Against the Night: A Tale Of the Corrdio
Posted: 2016-02-09 04:41pm
Against the Night
“...do your duty!“ Fleet Lieutenant Dann screams at him, as he aims his M16A4 laser rifle dead at the little prok—no more than six or seven—standing in front of him, its eyes saucer-wide, staring up at him, pleading for its life.
“'Evil sometimes wears a pleasing face,' squaddie!“ Lieutenant Dann reminds him, the prok's pleading taking on a seductive tone, as it rubs up against Procopio, the Naval Infantry recruit feeling something stirring within him, as he begins lowering his weapon.
Until he catches a glimpse of the vibroblade in its right hand, the Naval Infanry squad supervisor pushing the filthy prok away from him, firing pulse after pulse from his weapon, the degenerate thing screaming luridly, as it burns....
8 August, 2722 12:21:24
“...all hands to battle stations! Action imminent!“ drones the voice over the intercom, as the lid of Squad Supervisor Procopio Cortes' coldwire chamber hisses open, the machinery slowly bringing him back into the realm of the living and the harshly-lit reality of the training deck, med techs removing electrodes and wires from him, as the Interstellar Naval Infantry squad supervisor stretches himself, swinging his feet onto the deck, his every joint creaking, as he begins walking toward the chambers holding the remaining members of his squad.
All but one of whom are on their feet and standing at attention, Procopio hearing the chamber holding Squadman Logan scream out warning, the medical technicans assigned to the maintenance of that chamber opening it up to remove his corpse—only the whites of his eyes are visible in their sockets—from the bundle of wires and electrodes maintaining his comatose state and the virtual reality enviroment in which they had all trained, the med techs laying him onto a gurney which a pair of maintenance bots trundle off to the biomass recyclers.
Procopio feels nothing for the slain squadman, save contempt...after all, if he hadn't been morally inferior, he would have emerged from his induced coma, his death and damnation in the life to come nothing more or less than the judgement meted out by Him for his sins.
The men under his command share his sentiment, Procopio knows this without having to ask, just by looking into the hard, cold eyes of the nine surviving members of his squad.
“Comp'nee,“ the voice of his company's senior supervisor, Fleet Supervisor Corin James, snaps out,“atten-shut!“
Procopio takes his place at the head of his squad, snapping to attention, as James and Lieutenant Esau Martillo slowly walk past the members of their company, formed up into their respective platoons and squads, both men speaking into their headcomps, holograms floating in front of each man's right eye scrolling lines of data.
“I see you're a man short, Supervisor,“ Lieutenant Martillo says, the wiry, girzzled, coal-black patricio eyeing Procopio as if he were sheed on the soles of his boots.
“Coldwire failure, Sir,“ Procopio replies instantly, Martillo remarking,“I see.“
“And,“ he then adds, consulting his headcomp,“according to the Fleet Lieutenant Dann AI, you hesitated, for precisely 3.3 seconds, before prosecuting your last target.“
“Yes, Sir,“ Procopio says simply.
“What do you have to say for yourself, Supervisor?!“ Martillo then asks, Procopio replying, his head bowed,“I make no excuse for either of the failures on my part, Sir.“
The company manager nods his head, remarking,“a wise decision, Squadman. Leadman Bayless, you are now squad supervisor!“
“Yes, Sir! Thank you, Sir!“ both Procopio and newly-elevated Supervisor Ansen Bayless both reply, before Fleet Supervisor James shouts out,“company to the hangar deck! At the double!“
8 August, 2722 12:27:06 GST
Rear Admiral Henry “Buzz” Antrim sits back in his command chair, watching the activity on the red-lit bridge of the United Worlds Starship New Colossus, as the one-hundred kiloton Juggernaut-class dreadnaught gracefully turns on its short axis on a decel burn for Mons Calpa.
It is the strike which will put a final end to the pretensions of this so-called Mons Calpan Imperium who had dared twenty years ago, to defy the Congress of Worlds and refused to submit to the enligthened rule of the New Frontier.
Twenty years since their treachery, their treachery, began this tiresome civil war.
“Strike force have exited the Void in good order, Admiral,“ the watchstander at the sensor station reports.”All ships now on final deceleration vector for Mons Calpa; assualt carriers launching TARCAP, destroyers, frigates, and patrol combatants assuming point.”
“Astrogation,” Antrim then asks,”how long until we are in orbit around Scalpers?”
“Two minutes, thirty, Sir,” Fleet Lieutenant Wu Enlai crisply replies.
“Response?” the manager of Dreadnaught Strike Force New Colossus then asks.
“Minimal, Sir,” the sensor operator replies.”Mons Calpa Highport orbitals have launched fighters, and patrol combatants, along with High Fortress Europa; seven squadrons of twelve Tigersharks, three squadrons of Halcón-class patrol combatants in total.”
Antrim snorts in contempt at just how easy it was to lure the lesser races, and their comic-opera Starmarines into a such a skillfully-planned trap.
“Flight control,“ Antrim barks into his headcomp, “bridge, launch all fighters, bombers, and assault shuttles; gunnery deck, charge all spinal lasers, torpedo deck, load all tubes, and open outer hatches to space; stand by to initiate orbital bombardement on my mar—“
“Admiral,“ the sensor technican suddenly,hysterically screams,“ multiple Void entries at plus ninety by zero-thirty, four-five-zero thousand klicks downrange, multiple Void exits, ten thousand klicks downrange, on a direct intercept vec—multiple Ironstorm kinetic-energy penetrators inbound, ten thousand klicks downrange and closing fast at 3,000 kp—“
New Colossus' executive assistant ship manager begins frantically barking out orders:
“Piloting, cancel decel burn, and evade! All laser batteries, fi—“
even knowing it will not be in time.
8 August, 2722 12:29:00
“Artillery, 03,” Captain Alissa Quin orders, as the side of the massive Arky dreadnaught erupts in hot gas and debris, “stand by second Ironstorm salvo, stand by primary railguns; railgun batteries will engage inbound small craft at six thousand klicks from ship and closing.”
“Aye, Skipper; railgun batteries now engaging enemy small craft and missiles, all other weapons standing by,“ is the reply from Mons Calpan Imperial Starship Nemesis's artillery officer, Cornet Abraham Kalsi, as 21-inch tungsten penetrators take a pair of Admiral-class battleships, and another guts a Archangel-class light cruiser, while the 15,000-ton Hero-class railgun cruiser merges with the survivors of the United Worlds of Archangel Interstellar Navy's Dreadnaught Strike Force New Colossus.
“Primary railguns taking targets,“ Kalsi's holo says a second later, as Ali spins the ship round on her short axis, and Nemesis's twin waist-mounted 4.5-inch primary railguns catch Arky frigates and destroyers in the middle of flipping ship to attack the four Imperial Starmarine cruiser squadrons savaging the enemy who'd foolishly thought he'd be the one to catch her people off guard.
As if they'd fall for anything the jodito Arkys had on offer, not after they'd betrayed one of its founding worlds, the homeworld of Jami Scarlet herself, twenty years ago.
And, all the years before then, Ali thinks to herself, just for a moment.
Only for a moment.
Now isn't the time.
Later.
Maybe.
Nemesis' pilot in command taps the maneuvering jets for an instant or two, as the radar-warning receiver shrills in her ears, and an Celestial Dragon-class battlecruiser sends a beam from its spinal laser burning into where she had been, Ali slewing her ship around again, bringing the primary railguns to bear on the enemy, as he opens up the torpedo hatches along the sides of his long, cylindrical central hull.
Bursts from the primary railguns catch the Celestial Dragon as it prepares to fire its spinal laser, the 25-kilogram solid tungsten penetrators smashing into its fiber-optic phased-array antennae and generator at three thousand kilometers per second, the Arky warship instantly ripped open and tumbling dead in the darkness.
