Confederation protocol to warn you that activating the engines without a frame check could result in the engine tearing the stern of this ship apart—killing us all,” the Engineer said, drawing himself up stoically and closing his eyes as he said the last part.
“You have your orders,” said the Commander unflinchingly, “now carry them out.”
“Aye, Commander,” the Damage Control Officer said saluting then turning back to his console. Moments later, the engine flared causing ship’s course to wobble.
“Compensating now,” said the Helmsman fighting his controls and eventually the course smoothed out.
Everyone held their breath but, after a long couple of seconds when nothing happened, the bridge crew sighed in relief.
“Alright, people, back into the fight!” LeGodat barked, bringing their attention back where it needed to be if they were going to survive this. “Helm, no more playing around: point us straight at the kill zone and bring us in there at best speed.”
Now they just had to continue survive long enough to suck the Imperials in. With this latest damage there was definitely enough blood in the water to provoke them; the only question that remained was could the Cruiser flotilla survive long enough to suck them in.
At the moment, that was very much in question.
Chapter Forty-five: Fighting for the lives of their comrades
“There’s another four squadrons of enemy fighters lined for an attack on the Little Gift,” reported Tactical.
“Bring us around and message the rest of the screen,” Commodore Kling said making a snap decision. “Those Cruisers are nipping at their heels but we’re just going to have to risk it. I want those fighters taken down and taken down hard. The Firestorm ships are the best hope Task Force Retribution has of carrying out its mission.”
Coming about with its companions not far behind, the surviving Corvettes and Destroyers of Firestorm lit their engines and leapt back to the rear of the combined formation to stop those bombers before they ruined everything.
“Two enemy fighter squadrons are breaking off to intercept us while the other two are attempting to continue their attack run,” reported Tactical.
“With their shields down, the Gift can’t survive two more squadron’s worth of those oversized missiles of theirs,” Kling said direly. “Punch a hole through that blocking force, Helm. I want to pull around right behind the Cruiser’s stern and block any further attacks on their engines.”
“On it, Commodore,” said the Helmsman.
“Sir!” called out Tactical as they had just started exchanging ranging shots with the blocking force trying to keep them off their missile carrying companions, “I’m reading a large group of Destroyers pulling ahead of the rest of the main enemy force! They’re on an intercept course with us, Sir.”
“Time for a rematch?” Kling asked with a smile that was more grimace than anything. “Well, I’m game if they are. Deploy our Destroyers to the outside of our formation facing the Imperial Destroyers. Our Corvettes are just going to have to deal with the fighters on our own.”
“Relaying now, Commodore,” said Comm. Officer who, after a listening to his com-bud, paused and then turned back to Kling, “Sir, all Destroyers and Corvettes acknowledge orders except the Sundered. Primarch Glue says he will be taking the appropriate measures as the situation unfolds.”
Kling frowned but noted that on the holo-screen the Sundered ships were keeping formation and following along with the rest of the Corvettes.
“Whatever,” he said after a moment. After all, as a member of the Tracto-an SDF ultimately he had to live with the gorilla uplifts after the war was all over. Kling would just have to keep an eye on the situation.
Chapter Forty-six: An Imperial Push: Destroyer Style
“Alright, Jackson, take us in,” Commodore Serge said with a sharp toothed grin on his face.
“You heard the Commodore, Helm. Intercept course for the provincial light screen—full burn,” instructed the XO.
Serge watched as the four full squadron
s of Destroyers under him moved in for the kill.
“What do you think the odds are that our adversary from the outer system is in there somewhere?” asked the Executive Officer.
The Commodore cocked his head.
“Adversary, Jackson? Really? He or she may have been the best the provincials had in their toolbox, but I don’t think they rise to the level of an adversary. Maybe an opponent at best,” Serge said after a moment of contemplation.
“I’m sorry; I misspoke,” the XO said.
“It’s no matter. That officer has done more damage to our Destroyers than any four other officers, the commander of their Cruiser flotilla included. Truth be told, I’m actually looking forward to crossing swords with him once again and putting a period on the end of his career,” the Commodore said.
