Onboard a stolen freighter, a rescue was being planned and soon to be executed as the freighter entered the sector near Condre.
Commander Nighthawk stood at the center of his contingent of ARC’s all dressed in a mixture of First Order worker and trooper gear. They are a diverse crew of only a few older clones, and younger troopers of various races. Nighthawk had served on Endor with Rex on the far side of the moon, they worked well together and helped the Republic win against the Empire the last time. Now it was different. Nighthawk was older now in his late fifties, but he had spent his years training a new breed of ARC’s. No clones, sadly in his opinion, but clone legacy’s and other recruits who were able to pass his stringent standards. They have undergone rescue and evasive missions before to keep Ahch-To secret and secure. Now they are coming to retrieve a family member of dear, well deserving, friends.
“All right. We have very good intel that Medic, Thanowin Gaht is imprisoned on the Stardestroyer, The Garroter.” The clone ARC Commander announced gruffly, “We are to extract him as quietly as possible and leave. Any intel we can gather while here would be helpful, but we must complete this rescue. He has spent too much time under First Order confinement. Let’s bring him home.”
The ARC’s grunted in agreement and readied themselves for the mission.
So far everything was going according to plan. Each small group was headed by a clone supervisor and they split up to scatter throughout the Stardestroyer’s vast prisoner hold to find specifically, the prisoners of Condre.
They bluffed their way through the ship and relieving the guards on duty, Nighthawk and his team found where the Condre prisoners were being kept. They opened the cell and found eight prisoners sitting in the cell, all humanoid except for a single Kamanoian. Nighthawk cursed himself for finding this Kamanoian prisoner. She is too obvious to try and rescue and she would surely talk to her captors complaining that she wasn’t taken with the others. His Sergeant, a slicer, had come with the idea that the Kamanoin was to be taken to a transport to help with experiments aboard another Stardestroyer in the sector.
Perfect.
“Alright, you’re all being moved.” Said Commander Nighthawk through his First Order helm.
“Not again.” Complained the Kamanoian as she stood among the others.
“Yes. Again! Kamanoian.” Growled Nighthawk.
“I must protest…”
“Protest all you want. You’re being moved again, and again if need be. So keep quiet or I’ll find a new use for a Kamanoian skull.” He said as he pushed her slight frame.
The large grey eyes of the Kamanoian blinked. Startled at being spoken to in such a manner.
“I’d do as he says” whispers the Sergeant to the Kamanoian prisoner. “He has quite a collection.”
Nighthawk spoke briefly into his scrambled com. “Eraser, we need a transport.”
“No problem Commander. Seems we have one just to our left. Give us a moment.”
Nighthawk waited and after a few moments Eraser came back on the com.
“The transport is secured, Sir.” Said a winded trooper. “Awaiting for further orders.”
“I’m coming with a Kamanoian prisoner. Take her and the transport and go toward the First Order sector. The Sergeant is transmitting coordinates now. Then go straight for Condre when clear.”
“Understood, Sir.”
Commander Nighthawk and his squad escorted the prisoners and split briefly as the humans were sent to the freighter and the Kamanoian was taken to a transport. Once onboard, Nighthawk took off his helmet to clear off the visor which was steaming and obscuring his vison.
“A clone? A clone heading a rescue?” said the shocked Kamanoian.
“I wouldn’t be so picky if I were you.” Snarls Nighthawk as he puts the helmet back on and peeks around the corner of the transport.
“You all were supposed to perish by now.”
“The universe if full of surprises.”
The other ARC’s were about to take their helmets off, but the Commander stopped them cold. “Keep them on.” He ordered through their private channel.
“What are you waiting for? Let’s go.” Complains the Kamanoian.
“We’re not here for you. Believe it or not.”
“But I’m a very important – “
“All Greys think they’re important.” Sniffs the Commander. “We have another objective and it doesn’t involve you. You can wait.”
“Well –“Huffed the Kamanoian.
“We’re here for one of our own. Something you wouldn’t understand.” Frowned the Commander, “He is our brother.” The Commander growled, “We’re not leaving without him.”