Nemesis's chief sensor tech, Midshipman Karyn Neves, reports,“remaining Arky ships have boosted to 3,000 kps; now detecting multiple Void entries.“
“How many got away?” Ali asks the young junior officer.
“Four destroyers, eight patrol combatants, two light cruisers, and the dreadnaught, Skipper,” Karyn replies.
“Coño,” Ali swears.
“¡Pinche cono!” she growls through clenched teeth.
“Astrogator,” she then says to Nemesis's astrogator and executive officer, Lieutenant Georgia Kirros,”calculate their entry vector, and determine their most likely exit point.”
“Calculating now, Skipper,” Georgia replies, frantically tapping keys on her workstation's virtual keyboard, as Karyn tells them:
“Orders direct from the Lord Commander, Skipper. All ships to hunt down and destroy all survivors of Strike Force New Colossus.”
“ Acknowledge that order, Mid,” Ali replies.
“Skipper,” Georgia says seconds later,”I have a report from the outer-system sensor platform at Patrol Station Alpha; they've detected multiple Void exits near the Luminere asteroid belt; plotting intercept, transferring astrocomp telemetry to drive computer.”
“Drive computer,” Cornet Ariel Whiddon says in Ali's ear,”has received astrocomp telemetry; Void field generator powering up. Zero-three, please confirm ship is at entry velocity.”
“Drive, astrogation,” Georgia replied,”ship maintaining requisite 3,000 kps entry velocity—“
She turns a key slotted into her workstation, and Ali's controls froze.
“—pilot's station now locked out, and astrocomp has control of the ship,” her executive officer continued her litany,”ship now committed to entry vector, entry in five, four, three, two, one...“
...she was on her knees, cradling Chloe Jane's broken little body in her cold, bleeding arms, as she screamed and sobbed...
...it actually thought such a thing could move him.
He showed it just what happened to those who tried tricking their superiors with fake tears, laying the energized, arm-thick electrowhip cable into it over and over, the prok's sobbing turning to screaming.
Screaming which only served to egg him on....
8 August, 2722, 12:31:15 GST
...Antrim almost imagines he hears his ship screaming, as it exits the Void into normal space.
“Sitrep?!” the veteran Interstellar Navy executive manager shouts into the pitch-darkness of the bridge.
“Sir,“ a flickering hologram of his engineering manager, Fleet Lieutenant Alistair Chu, reports via headcomp,“ Fusion drive offline, Void field generator offline, power and grav are out throughout the ship. Am attempting to bring emergency power on line.“
“All sensors and comms offline,” the sensor tech then reports, as light dimly returns to the New Colossus' bridge.
“Exec, weapons status?“ Antrim asks Space Commander Braeden Cotter, who replies,“spinal lasers one, three and four are damaged beyond repair, Sir, and only ten percent of the laser batteries are operable, if we restore power.“
“Torpedos?“ Antrim asks.
“Torpedo deck has been breached, Sir,“ Cotter replies,“ launchers one, four, and six inoperable.“
“Sir, I have forward cams and energy sensors,“ the sensor tech then reports, as the master holoprojector flickers into life.
“Fuck!” interjects Antrim, as a dwarf planet rushes up toward his ship.”Pilot?!”
“Fusion drive still offline!” Fleet Lieutenant Allen Hurst frantically replies, even as he fires the maneuvering jets to slowly—too slowly—nudge the 100,000-ton warship out of the small planetoid's path.
“Astrogation,” Antrim demands,”where are we?!”
New Colossus' chief astrogator, however, hangs in his chair like a broken marionette.
“Fuck,” whispers New Colossus' pilot manager.
“Sir,” Hurst then quickly adds,”we are still in the Regulus system, in the Luminere asteroid belt, approximately twenty million kilometers from Luminere itself.”
“Sir,” the sensor technican reports,”am detecting the Inner Reach, the Lanshui,the Terrence E. Rhoads, the John Ryan , the T.J. Verriault, the Jon Azcroft, the Razor, the Falchion, the Claymore, the Warhammer, the Dagger, the Honor Blade, the Broadsword, and the Spike all forming up on us.”
“Sir,” the comms watchstander reports,”Lanshui ship manager asks if we require assistance?”
Antrim snorts.
“What the hell does he think?!” asks the manager of Dreadnaught Strike Force New Colossus, as he contemplates the wreckage of his bridge.
8 August, 2722, 12:33:18 GST
“Get up, you gods-damned monkey! Get up, you worthless fuck! GET! UP! NOW!“ Bayless spits out, kicking Procopio a second time through the tears in his powered combat dress, the sharp pain of the kick getting through the dull haze brought on by all the other pain, the proud, African patricio struggling to his feet, the servos in his suit whining in protest as they help him to stand.
Procopio consults his suit's computer to determine the extent of the damage to it and himself, the Naval Infantry squadman already tasting the salty metallic tang of his own blood, as it runs down his face into his mouth.
The suit's systems are not much better off, its sensors, radar, and communications are all offline, same with the enviromental control system.
It has to be malfunctioning, he concludes, after he dials the temp up as high as it will go, and he's still shivering from the cold.
“Move!“ Bayless snaps at him, prodding him with a shock stick, Procopio turning, noticing the prod's original owner—the squad's Security Service provost—is dead, his neck broken, blood seeping slowly from the corner of his mouth.
It's then he realizes what a mess the assault shuttle's troop bay is, how little of it remains intact...how many of his fellow squadmen are lying dead and broken all over the deck.
Procopio remembers what happened now...the assault shuttle had just lifted off, when the alarm sounded...it had been between the ship crashing and the squadman losing consciousness, when the restraints holding Procopio in his seat had sheared themselves free of their moorings.
He shivers again, a dull aching throbbing up and down his body, two more zaps from the prod in his squad supervisor's hand convincing him to move toward the nearest exit.
That exit being a gaping hole near what remains of the assault shuttle's tail section, a dozen more prods from the shock stick getting him to move through the hole, into the hangar bay itself.
True God in Heaven, what a mess, Procopio woozily thinks to himself, taking in the carnage and ruin around him, watching maintenance bots dig out parts and pieces of bodies from the twisted, charred and broken remains of fighters, bombers and assault shuttles, the stench of burnt flesh and machinery assaulting his nose through the filters of his helmet.
He joins two other survivors from his squad, what remains of his company forming ragged ranks along one end of the wrecked hangar bay, as a junior lieutenant Procopio doesn't recognize walks down the line of survivors with Fleet Supervisor James at his side.
“You'll have to do,“ the junior lieutenant concludes, adding,“we've orders to report to the torpedo and gunnery decks at once; those who are qualified will man weapons, while the rest assist the engineers in effecting repairs to the weapons systems.“
“Comp'nee,“ James snaps,“by the front, quick MARCH!“
8 August, 2722 12:35:06
“Strike Force New Colossus now one hour, forty-nine minutes from Luminere, on present vector,” Karyn reports. “None of the hostiles have executed a main-drive burn.”
“Than you, Mid,” Ali replies, moving the joystick in her left hand slightly to the left to viff Nemesis out of the path of one of the smaller of the Luminere belt's asteroids.
A notorious haven for pirates even as recently as twenty years ago, the dwarf planet Luminere is quieter, more civilized now, home to one of the largest ore-processing facilities in the Corrdio, with well over fifteen million inhabitants.
Even diminished as they are, the Arky strike group has more than enough firepower to wipe those fifteen million civs and the ore-processing plant off the face of the planetoid.
“Astrogation, time to intercept?” Ali asks Georgia.
“At present vector,” Georgia replies,”one hour, fifty-nine minutes.”
“Fuck,” Ali swears, as....