“May Man give me slack, stupid, and unimaginative opponents is it, Sir?” asked the XO.
“Quoting old Admiral Forthright from back in the academy?” Serge asked, lifting a brow. “Is he still teaching or has he finally retired?”
“I wouldn’t know, Sir,” XO Jackson said with a shrug.
“Well, pay it no mind. There are better chances for promotion fighting the best the enemy has rather than their worst—at least, there is under a commander like the Supreme Admiral,” replied Serge.
“I’ll try to keep that in mind. But it’s ‘High Admiral,’ not ‘Supreme,’ sir?” Jackson cocked his head.
“I like a skilled, bold, and above all confident Admiral at the top of my organization, XO. Don’t ever doubt that for even a minute,” Serge said seriously. “But even though we’re officially a completely independent and rogue operation—one that in no way has anything to do with the Imperial Navy—‘High’ sounds just exactly like just the sort of routine claptrap most penny ante warlords operating on the edges would use. ‘Supreme’…well, that word smacks to me too much like something that should only be used only with Triumverate approval—preferably pre-approval—rogue operation or no rogue operation. So I’ll stick to the one least likely to cause me troubles down the line when all of our Reclamation Fleet’s internal electronic documents are up for peer review back home, if you don’t mind.”
His XO raised his hands as if in surrender. “I don’t mind in the least, and I’ll make sure to pass the word around the ship.”
“No need to cause any alarm. Just a word to the wise,” Serge placed a finger alongside his nose, “everything will probably turn out fine. And if it doesn’t, marking a few papers in a more politically-correct way probably won’t make any difference. But on the small percentage chance that it does, I’m going to continue to mark things up a certain way if you know what I mean, and I advise you to do the same,” he said.
“I’ll keep it on the down low,” said the XO with a nod.
“Ah, it looks like we’re about to enter attack range,” Serge said with satisfaction. “While this still doesn’t compare to the Front, this sort of experience is certainly going to look good in front of a promotion board,” he raised his voice. “Take us in, Helm.”
“Aye-aye, Sir.”
Like the vengeance of Man, the Imperial Destroyers under the command Commodore Serge swept into firing range of the enemy Destroyers and, without any preamble or fanfare, opened fire. By this point there was no point in asking for surrender; both sides knew the score so there was no point in beating around the bush.
“Enemy warships taking fire…now returning it,” reported Tactical. “If you want to pull us back a bit, the computer says we have the edge on them when it comes to range.”
“We’re not standing off at long range and pounding them, Tactical. We’re riding this prey down into the ground,” said Serge.
“Yes sir. I just had to say it,” said the Tactical Officer.
“Send Squadrons Two and Three around to port for an up the kilt shot. Either they disorder their formations or they sacrifice their engines, I’m good either way,” said the Commodore.
“Message relayed, sir.”
“Order Squadrons One and Two to press them hard. We want distract them from those bombers if we can. But if we can’t, I’m fine with that just so long as we can make them pay,” he said.
Jackson looked at him. “Blasting a Cruiser would be more satisfying but that’s not our job. Leave that to the bombers. Our job is to support them and take the fight to their screen, which is exactly what we’re doing.”
****************************************************
The Perseverance slashed through the enemy fighters, her light lasers punching holes into any fighter that didn’t get out of her way fast enough. The Corvettes behind her followed suit, driving the Imperials back.
“Keep us pointed at those bombers, Helm,” Kling ordered resolutely, “and send a squadron of Corvettes…make it Delta Squadron,” he decided, “around for another pass on those fighters. We need to keep pressing them.”
“Ranging on those bombers now,” reported Tactical, “gunnery is firing!”
“Bombers are scattering,” reported Sensors.
“Pour it on. Pour it on!” Kling pounded his chair as one bomber blew up and two more were hit, reeling out of formation and ultimately sent limping for home. Their ordnance had been fired early due to Kling’s defensive fire, and now that his Corvettes where here in force, those out-of-range shots were totally ineffective.