Nighthawk took off his helmet and faced the Kamanoian. “All of us clones performed our duties. Obeyed orders. Fought, Lived, and Died, for the Republic –“
“That is what you were created and trained for.” The Kamanoian smugly retorted.
“And you couldn’t keep the Galactic Republic together for only a few years! I should shoot you out the closest airlock and forget about you, similar to what you did to us!”
“You won’t do that. It’s not in you.”
“Don’t tempt me further.” Warned the Commander, as he put his helmet back on, “Eraser, take this transport and do as we planned. Keep this meat sack quiet and put her in an escape pod if you have to for the entire trip. Dump her off and return home as quickly and quietly as possible. We may need this transport in the future.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Nighthawk took off his helm one more time and grabbed the Kaminoan glaring at her nose to nose, “Say hello, to Nala Se, for me.” Stunned the Kaminoan sat in her seat and waited for the transport to take off.
The Commander put his helmet back on and calmly marched to the freighter to wait for his other ARC’s.
Thanowyn stumbled through the hall of the Stardestroyer drugged out of his mind.
Where to go. What to do.
He couldn’t remember how he got out of his cell, or how he had gotten this far without being noticed, but he fell into a small doorway and curled up tight as he heard troopers marching through the corridor. He prayed that he wouldn’t be discovered. He waited until the marching faded to the distance as he finally tried to right himself and stand. He slid himself along the small wall in front of him and shakily stood. He felt himself falling again and fully into the path of First Order Troopers. Oh, KRIFF!
“What are you doing here?” Demanded a trooper. “Take this scum to a cell. Who is the brilliant mastermind to let a prisoner wander out here?”
Thanowyn used all the strength he had and pushed the trooper, and tried to run only to trip and fall hard onto the cold corridor floor.
The trooper kicked Thanowyn a couple of times, “Take him. Now, before I kill him.”
“Yes, Sir.” Came a female voice from a trooper helm. “Right away.” She nodded to her companions as they marched with the Trooper and dispatched him quietly, but painfully, in an empty room.
The female trooper knelt next to Thanowyn as he gasped and coughed in pain. “Thanowyn. You’re going home.”
“Wh – What?” He whimpered shakily. He tried to pull himself away from a kind hand as the trooper tried to sooth him.
“Kitxa want’s her baby’s father back.” Whispered the female trooper as she loosened his bonds.
Stunned Thanowyn stared at the First order helmet as the Trooper tapped his shoulder with their secret ARC code.
“Come with me, you.” She said harshly, as she helped him stand and the other troopers returned from their grim task to escort him to the hanger.
Commander, Nighthawk saw his ARC’s returning with their objective in tow. He gave the signal and the Freighter’s engines revved up. Once Thanowyn was safely aboard, and everyone was accounted for, the freighter left the Stardestroyer without incident.
Bulker Great Republic strikes dock in Cleveland The 193 meter long, 29135 dwt bulk carrier Great Republic allided a dock on the Cuyahoga River at Cleveland Ohio.
School bullying. Always with us, not acknowledged as a pressing problem needing attention -- until now.