...Miss Dearborn was just about to call the children together for story time, when a roar of white-hot light ripped through the day-care center, turning it into a wailing and gnashing of teeth from all the Hells of all the ancient fables, and Lissa fumbled about blindly, something wet and sticky running over one eye and down her face, as she tried picking out her baby sister's voice out of all those screams and sobs.
She took one step forward, before her feet went out from under her, something slick on the floor, and she fell over onto her back.
There was a piece of metal driven straight through her upper left arm, she hadn't noticed that before, and, it didn't matter....
...not right now, gods damn it ! the commander of the Nemesis curses herself, both for letting the tight control she's held over the memories of that day slip...and, for still finding no closure, forty years later.
“Ship,” she says over comms, as she inputs commands into her workstation's virtual keyboard,”stand by for five seconds' max burn; 'Gator, what are the numbers?”
“Intercept in eight minutes, twenty, Skipper,” Georgia replies, with her usual alacrity and professionalism, as Nemesis's antimatter-fusion drive fires at 8,000G for five seconds, the grav field generators built into the decks instantly compensating to maintain standard gravity throughout the ship's working spaces.
Tears run hot and wet down her cheeks, Ali cursing herself for that weakness, for now is not the time for it.
Later, when the enemy was destroyed, and, more importantly, when her crew was safe.
Later, she could shut herself up in her quarters or in Nemesis's cubbyhole of a gym, just her and the heavy bag.
Georgia doesn't need to know.
She can't possibly know, no matter how hard she tries, she had two parents still alive on Palehorse, had siblings still alive, GR-Halliburton had taken good care of her, given her a job, a life, for fuck's sake.
A final sigh, Ali staring up at the star-shot black floating in the master holoprojector, as she grips the joystick in her left hand so tightly her fingers ache through the gauntlet.
More memories better left where they were.
She can't afford the luxury of remembering right now.
Later.
Maybe.
8 August, 2722 12:44:00
The klaxon wakes Antrim from an all-too brief nap, the reader—images of proks doing what proks like doing best running across its flatscreen—falling from his lap onto the wardroom deck, the manager of the New Colossus swallowing several times to moisten his throat before speaking into the mic of his headcomp:
“What is it?“
Cotter's holo appears in front of Antrim's right eye, the ship's second in command, as always, wasting little time in coming to the point:
“Scalper cruiser closing rapidly on an intercept vector; it will be within range of us in sixty seconds.“
“Damn!” the Archangel dreadnaught strike force manager swears, as he scrambles to his feet, crosses the wardroom and scrambles through the hatch communicating with the bridge.
“Commodore Clanton,“ he barks into his mic, the balding, bearded strike force executive assistant instantly appearing before him.
“Sir?” Clanton says.
“You will cover the New Colossus, as it continues toward the primary objective. Intercept and destroy that Scalper!”
“Yes, Sir!” is the treasonous bastard's instant, immediate, and grating reply, before Antrim terminates comms.
“Is the fusion drive on line?!” he asks Cotter, as he assumes his place at the center of the bridge.
“Engineering Manager Chu reports his staff still require one hour to bring the fusion drive back online“ Cotter replies.
“Not acceptible,” Antrim informs his executive assistant ship manager. “If he and his staff cannot restore the drive in fifteen minutes, they will all be damned as procreators in the life to come. Am I clear?!“
Cotter dryswallows, his face pale, as he answers:
“I will pass on your instructions to the Engineering Manager, Admiral.“
8 August, 2722 12:46:16 GST
Even as two-ton tungsten penetrators eviscerate the Rhoads and the Verriault, Commodore Jeremy Clanton fondles the Delta hanging from the chain around the collar of his sealed blue flight suit, softly repeating the 46th Affirmation to himself, determined to face whatever comes.
“Though death stalks me, I shall not know fear, for His love is proof against the wages of inferiority, a perfect love filling my heart and strengthening my soul, a perfect love which permits me life eternal, when all others are condemned to die by their Progenitor and their Lord.“
The 15,000-ton Archangel-class light cruiser Lanshui turns to face the sleek, eel-like, yellow on red Scalper railgun cruiser, the red bridge lighting dimming, as the Interstellar Navy cruiser's spinal laser discharges an invisible beam of hot light seeking to burn the procreator and fornicator from His Sky.
It is not that simple, however.
It so rarely is.
The Scalper briefly fires her maneuvering jets, adjusting her path through space just enough to evade the spinal laser's beam, at the same time it hurls another penetrator from its 21-inch massdriver along the Lanshui's vector at 3,000kps.
It is Fleet Lieutenant Festus Zane's turn to fire his ship's maneuvering jets, adjust his ship's vector, nudge his ship ever so slightly out of the way, as Lanshui opens the range between itself and its antagonist.
“Have the patrol combatants close for a Harpoon run,” Clanton tells his comms tech,”with the Inner Reach providing cover. The Ryan and the Azcroft are to fall back and protect the New Colossus.”
“Relaying your orders now, Sir,” the watchstander at comms replies.
“Torpedo deck,“ the executive assistant strike force manager then orders,”open tube to space, fire when ready; gunnery deck, stand by spinal laser.”
“Lascannon have acquired targets,” came the report from the gunnery deck.”Spinal laser forty-three seconds to full charge.”
“Torpedo tube loaded and opened to space,” comes the report from the torp deck.
Clanton continues fondling the Delta, as he regards the Scalper cruiser in the ship's master holoprojector, remembering when he had pretended loyality to their harlot queens, whoring princesses, and effeminate nobility, when he'd undermined their precious, pompous, popinjay Starmarines from within, preparing them and their world for their necessary subjugation and assimilation into the New Frontier.
Regretting nothing.
Almost nothing.
“Torpedos armed, targeting solution ready,” reports the torpedo manager,”and, firing!”
“Spinal laser recharged,” the gunnery manager adds.
I only regret, Clanton muses sadly, as a trio of 2.2-megaton antimatter-fusion torpedos scream toward the Scalper cruiser, being unable to complete my mission to bring enligthenment and true freedom to these savages.
8 August, 2722 12:48:00
“Railgun batteries taking patrol combatants, torpedos, and Harpoons,” Kalsi reports, as Ali twists the stick in every direction at once, and 12.7mm KE penetrators shatter patrol combatants, Harpoons and torpedos before they reach Nemesis.
“Jodito dreadnaught's brought his fusion drive back online!” Georgia swears, as the enemy Juggernaut and its two escorting destroyers execute a three-second burn at two thousand gravities to bring them to within range of Luminere in slightly less than four minutes.
“Gods damn it!” Ali swears.”Artillery—“
“They're just out of range of the Ironstorm, Skipper,” is her artillery officer's pained reply, as a 21-inch penetrator rips through one of the light cruisers, opening it up from stem to stern like a Winterfest cracker.
While the remaining light cruiser lines itself up with Nemesis, launching....
...another volley of Harpoons fired their warheads through the Margaretha's armor, Ali screaming obscenties, as she fought the crippled torpedo frigate for control, twisting her, so that her railgun batteries could be brought to bear on that cretinous fuck Buzz Antrim and his squadron of Vulcans closing for another run on the ship they were supposed to have been supporting....
...not now,Gods damn it.
Later, she tells herself, as she programs a half-second, eight-thousand gee burn into the drive computer to overtake the dreadnaught and its escorts.
Maybe.
8 August, 2722 12:49:43
The weak are quick to scream and cry out for mercy, as energy arcs into them.
The junior lieutenant who had assumed management of the company is one of those who screams, as he dies.
He wasn't worthy of leadership, Procopio, fighting a renewed wave of nausea, concludes, as he turns his attention back to the task of splicing more wiring together, forcing his hands to remain rock steady, in spite of the numbing chill gripping his body.
“Work faster!“ Bayless screams from behind him, jabbing Procopio in the back with his prod.