“Scatteroc reports they’ve been targeted by multiple ships and are taking heavy damage. While Baselard is falling out of formation. Four other Destroyers report shields down or falling and light to medium level damage,” reported Kling’s XO. “They’re pressing us hard, Sir.”
“We’ve got to finish these bombers,” Kling said resolutely, “tell the Destroyers they’ve got to hold for as long as they can before breaking off.”
Three more bombers and six fighters fell to slashing attacks before there was an explosion behind them.
“Scatteroc is Code Omega. I say again: Scatteroc is down,” reported Tactical.
“Baselard has struck its fusion generator and drifting unpowered!” reported Sensors.
“Destroyer screen is starting to pull back,” reported Tactical.
Kling glared at the screen as two squadrons of Imperial Destroyers aimed themselves at his now uncovered and exposed Corvettes and lunged in for the kill.
“Blast. We’re going to have to—” Kling stopped as a group of Corvettes suddenly pulled out of formation. “Who’s the blighter that decided to break formation without orders?”
“It’s the Sword of Omens and the rest of the Sundered, Sir,” reported Sensors.
“Glue!” Kling slammed his fist into the arm of his chair.
Chapter Forty-seven: Moves like a Primarch
“The boats are behind us and ready to move on your orders, Primarch,” said a Sundered Male with cybernetics in his head, his roving eyes staring beyond the walls of the bridge that ran the Sword of Omens—Glue’s personally chosen Sundered flagship.
“The Roving Banana says it’s ready to drop missiles and fall back at your order, Primarch,” said a female with beautiful slender fingers as she keyed closed a com-link.
“The order is being given,” said Glue with a grimace at the terrible naming sense of the missile ship Master. At his command, every Sundered ship in the screen turned their prow and burned toward the Imperial Destroyers.
“Are you sure, husband?” asked his scar-faced wife, her nose twitching in a large circular motion. “The humans have so many ships on both sides. Does it really need to be us who sacrifices again?”
“The order is after being given. Go!” he said with an emphatic, double-handed slap.
“Missile separation!” hooted a large, younger male, bouncing up and down in his chair with excitement.
“Full power burn!” Glue rumbled, glowering at the larger Imperial Destroyers on the screen. Ships like these had rained fire and destruction down on a defenseless convoy full of Sundered families early on in their Trail of Tears as they fled
the would-be genocidal tactics of the Gorgon Alliance. Counter-genocidal tactics, really, but still—two wrongs did not necessarily make a right, especially when it destroyed the souls of those who used and approved of it.
“I just hope the pink skins appreciate our sacrifice,” growled his scar-faced female glaring at the screen.
“Fighting for humans? Glue is not fighting to sacrifice himself for humans. Glue fights for our Sundered people this day,” Glue rumbled, skinning back his lips to expose his strong and powerful, ivory teeth and raising his voice to a thunderous bellow. “This Glue fights because as a people we must vent this anger deep inside of us, removing the shadow cast over our hearts, or we will slowly rot from the inside until there is nothing left of our Sundered people.”
He glowered around at the Sundered bridge crew, knowing from their faces that he had their rapt attention.
“Before Omicron and Little Admiral, we are running and hiding and struggle every day just to live. But now we have a home and time to think. Too much time, I think. Back home, many full of rage and anger, Sundered ask: why help the humans? Let humans fight humans and, at need, make a lottery so no Sundered is choosing of own accord to fight in human war. Only minimum ships is sent to help Tracto and Confederation and Little Admiral. Our numbers are very small, so why not stay home and make babies and live life? But I ask: how can we pass on a legacy of helpless poisoned anger to our children?” the Primarch thrust a thick, black finger at the holo-screen, “I say no. I say those humans on those ships are same Imperial humans that attacked peaceful and defenseless refugee ships full of Sundered people—families whose only crime is refuse Gorgon world sterilization plan and run, wanting only find peace in this lifetime,” he shook his head violently. “Need and appreciation from humans are for humans, whoever is needing that more than the life itself is certainly not this Primarch.”
He saw backs stiffen and lips peels back, revealing savage mouths full of teeth bared in hot anticipation.
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