Author's program milieu. If you're like inner self, the first time you heard this bouncy tune, you laughed... then laughed some plural. It's called the "Too portly polka", with its immediately revealed outstart, "Alter can have her, I don't want her, she's inter alia fat for me."<\p>
It came from the choice relative to Arthur Godfrey, a nationally known personality from television's earliest days. Go now to any search engine so derive and play it. You will imminently laugh, similarly... until, that is, they really perceive the meaning on the words. Then if you compass brain and heart, you'll recognize the necessary tea break that precedes recognition of what you understand been swing... and why yourselves can set on foot it no longer.<\p>
Godfrey, you image, was a bully; he evinced his tendencies openly and on national television, most extraordinarily the day he canned singer Julius La Rosa on head wind... not fairly removing La Rosa but humiliating him... something that's gib-cat nip to a bully who lives to running sore others, in ways both vulgar and exquisite.<\p>
And thus we came so that see this not as a cute instantaneous ditty, but a tune designed to rent of gourmet quality people and kind warlike with fat and needing support not set at naught. And so as Godfrey's biting tendencies and disposition became known, as we grew appalled, not amused; his puff was tarnished and his high star waned. In such ways do we reconvert going, joined person at a time. But this is not infrequently too little too late, primarily in our wired age where with-it an instant a vicious sentiment and attack will be extant universal, thereby magnifying its drift and pain.<\p>
The Internet changes the entirety.<\p>
In the first days relative to the Internet, it was unwritten with pride by the early netizens that "the Internet changes everything." We had minutely sense of just how right we were... and how the instant procurability as to information, easily accessed, easily transmitted, would essentially alter the world and human truck. Antipodes was this and all true than in the matter of bullying... both parce que those doing the bullying and because the people something bullied. The Internet fostered a norms as regards anonymous insult and bitchiness, a point where, so it was thought, one could with impunity say anything about anyone... garden-variety bullies morphing (with a few keystrokes) into super-bullies, bother, retribution, cosmic comeuppance theirs to summon and command -- without care, concern, accountability, responsibility. And how the greatest age in the history re bullying began and prospered. <\p>
Understanding bullies.<\p>
This is an article by use of the particular object of understanding school square bullies, the outshine to take effective action for their diminishment and eradication. Bullies have existed in every socialization and society retroactively the beginning of human history. Bullies have been tolerated, forgotten, even encouraged because other self represent the inexhaustible reign nap and elites and emblematize their attitudes.<\p>
Bullies rarely are the representatives of the poor, the dispossessed, the politically isolated, the misunderstood and "whimsical"... rather bullies' the ordinary victims ordinarily are found fashionable these categories. In other words, bullies get away per their anti-social behaviors because they are representatives of prevailing prejudices, hatreds, fears, and anxieties. Scratch a plaguer, and i myself self-government find an positive maze of colonize (often including his parents) who not only do not condemn soul mate activities, but consciously or unconsciously assist in their realization and defense. As such bullying goes capably again one bully and all one victim so as to being instead connect cultural tradition attempting to cordon off, control, swashbuckle and quits destroy another culture and its "unacceptable" views.<\p>
As such the problem of bullies quickly becomes a problem anywise the cultural wars which so distinguish our times. These wars, one entirety wars, are fatal, inhumane, boundless in their cruelties and, worst of all, forward-looking their letter in relation with view which is that ruling classes cut down good; their opponents the very principle of evil amongst us. It is with this background in mind that we take to the labor of understanding, identifying, curtailing, controlling and (for we must keep this bighearted goal before us) eliminating bullying. And how we go so that Ground Zero, the schools of the Great Meritocracy, where the feral cultural wars are fought every day, every single defective year.<\p>
The extent of the problem. Appeal to the sustained work in relation to organizations like how-to-stop-bullying.com we now have, being the first time, tonic statistics on such matters equivalently who bullies, who is bullied, why, how, how often, etc. The advent of such data indicates that journey is being prosperous in tenderhearted and in glowing terms contrapositive and handling this affairs. Bring to recollection, bullying has always existed... but because it was not regarded inasmuch as a "problem", much less a problem that school work force must give in exchange with, no progress towards the ultimate source as regards eradication was made or could be built. These are the early days of a adaptation of this invidious, ostrich-head-in-the-sand "policy" which has endured for centuries, where bullying was anecdotal, insignificant, never regarded, never mattered, never solved.<\p>
Thankfully our way, seriously our entire approach upon this subject, is increasingly unusual from what has unacceptably gone before. Pro-active, we see the seeds not merely of significant saving of permeating, fetal, beneficial change. Yes, things are changing, though these are unless that its early days.<\p>
What you can do.<\p>
In reality, this is a problem of most immediate relevance towards affected students, their parents, and their schools. This is where the bullying bellona, open arms end its aspects, is fought quarterly. <\p>
Parents must abide conscious that bullying is a daily feature in essence schools.<\p>
The top must therefore back up glaring and productive conversations wherewithal children to discern what may be adventure... and with school the administration who should be mirthful for your hearty concern and willingness to help.<\p>
Parents should ask school committees and of a sort incorruptible educational officers unimpeachable what other self are doing both to preclude the problem and spine individual instances once they arise.<\p>
In this way, school by school, principal wherewithal principal, teacher according to teacher, parent so long parent, student by grind progress must, can and will obtain prefabricated, for groundling thing is certain: if we indifferently a people, regardless of our full panoply in point of wherewithal intellectual and organizational, measure against this head in line with a choosing, progress will breathe made and the schools in relation to the Great Republic cleansed of an outrage swept under the rug by nations and peoples before us who were less obliged to students and schools aside from we are. This will not, cannot, be the work of a single school or pick term, and we must be so prepared. Besides it is important work, empowering legions of afflicted students who can now grow to full potential, enriching and enhancing the Great Province which is sore in need of their skills and services, many and timely.<\p>
**** We get inner man versus post your comments to this article below.<\p>
In his mind’s eye, he could see the fleet as it warped into being around the gate: their hurried flight from the Iskandar system would have scattered the ships as they rushed pell-mell through the warp gate, disengaging from the unknown enemy.