“Yes, S-sir,“ the squadman replies, his squad supervisor screaming,“we are about to visit loving and violent judgement upon the procreator and the fornicator, Squadman Cortes! We must have all our weapons online, and we must have them online, now!“
“Yes, Sir,“ Procopio says, forcing hands that are steadily losing all feeling to work faster, harder, more accurately and productively at a task to which they are not accumstomed.
However, Procopio knows lack of expertise is only an excuse.
Proks make excuses, and he is no prok.
If he failed in his obligations to Him and the New Frontier, he would acknowledge that failure, face whatever judgement was due him for that failure, and emerge from that judgement a better servant of Him in the life to come.
It is the strength he derives from that certainty which allows Procopio to continue working, in spite of his lack of skill and the cold making his body tremble in spite of his efforts.
The lights dim, as those manning the ship's working laser batteries open fire, Procopio hearing the voices of the spinal laser gunners reporting their weapons online and charging echoing at the edge of his consciousness, the severed ends of wire in the squadman's fingers fading in and out of view.
Procopio is thankful for the prod, when it lances through momentary weakness to restore focus to his efforts.
“Thank you, Sir,“ he says, as he continues.
8 August, 2722 12:52:03
“Fuckkk!“ Georgia curses, torpedos and las beams streaking past Nemesis, as she closes with the pair of 7,500-ton Kadara-class destroyers determined to block her path to the dreadnaught now decelerating into orbit around Luminere.
The wounded Juggernaut lashes out at two twelve-ship squadrons of 2,500-ton Imperial Starmarine F-80J Tigershark II starfighters hammering him with their spinal-mounted 4.5-inch and wing-mounted 12.7mm railguns, while the Kadaras launch torpedo after torpedo down Ali's throat, supporting them with beams from their spinal-mount heavy lascannon and waist-mounted laser batteries.
Ali watches this on her tactical display and the master holoprojector, firing the maneuvering jets for evasion almost without conscious thought, as the Ironstorm drives a 21” penetrator clean through one of the Arky destroyers.
She barely hears the radar-warning receiver, firing the maneuvering jets to jink hard aport and down, as the surviving Archangel's spinal-mounted laser scorches over Nemesis's dorsal hull, while the surviving Kadara closes for another torpedo run directly ahead.
The dreadnaught's almost completed its decel burn, and its torpedos and spinal lasers will bear on its fifteen million innocent souls in just moments....
“...she's dead,[/i] Kalsi, the jodito Exec just burned her down, m-most of the 03 crew a-as well,” Ali stammered, shivering inside her flight suit, gauntleted hands trembling at the piloting controls.
“What?!” was all the young torpedoman could think to say.”Whattya mean Clanton—“
“N-no time,” Ali replied, turning Margaretha's nose to face the inbound Arky/GR-Halliburton/Ford-Hawker strike force boosting from the wreckage of Patrol Staton Delta on a vector for Mons Calpa.”Make torpedo tubes one and two ready in all respects including opening outer hatches to space.”
“Listen up, an' listen good, conchita.” the cretinous motherfucker warned over comms.”You ain't doing nothing except being a good little girl for the anointed Lords of your life, and surrending yourself to my—“
“The railgun batteries will take Antrim's squadron,” Ali ordered, as she aimed her ship....
...at the Juggernaut, same as twenty years ago.
“Artillery, 03!” she barked out over comms, as she lined her nose with the enemy dreadnaught's drive flare.”The Ironstorm will take that gods-damned Juggernaut!”
8 August, 2722 12:54:01
Procopio is dimly aware of cheering, as the gunnery deck lights flicker and fade.
“This,“ the squadman hears Bayless echo, as a slap on his shoulder shoots fresh pain throughout his body,“will all be over soon, Squadman Cortes.“
“Executing evasive maneuvers,“ comes the pilot manager's voice over the intercom, as the gunnery deck turns dark again, and Procopio shivers from the cold.
“Trembling, Squadman?!“ Bayless asks.
“Are you afraid?“ he adds, Procopio cursing his weakness and inability to control his own body.
“N-no, S-s-sir,“ Procopio replies through chattering teeth, the Naval Infantry squadman finally clenching his jaw, coming to attention before his anointed squad supervisor, and told him,“I know my place in the life to come.“
“Presumption,“ his squad supervisor remarks, his voice echoing worse than before in Cortes' ringing ears,“on top of hesitation in the face of the enemy, on top of fear, when we are at the cusp of delivering loving and violent judgement upon the inferior!“
“Don't,“ Bayless adds, barely audiable over the spinal gunners' cursing, “do not bother telling me what you meant by your remark, Squadman, you've said more than enough to—what the fuck do you think you're doing?!“
Procopio doesn't know how he's ended up lying face down on the deck.
It doesn't matter.
He has to get up.
Now.
But his body has turned traitor to himself and the New Frontier, the limp, freezing cold lump of corruptible flesh no longer responsive to his commands, no matter how many times Bayless jabs the prod into it, no matter how many times the blonde Human squad supervisor screams for him to “get up, get up, you filthy prok, get up!“
Another jab of the prod causes Procopio's body to convulse, the treacherous thing fighting for every last breath, Bayless continuing to scream at him, punctuating zaps from the shock stick with kicks from his boots.
“Don't you dare think,“ his squad supervisor's voice, coming from the top of the dark well down which Procopio feels himself falling free,[/i]“for an instant, you can avoid responsibility for your actions simply by—“ [/i]
8 August,2722 02:56:18 GST
For the tenth, perhaps eleventh, gods-damned time in the past two minutes, the chief sensor tech screams in Antrim's ear “Multiple large kinetic penetrators inbound, dead astern and closing f—“
“Gods damn those Scalpers!” Hurst curses in frustration, as, yet again, the pilot manager has to evade, and throw off the spinal laser gunners' aim, the badly-damaged New Colossus groaning and shrieking in protest at the violence of those—
New Colossus reels from a violent concussion ripping through its stern, and the bridge goes dark and dead.
“Damage report?!” Antrim demands, as the bridge spins sickeningly around him.
“Unable to comply, Sir,” the comms watchstander reports.”All comms offline.”
“Everything's offline, Sir,“ Cotter reports. “All decks aft of the bridge have been gutted, fusion drive and emergency power generators all destroyed; life support offline.”
“Maneuver jets offline,” Hurst reports. “Unable to correct our tumble."
“All sensors save internal cams offline,” the sensor tech adds his report to the litany of misfortune which has overcome this vessel.
As Antrim calmly, simply, nods his head.
Perhaps, in the life to c—
8 August, 2722 12:57:00
No time, no reason to cheer.
Ali wrenches her ship away from the hulked Juggernaut, bringing Nemesis's entire arsenal to bear on the Archangel and the surviving Kadara, both of them charging her at full burn, salvoing torpedos and firing their spinal lasers, as she jukes and jinks, and the railgun batteries intercept the inbound ordinance.
Then, she slews the railgun cruiser from side to side, Kalsi lobbing four 21-inch kinetic-energy penetrators from his massdriver, before she fires the maneuvering jets in a hard burn jerking Nemesis straight down.
The enemy cruiser evades the first penetrator, but the second punches through his nose, and emerges from his tail in a molten stream of his interior spaces.
Two of the remaining three Ironstorm projectiles instantly pulverize the Arky destroyer.
“That's it, then,“ Ali softly remarks, before ordering Karyn to inform Command.
“And, keep scanning,“ she adds. “Astrogator, plot an entry vector for High Fortress Europa.“
“All crew,“ she then says, not having to,“maintain combat stations.“
Ali doesn't relax.
No time, no reason to relax either.
Her eyes remain fixed to the empty master holoprojector in front of the 03 deck's three workstations, the pilot in command of the Nemesis focussing on here and now, on what the enemy could be sending next after her ship and its sixty crew.
While the memories of the past stay locked down, where they belong.
Until she can deal with them.
Later.
Maybe.
“...do your duty!“ Fleet Lieutenant Dann screams at him, as he aims his M16A4 laser rifle dead at the little prok—no more than six or seven—standing in front of him, its eyes saucer-wide, staring up at him, pleading for its life.
“'Evil sometimes wears a pleasing face,' squaddie!“ Lieutenant Dann reminds him, the prok's pleading taking on a seductive tone, as it rubs up against Procopio, the Naval Infantry recruit feeling something stirring within him, as he begins lowering his weapon.
Until he catches a glimpse of the vibroblade in its right hand, the Naval Infanry squad supervisor pushing the filthy prok away from him, firing pulse after pulse from his weapon, the degenerate thing screaming luridly, as it burns....
8 August, 2722 12:21:24
“...all hands to battle stations! Action imminent!“ drones the voice over the intercom, as the lid of Squad Supervisor Procopio Cortes' coldwire chamber hisses open, the machinery slowly bringing him back into the realm of the living and the harshly-lit reality of the training deck, med techs removing electrodes and wires from him, as the Interstellar Naval Infantry squad supervisor stretches himself, swinging his feet onto the deck, his every joint creaking, as he begins walking toward the chambers holding the remaining members of his squad.
All but one of whom are on their feet and standing at attention, Procopio hearing the chamber holding Squadman Logan scream out warning, the medical technicans assigned to the maintenance of that chamber opening it up to remove his corpse—only the whites of his eyes are visible in their sockets—from the bundle of wires and electrodes maintaining his comatose state and the virtual reality enviroment in which they had all trained, the med techs laying him onto a gurney which a pair of maintenance bots trundle off to the biomass recyclers.
Procopio feels nothing for the slain squadman, save contempt...after all, if he hadn't been morally inferior, he would have emerged from his induced coma, his death and damnation in the life to come nothing more or less than the judgement meted out by Him for his sins.
The men under his command share his sentiment, Procopio knows this without having to ask, just by looking into the hard, cold eyes of the nine surviving members of his squad.
“Comp'nee,“ the voice of his company's senior supervisor, Fleet Supervisor Corin James, snaps out,“atten-shut!“
Procopio takes his place at the head of his squad, snapping to attention, as James and Lieutenant Esau Martillo slowly walk past the members of their company, formed up into their respective platoons and squads, both men speaking into their headcomps, holograms floating in front of each man's right eye scrolling lines of data.
“I see you're a man short, Supervisor,“ Lieutenant Martillo says, the wiry, girzzled, coal-black patricio eyeing Procopio as if he were sheed on the soles of his boots.
“Coldwire failure, Sir,“ Procopio replies instantly, Martillo remarking,“I see.“
“And,“ he then adds, consulting his headcomp,“according to the Fleet Lieutenant Dann AI, you hesitated, for precisely 3.3 seconds, before prosecuting your last target.“
“Yes, Sir,“ Procopio says simply.
“What do you have to say for yourself, Supervisor?!“ Martillo then asks, Procopio replying, his head bowed,“I make no excuse for either of the failures on my part, Sir.“
The company manager nods his head, remarking,“a wise decision, Squadman. Leadman Bayless, you are now squad supervisor!“
“Yes, Sir! Thank you, Sir!“ both Procopio and newly-elevated Supervisor Ansen Bayless both reply, before Fleet Supervisor James shouts out,“company to the hangar deck! At the double!“
8 August, 2722 12:27:06 GST
Rear Admiral Henry “Buzz” Antrim sits back in his command chair, watching the activity on the red-lit bridge of the United Worlds Starship New Colossus, as the one-hundred kiloton Juggernaut-class dreadnaught gracefully turns on its short axis on a decel burn for Mons Calpa.
It is the strike which will put a final end to the pretensions of this so-called Mons Calpan Imperium who had dared twenty years ago, to defy the Congress of Worlds and refused to submit to the enligthened rule of the New Frontier.
Twenty years since their treachery, their treachery, began this tiresome civil war.
“Strike force have exited the Void in good order, Admiral,“ the watchstander at the sensor station reports.”All ships now on final deceleration vector for Mons Calpa; assualt carriers launching TARCAP, destroyers, frigates, and patrol combatants assuming point.”
“Astrogation,” Antrim then asks,”how long until we are in orbit around Scalpers?”
“Two minutes, thirty, Sir,” Fleet Lieutenant Wu Enlai crisply replies.
“Response?” the manager of Dreadnaught Strike Force New Colossus then asks.
“Minimal, Sir,” the sensor operator replies.”Mons Calpa Highport orbitals have launched fighters, and patrol combatants, along with High Fortress Europa; seven squadrons of twelve Tigersharks, three squadrons of Halcón-class patrol combatants in total.”
Antrim snorts in contempt at just how easy it was to lure the lesser races, and their comic-opera Starmarines into a such a skillfully-planned trap.
“Flight control,“ Antrim barks into his headcomp, “bridge, launch all fighters, bombers, and assault shuttles; gunnery deck, charge all spinal lasers, torpedo deck, load all tubes, and open outer hatches to space; stand by to initiate orbital bombardement on my mar—“
“Admiral,“ the sensor technican suddenly,hysterically screams,“ multiple Void entries at plus ninety by zero-thirty, four-five-zero thousand klicks downrange, multiple Void exits, ten thousand klicks downrange, on a direct intercept vec—multiple Ironstorm kinetic-energy penetrators inbound, ten thousand klicks downrange and closing fast at 3,000 kp—“
New Colossus' executive assistant ship manager begins frantically barking out orders:
“Piloting, cancel decel burn, and evade! All laser batteries, fi—“
even knowing it will not be in time.
8 August, 2722 12:29:00
“Artillery, 03,” Captain Alissa Quin orders, as the side of the massive Arky dreadnaught erupts in hot gas and debris, “stand by second Ironstorm salvo, stand by primary railguns; railgun batteries will engage inbound small craft at six thousand klicks from ship and closing.”
“Aye, Skipper; railgun batteries now engaging enemy small craft and missiles, all other weapons standing by,“ is the reply from Mons Calpan Imperial Starship Nemesis's artillery officer, Cornet Abraham Kalsi, as 21-inch tungsten penetrators take a pair of Admiral-class battleships, and another guts a Archangel-class light cruiser, while the 15,000-ton Hero-class railgun cruiser merges with the survivors of the United Worlds of Archangel Interstellar Navy's Dreadnaught Strike Force New Colossus.
“Primary railguns taking targets,“ Kalsi's holo says a second later, as Ali spins the ship round on her short axis, and Nemesis's twin waist-mounted 4.5-inch primary railguns catch Arky frigates and destroyers in the middle of flipping ship to attack the four Imperial Starmarine cruiser squadrons savaging the enemy who'd foolishly thought he'd be the one to catch her people off guard.
As if they'd fall for anything the jodito Arkys had on offer, not after they'd betrayed one of its founding worlds, the homeworld of Jami Scarlet herself, twenty years ago.
And, all the years before then, Ali thinks to herself, just for a moment.
Only for a moment.
Now isn't the time.
Later.
Maybe.
Nemesis' pilot in command taps the maneuvering jets for an instant or two, as the radar-warning receiver shrills in her ears, and an Celestial Dragon-class battlecruiser sends a beam from its spinal laser burning into where she had been, Ali slewing her ship around again, bringing the primary railguns to bear on the enemy, as he opens up the torpedo hatches along the sides of his long, cylindrical central hull.
Bursts from the primary railguns catch the Celestial Dragon as it prepares to fire its spinal laser, the 25-kilogram solid tungsten penetrators smashing into its fiber-optic phased-array antennae and generator at three thousand kilometers per second, the Arky warship instantly ripped open and tumbling dead in the darkness.