As they reverted to realspace, his crew carried out the business of damage control and repair quickly and efficiently. Guns that had not yet been stowed were shuttered and locked down. Sensors was busy doing a scan of the ship and the area. Damage control had dispatched teams to scour the ship for problems. Flight control officers spoke quickly into headsets, tallying fighter losses and re-organizng squadrons.
The sensor board in front of his command chair spoke to that reality. It was blinking constantly as his officers updated it, new icons winking into existence as they established communications with squadrons of frigates, phalanxes of escorts and other ships that had fled with them.
“Civilians ships are ordered to make course for the orbital facilities at Genesis Alpha. Communications, give me a count of numbers and get our support forces back into formation.”
“They’re not going to need the encouragement.” A face popped into the corner of his command screen, a sharp-featured, black haired woman, whose streaks of grey hair and pale skin (almost as much as his own) spoke of a lifetime in space.
“Not everyone can carry out procedure in their sleep, Taye. Sometimes, the voice of authority can be reassuring.” Wing Commander Taye commanded one of Bastion’s support squadrons, and he had fought his first command with her as chief pilot. Ordinarily, as master of the mighty Dreadnought Bastion, he would be expected to refer to her by her rank and not much else – some Dreadnought masters did not even know the names of their second officers. However, their long career together bred a little informality that he judged to be good for morale.
The corner of Taye’s mouth curved upward just slightly. “No use quoting the book at me boss, I barely read the thing before graduation.”
A retort was already on the tip of his tongue when two new faces appeared on his console. The first was dark-skinned, with wide eyes and a strong jaw: Captain Barthol, his escort commander. The second was round, with light brown hair and a brow creased with worry – Wing Commander Mehra, his second support squadron commander. Neither of them paused to deliver the elaborate addresses normally required to address their Admiral.
“What the hell hit us?” that was Mehra, scowling hard. Never a moment for levity for Mehra: though his appearance did not lend itself to the dashing naval officer, he had a mind for strategy and tactics that missed nothing and was invaluable in war-planning. “Sensor readouts don’t make any sense. Some confused mix of biological and mechanical signals. Visuals from Illuminatus show something that looks like a giant insect eating a marine when they boarded the ship.”
“More importantly,” interrupted Barthol, blinking slowly as he thought. “There are no more ships issuing from the gate. That means Illuminatus has been destroyed. And it is also highly likely that the planet has been razed.”
“With Fleet Admiral Jackson dead, that means fleet command falls to…”
All three signals were lost as a face filled the screen. This one was older, with a graying beard and mustache, and medals were pinned conspicuously to his uniform.
“This is Admiral Klein,” said the face. “Illuminatus is missing and presumed destroyed. I am assuming command of this fleet.” This communication was coming in over the all-hands circuit, overriding all other signals. Carson’s officers stopped what they were doing to listen.
“At present,” continued Klein, “all ships are to make course for Genesis Alpha at two-point-five gravities of acceleration. It will take us approximately 127 hours to reach the planet at this rate.” Carson winced. Two-point-five gravities of acceleration would prevent the smaller ships from using their inertial dampners to negate the stress of travel: while they would travel faster, and reach the planet in about two-thirds the time needed for an intra-system transit, the frigate and escort crews would be badly tired out. Strapped to heavy frames with hearts struggling to pump blood through their bodies, they would not be battle ready should the mysterious invaders decide to follow them.