Nemesis's chief sensor tech, Midshipman Karyn Neves, reports,“remaining Arky ships have boosted to 3,000 kps; now detecting multiple Void entries.“
“How many got away?” Ali asks the young junior officer.
“Four destroyers, eight patrol combatants, two light cruisers, and the dreadnaught, Skipper,” Karyn replies.
“Coño,” Ali swears.
“¡Pinche cono!” she growls through clenched teeth.
“Astrogator,” she then says to Nemesis's astrogator and executive officer, Lieutenant Georgia Kirros,”calculate their entry vector, and determine their most likely exit point.”
“Calculating now, Skipper,” Georgia replies, frantically tapping keys on her workstation's virtual keyboard, as Karyn tells them:
“Orders direct from the Lord Commander, Skipper. All ships to hunt down and destroy all survivors of Strike Force New Colossus.”
“ Acknowledge that order, Mid,” Ali replies.
“Skipper,” Georgia says seconds later,”I have a report from the outer-system sensor platform at Patrol Station Alpha; they've detected multiple Void exits near the Luminere asteroid belt; plotting intercept, transferring astrocomp telemetry to drive computer.”
“Drive computer,” Cornet Ariel Whiddon says in Ali's ear,”has received astrocomp telemetry; Void field generator powering up. Zero-three, please confirm ship is at entry velocity.”
“Drive, astrogation,” Georgia replied,”ship maintaining requisite 3,000 kps entry velocity—“
She turns a key slotted into her workstation, and Ali's controls froze.
“—pilot's station now locked out, and astrocomp has control of the ship,” her executive officer continued her litany,”ship now committed to entry vector, entry in five, four, three, two, one...“
...she was on her knees, cradling Chloe Jane's broken little body in her cold, bleeding arms, as she screamed and sobbed...
...it actually thought such a thing could move him.
He showed it just what happened to those who tried tricking their superiors with fake tears, laying the energized, arm-thick electrowhip cable into it over and over, the prok's sobbing turning to screaming.
Screaming which only served to egg him on....
8 August, 2722, 12:31:15 GST
...Antrim almost imagines he hears his ship screaming, as it exits the Void into normal space.
“Sitrep?!” the veteran Interstellar Navy executive manager shouts into the pitch-darkness of the bridge.
“Sir,“ a flickering hologram of his engineering manager, Fleet Lieutenant Alistair Chu, reports via headcomp,“ Fusion drive offline, Void field generator offline, power and grav are out throughout the ship. Am attempting to bring emergency power on line.“
“All sensors and comms offline,” the sensor tech then reports, as light dimly returns to the New Colossus' bridge.
“Exec, weapons status?“ Antrim asks Space Commander Braeden Cotter, who replies,“spinal lasers one, three and four are damaged beyond repair, Sir, and only ten percent of the laser batteries are operable, if we restore power.“
“Torpedos?“ Antrim asks.
“Torpedo deck has been breached, Sir,“ Cotter replies,“ launchers one, four, and six inoperable.“
“Sir, I have forward cams and energy sensors,“ the sensor tech then reports, as the master holoprojector flickers into life.
“Fuck!” interjects Antrim, as a dwarf planet rushes up toward his ship.”Pilot?!”
“Fusion drive still offline!” Fleet Lieutenant Allen Hurst frantically replies, even as he fires the maneuvering jets to slowly—too slowly—nudge the 100,000-ton warship out of the small planetoid's path.
“Astrogation,” Antrim demands,”where are we?!”
New Colossus' chief astrogator, however, hangs in his chair like a broken marionette.
“Fuck,” whispers New Colossus' pilot manager.
“Sir,” Hurst then quickly adds,”we are still in the Regulus system, in the Luminere asteroid belt, approximately twenty million kilometers from Luminere itself.”
“Sir,” the sensor technican reports,”am detecting the Inner Reach, the Lanshui,the Terrence E. Rhoads, the John Ryan , the T.J. Verriault, the Jon Azcroft, the Razor, the Falchion, the Claymore, the Warhammer, the Dagger, the Honor Blade, the Broadsword, and the Spike all forming up on us.”
“Sir,” the comms watchstander reports,”Lanshui ship manager asks if we require assistance?”
Antrim snorts.
“What the hell does he think?!” asks the manager of Dreadnaught Strike Force New Colossus, as he contemplates the wreckage of his bridge.
8 August, 2722, 12:33:18 GST
“Get up, you gods-damned monkey! Get up, you worthless fuck! GET! UP! NOW!“ Bayless spits out, kicking Procopio a second time through the tears in his powered combat dress, the sharp pain of the kick getting through the dull haze brought on by all the other pain, the proud, African patricio struggling to his feet, the servos in his suit whining in protest as they help him to stand.
Procopio consults his suit's computer to determine the extent of the damage to it and himself, the Naval Infantry squadman already tasting the salty metallic tang of his own blood, as it runs down his face into his mouth.
The suit's systems are not much better off, its sensors, radar, and communications are all offline, same with the enviromental control system.
It has to be malfunctioning, he concludes, after he dials the temp up as high as it will go, and he's still shivering from the cold.
“Move!“ Bayless snaps at him, prodding him with a shock stick, Procopio turning, noticing the prod's original owner—the squad's Security Service provost—is dead, his neck broken, blood seeping slowly from the corner of his mouth.
It's then he realizes what a mess the assault shuttle's troop bay is, how little of it remains intact...how many of his fellow squadmen are lying dead and broken all over the deck.
Procopio remembers what happened now...the assault shuttle had just lifted off, when the alarm sounded...it had been between the ship crashing and the squadman losing consciousness, when the restraints holding Procopio in his seat had sheared themselves free of their moorings.
He shivers again, a dull aching throbbing up and down his body, two more zaps from the prod in his squad supervisor's hand convincing him to move toward the nearest exit.
That exit being a gaping hole near what remains of the assault shuttle's tail section, a dozen more prods from the shock stick getting him to move through the hole, into the hangar bay itself.
True God in Heaven, what a mess, Procopio woozily thinks to himself, taking in the carnage and ruin around him, watching maintenance bots dig out parts and pieces of bodies from the twisted, charred and broken remains of fighters, bombers and assault shuttles, the stench of burnt flesh and machinery assaulting his nose through the filters of his helmet.
He joins two other survivors from his squad, what remains of his company forming ragged ranks along one end of the wrecked hangar bay, as a junior lieutenant Procopio doesn't recognize walks down the line of survivors with Fleet Supervisor James at his side.
“You'll have to do,“ the junior lieutenant concludes, adding,“we've orders to report to the torpedo and gunnery decks at once; those who are qualified will man weapons, while the rest assist the engineers in effecting repairs to the weapons systems.“
“Comp'nee,“ James snaps,“by the front, quick MARCH!“
8 August, 2722 12:35:06
“Strike Force New Colossus now one hour, forty-nine minutes from Luminere, on present vector,” Karyn reports. “None of the hostiles have executed a main-drive burn.”
“Than you, Mid,” Ali replies, moving the joystick in her left hand slightly to the left to viff Nemesis out of the path of one of the smaller of the Luminere belt's asteroids.
A notorious haven for pirates even as recently as twenty years ago, the dwarf planet Luminere is quieter, more civilized now, home to one of the largest ore-processing facilities in the Corrdio, with well over fifteen million inhabitants.
Even diminished as they are, the Arky strike group has more than enough firepower to wipe those fifteen million civs and the ore-processing plant off the face of the planetoid.
“Astrogation, time to intercept?” Ali asks Georgia.
“At present vector,” Georgia replies,”one hour, fifty-nine minutes.”
“Fuck,” Ali swears, as....
...Miss Dearborn was just about to call the children together for story time, when a roar of white-hot light ripped through the day-care center, turning it into a wailing and gnashing of teeth from all the Hells of all the ancient fables, and Lissa fumbled about blindly, something wet and sticky running over one eye and down her face, as she tried picking out her baby sister's voice out of all those screams and sobs.
She took one step forward, before her feet went out from under her, something slick on the floor, and she fell over onto her back.
There was a piece of metal driven straight through her upper left arm, she hadn't noticed that before, and, it didn't matter....
...not right now, gods damn it ! the commander of the Nemesis curses herself, both for letting the tight control she's held over the memories of that day slip...and, for still finding no closure, forty years later.
“Ship,” she says over comms, as she inputs commands into her workstation's virtual keyboard,”stand by for five seconds' max burn; 'Gator, what are the numbers?”
“Intercept in eight minutes, twenty, Skipper,” Georgia replies, with her usual alacrity and professionalism, as Nemesis's antimatter-fusion drive fires at 8,000G for five seconds, the grav field generators built into the decks instantly compensating to maintain standard gravity throughout the ship's working spaces.
Tears run hot and wet down her cheeks, Ali cursing herself for that weakness, for now is not the time for it.
Later, when the enemy was destroyed, and, more importantly, when her crew was safe.
Later, she could shut herself up in her quarters or in Nemesis's cubbyhole of a gym, just her and the heavy bag.
Georgia doesn't need to know.
She can't possibly know, no matter how hard she tries, she had two parents still alive on Palehorse, had siblings still alive, GR-Halliburton had taken good care of her, given her a job, a life, for fuck's sake.
A final sigh, Ali staring up at the star-shot black floating in the master holoprojector, as she grips the joystick in her left hand so tightly her fingers ache through the gauntlet.
More memories better left where they were.
She can't afford the luxury of remembering right now.
Later.
Maybe.
8 August, 2722 12:44:00
The klaxon wakes Antrim from an all-too brief nap, the reader—images of proks doing what proks like doing best running across its flatscreen—falling from his lap onto the wardroom deck, the manager of the New Colossus swallowing several times to moisten his throat before speaking into the mic of his headcomp:
“What is it?“
Cotter's holo appears in front of Antrim's right eye, the ship's second in command, as always, wasting little time in coming to the point:
“Scalper cruiser closing rapidly on an intercept vector; it will be within range of us in sixty seconds.“
“Damn!” the Archangel dreadnaught strike force manager swears, as he scrambles to his feet, crosses the wardroom and scrambles through the hatch communicating with the bridge.
“Commodore Clanton,“ he barks into his mic, the balding, bearded strike force executive assistant instantly appearing before him.
“Sir?” Clanton says.
“You will cover the New Colossus, as it continues toward the primary objective. Intercept and destroy that Scalper!”
“Yes, Sir!” is the treasonous bastard's instant, immediate, and grating reply, before Antrim terminates comms.
“Is the fusion drive on line?!” he asks Cotter, as he assumes his place at the center of the bridge.
“Engineering Manager Chu reports his staff still require one hour to bring the fusion drive back online“ Cotter replies.
“Not acceptible,” Antrim informs his executive assistant ship manager. “If he and his staff cannot restore the drive in fifteen minutes, they will all be damned as procreators in the life to come. Am I clear?!“
Cotter dryswallows, his face pale, as he answers:
“I will pass on your instructions to the Engineering Manager, Admiral.“
8 August, 2722 12:46:16 GST
Even as two-ton tungsten penetrators eviscerate the Rhoads and the Verriault, Commodore Jeremy Clanton fondles the Delta hanging from the chain around the collar of his sealed blue flight suit, softly repeating the 46th Affirmation to himself, determined to face whatever comes.
“Though death stalks me, I shall not know fear, for His love is proof against the wages of inferiority, a perfect love filling my heart and strengthening my soul, a perfect love which permits me life eternal, when all others are condemned to die by their Progenitor and their Lord.“
The 15,000-ton Archangel-class light cruiser Lanshui turns to face the sleek, eel-like, yellow on red Scalper railgun cruiser, the red bridge lighting dimming, as the Interstellar Navy cruiser's spinal laser discharges an invisible beam of hot light seeking to burn the procreator and fornicator from His Sky.
It is not that simple, however.
It so rarely is.
The Scalper briefly fires her maneuvering jets, adjusting her path through space just enough to evade the spinal laser's beam, at the same time it hurls another penetrator from its 21-inch massdriver along the Lanshui's vector at 3,000kps.
It is Fleet Lieutenant Festus Zane's turn to fire his ship's maneuvering jets, adjust his ship's vector, nudge his ship ever so slightly out of the way, as Lanshui opens the range between itself and its antagonist.
“Have the patrol combatants close for a Harpoon run,” Clanton tells his comms tech,”with the Inner Reach providing cover. The Ryan and the Azcroft are to fall back and protect the New Colossus.”
“Relaying your orders now, Sir,” the watchstander at comms replies.
“Torpedo deck,“ the executive assistant strike force manager then orders,”open tube to space, fire when ready; gunnery deck, stand by spinal laser.”
“Lascannon have acquired targets,” came the report from the gunnery deck.”Spinal laser forty-three seconds to full charge.”
“Torpedo tube loaded and opened to space,” comes the report from the torp deck.
Clanton continues fondling the Delta, as he regards the Scalper cruiser in the ship's master holoprojector, remembering when he had pretended loyality to their harlot queens, whoring princesses, and effeminate nobility, when he'd undermined their precious, pompous, popinjay Starmarines from within, preparing them and their world for their necessary subjugation and assimilation into the New Frontier.
Regretting nothing.
Almost nothing.
“Torpedos armed, targeting solution ready,” reports the torpedo manager,”and, firing!”
“Spinal laser recharged,” the gunnery manager adds.
I only regret, Clanton muses sadly, as a trio of 2.2-megaton antimatter-fusion torpedos scream toward the Scalper cruiser, being unable to complete my mission to bring enligthenment and true freedom to these savages.
8 August, 2722 12:48:00
“Railgun batteries taking patrol combatants, torpedos, and Harpoons,” Kalsi reports, as Ali twists the stick in every direction at once, and 12.7mm KE penetrators shatter patrol combatants, Harpoons and torpedos before they reach Nemesis.
“Jodito dreadnaught's brought his fusion drive back online!” Georgia swears, as the enemy Juggernaut and its two escorting destroyers execute a three-second burn at two thousand gravities to bring them to within range of Luminere in slightly less than four minutes.
“Gods damn it!” Ali swears.”Artillery—“
“They're just out of range of the Ironstorm, Skipper,” is her artillery officer's pained reply, as a 21-inch penetrator rips through one of the light cruisers, opening it up from stem to stern like a Winterfest cracker.
While the remaining light cruiser lines itself up with Nemesis, launching....
...another volley of Harpoons fired their warheads through the Margaretha's armor, Ali screaming obscenties, as she fought the crippled torpedo frigate for control, twisting her, so that her railgun batteries could be brought to bear on that cretinous fuck Buzz Antrim and his squadron of Vulcans closing for another run on the ship they were supposed to have been supporting....
...not now,Gods damn it.
Later, she tells herself, as she programs a half-second, eight-thousand gee burn into the drive computer to overtake the dreadnaught and its escorts.
Maybe.
8 August, 2722 12:49:43
The weak are quick to scream and cry out for mercy, as energy arcs into them.
The junior lieutenant who had assumed management of the company is one of those who screams, as he dies.
He wasn't worthy of leadership, Procopio, fighting a renewed wave of nausea, concludes, as he turns his attention back to the task of splicing more wiring together, forcing his hands to remain rock steady, in spite of the numbing chill gripping his body.
“Work faster!“ Bayless screams from behind him, jabbing Procopio in the back with his prod.
“Yes, S-sir,“ the squadman replies, his squad supervisor screaming,“we are about to visit loving and violent judgement upon the procreator and the fornicator, Squadman Cortes! We must have all our weapons online, and we must have them online, now!“
“Yes, Sir,“ Procopio says, forcing hands that are steadily losing all feeling to work faster, harder, more accurately and productively at a task to which they are not accumstomed.
However, Procopio knows lack of expertise is only an excuse.
Proks make excuses, and he is no prok.
If he failed in his obligations to Him and the New Frontier, he would acknowledge that failure, face whatever judgement was due him for that failure, and emerge from that judgement a better servant of Him in the life to come.
It is the strength he derives from that certainty which allows Procopio to continue working, in spite of his lack of skill and the cold making his body tremble in spite of his efforts.
The lights dim, as those manning the ship's working laser batteries open fire, Procopio hearing the voices of the spinal laser gunners reporting their weapons online and charging echoing at the edge of his consciousness, the severed ends of wire in the squadman's fingers fading in and out of view.
Procopio is thankful for the prod, when it lances through momentary weakness to restore focus to his efforts.
“Thank you, Sir,“ he says, as he continues.
8 August, 2722 12:52:03
“Fuckkk!“ Georgia curses, torpedos and las beams streaking past Nemesis, as she closes with the pair of 7,500-ton Kadara-class destroyers determined to block her path to the dreadnaught now decelerating into orbit around Luminere.
The wounded Juggernaut lashes out at two twelve-ship squadrons of 2,500-ton Imperial Starmarine F-80J Tigershark II starfighters hammering him with their spinal-mounted 4.5-inch and wing-mounted 12.7mm railguns, while the Kadaras launch torpedo after torpedo down Ali's throat, supporting them with beams from their spinal-mount heavy lascannon and waist-mounted laser batteries.
Ali watches this on her tactical display and the master holoprojector, firing the maneuvering jets for evasion almost without conscious thought, as the Ironstorm drives a 21” penetrator clean through one of the Arky destroyers.
She barely hears the radar-warning receiver, firing the maneuvering jets to jink hard aport and down, as the surviving Archangel's spinal-mounted laser scorches over Nemesis's dorsal hull, while the surviving Kadara closes for another torpedo run directly ahead.
The dreadnaught's almost completed its decel burn, and its torpedos and spinal lasers will bear on its fifteen million innocent souls in just moments....
“...she's dead,[/i] Kalsi, the jodito Exec just burned her down, m-most of the 03 crew a-as well,” Ali stammered, shivering inside her flight suit, gauntleted hands trembling at the piloting controls.
“What?!” was all the young torpedoman could think to say.”Whattya mean Clanton—“
“N-no time,” Ali replied, turning Margaretha's nose to face the inbound Arky/GR-Halliburton/Ford-Hawker strike force boosting from the wreckage of Patrol Staton Delta on a vector for Mons Calpa.”Make torpedo tubes one and two ready in all respects including opening outer hatches to space.”
“Listen up, an' listen good, conchita.” the cretinous motherfucker warned over comms.”You ain't doing nothing except being a good little girl for the anointed Lords of your life, and surrending yourself to my—“
“The railgun batteries will take Antrim's squadron,” Ali ordered, as she aimed her ship....
...at the Juggernaut, same as twenty years ago.
“Artillery, 03!” she barked out over comms, as she lined her nose with the enemy dreadnaught's drive flare.”The Ironstorm will take that gods-damned Juggernaut!”
8 August, 2722 12:54:01
Procopio is dimly aware of cheering, as the gunnery deck lights flicker and fade.
“This,“ the squadman hears Bayless echo, as a slap on his shoulder shoots fresh pain throughout his body,“will all be over soon, Squadman Cortes.“
“Executing evasive maneuvers,“ comes the pilot manager's voice over the intercom, as the gunnery deck turns dark again, and Procopio shivers from the cold.
“Trembling, Squadman?!“ Bayless asks.
“Are you afraid?“ he adds, Procopio cursing his weakness and inability to control his own body.
“N-no, S-s-sir,“ Procopio replies through chattering teeth, the Naval Infantry squadman finally clenching his jaw, coming to attention before his anointed squad supervisor, and told him,“I know my place in the life to come.“
“Presumption,“ his squad supervisor remarks, his voice echoing worse than before in Cortes' ringing ears,“on top of hesitation in the face of the enemy, on top of fear, when we are at the cusp of delivering loving and violent judgement upon the inferior!“
“Don't,“ Bayless adds, barely audiable over the spinal gunners' cursing, “do not bother telling me what you meant by your remark, Squadman, you've said more than enough to—what the fuck do you think you're doing?!“
Procopio doesn't know how he's ended up lying face down on the deck.
It doesn't matter.
He has to get up.
Now.
But his body has turned traitor to himself and the New Frontier, the limp, freezing cold lump of corruptible flesh no longer responsive to his commands, no matter how many times Bayless jabs the prod into it, no matter how many times the blonde Human squad supervisor screams for him to “get up, get up, you filthy prok, get up!“
Another jab of the prod causes Procopio's body to convulse, the treacherous thing fighting for every last breath, Bayless continuing to scream at him, punctuating zaps from the shock stick with kicks from his boots.
“Don't you dare think,“ his squad supervisor's voice, coming from the top of the dark well down which Procopio feels himself falling free,[/i]“for an instant, you can avoid responsibility for your actions simply by—“ [/i]
8 August,2722 02:56:18 GST
For the tenth, perhaps eleventh, gods-damned time in the past two minutes, the chief sensor tech screams in Antrim's ear “Multiple large kinetic penetrators inbound, dead astern and closing f—“
“Gods damn those Scalpers!” Hurst curses in frustration, as, yet again, the pilot manager has to evade, and throw off the spinal laser gunners' aim, the badly-damaged New Colossus groaning and shrieking in protest at the violence of those—
New Colossus reels from a violent concussion ripping through its stern, and the bridge goes dark and dead.
“Damage report?!” Antrim demands, as the bridge spins sickeningly around him.
“Unable to comply, Sir,” the comms watchstander reports.”All comms offline.”
“Everything's offline, Sir,“ Cotter reports. “All decks aft of the bridge have been gutted, fusion drive and emergency power generators all destroyed; life support offline.”
“Maneuver jets offline,” Hurst reports. “Unable to correct our tumble."
“All sensors save internal cams offline,” the sensor tech adds his report to the litany of misfortune which has overcome this vessel.
As Antrim calmly, simply, nods his head.
Perhaps, in the life to c—
8 August, 2722 12:57:00
No time, no reason to cheer.
Ali wrenches her ship away from the hulked Juggernaut, bringing Nemesis's entire arsenal to bear on the Archangel and the surviving Kadara, both of them charging her at full burn, salvoing torpedos and firing their spinal lasers, as she jukes and jinks, and the railgun batteries intercept the inbound ordinance.
Then, she slews the railgun cruiser from side to side, Kalsi lobbing four 21-inch kinetic-energy penetrators from his massdriver, before she fires the maneuvering jets in a hard burn jerking Nemesis straight down.
The enemy cruiser evades the first penetrator, but the second punches through his nose, and emerges from his tail in a molten stream of his interior spaces.
Two of the remaining three Ironstorm projectiles instantly pulverize the Arky destroyer.
“That's it, then,“ Ali softly remarks, before ordering Karyn to inform Command.
“And, keep scanning,“ she adds. “Astrogator, plot an entry vector for High Fortress Europa.“
“All crew,“ she then says, not having to,“maintain combat stations.“
Ali doesn't relax.
No time, no reason to relax either.
Her eyes remain fixed to the empty master holoprojector in front of the 03 deck's three workstations, the pilot in command of the Nemesis focussing on here and now, on what the enemy could be sending next after her ship and its sixty crew.
While the memories of the past stay locked down, where they belong.
Until she can deal with them.
Later.
Maybe.