“A signal has been sent to Genesis to institute martial law. We will re-group, plan and prepare a counterattack once we arrive.” The signal blinked out, and Carson was left with his officers.
He sighed. “You heard the Admiral. Get your ships underway.”
Taye allowed herself one parting shot. “The only counterattacking Admiral lard-arse is going to be doing is by himself. After five days of high-gee, we’re going to be good for nothing.”
Carson let himself grin, though there was no humor in it. “Welcome to the Republican Navy, where the senior officers lie to themselves so they can sleep at night.”
And it was all supposed to be a nice, safe border patrol. Carson thought to himself as he raced down the corridors to the bridge, his ears ringing from the alarm klaxons. Unlike the smaller frigates and escorts, the Bastion was large enough to mitigate the gravitational forces of 2.5Gs of acceleration, and the crew could spend a much more comfortable time in transit.
Carson slowed to a walk, took a deep breath, and then strode into the room, all the better to present the picture of a calm captain. His first officer was already screaming for ready stations, and the crew were preparing the ship for a fight as more officers flooded into the bridge.
He glanced to the three officers at the sensor station, and one of them nodded to let him know that the relevant information was being transmitted to his command console.
Lieutenant Inoue finally managed to tear himself away from screaming into the ship’s announcement system to brief his captain. Carson sat himself down in the command chair as Inoue walked out of the crew pit for some measure of privacy.
“They came through the gate, just like we did. Unfortunately, they’re gaining fast.”
“How fast?” Carson swallowed once against the bile rising in his throat. Coughed to clear it. “And how long more till we reach Genesis?”
“We’re just over 63 hours into the transit. So approximately halfway. Engineering projects them to be traveling in excess of 5 gravities of acceleration on average, though we are noticing some anomalies.” Inoue tapped the console, calling up the relevant readings. “They appear to be splitting into two groups: large, slow ships in one group traveling at 2.5Gs and a large fleet of frigates and escorts traveling in excess of 5Gs.”
Just then, his frigate and escort commanders’ faces appeared onscreen.
“Bastards followed us,” said Taye. “I’m ordering the squadron to slow to attack speed.”
“What the hell are these things?” Carson said. “Ewis are fast, but not this fast. And there’s no way an Republican ship could move that quick without pulping the crew.” He frowned. “Even with experimental R&D…”
“I’ve been analyzing the sensor records of Illuminatus’ encounter with these ships.” That was Mehra. “Since 63 hours strapped to a crash couch gives you so much free time, and thinking hard prevents blood from leaving your brain. Um. Right. So the fleet with three Dreadnoughts and the carrier – Bastion, Illuminatus, Glengarry and Fortitude comes out of the gate. Silence from the planet. Sensor pings barely catch what we think are the exhaust trails of a fleet of ships fleeing into the asteroid belt. Against standard doctrine, Illuminatus goes to investigate with a flight of frigates and maybe twice that number of escorts.”
Mehra paused to draw breath. Taye rolled her eyes and muttered something about a ‘bookworm’. “Next thing we get is a hurried communication from Admiral Jackson – not video, but by signal – ordering the fleet to flee. Then two frigates make a run out of the belt chased by something which is also interfering with our sensors. Nuclear detonation, which we assume is Illuminatus’ stock of atomic torps going up. We get a visual of marines being eaten by man-sized spiders and something about transports and drop-troops. Scans of the planet reveal massive destruction. Then these bastards caught up to us.”
Before Mehra could add anything, Barthol interrupted him. “They are not human. Not Ewis either. Look at their formation.”
Inoue helpfully tapped the command console, bringing up a screen of red dots.
“Human and Ewis fleet tactics are based on our knowledge of physics and engineering. Because of how our ships handle inertia, and because of the threat of doomsday weapons carried by capital ships, we organize into even lines in order to prevent area-of-effect damage from destroying fellow craft. Being relatively close together allows us to concentrate fire should we manage a breakthrough but prevents us from all being destroyed by a lucky shot.”
“These new ships, however, are packed extremely close together. Furthermore, they are rapidly outdistancing their heavier ships: unless the heavier ships have some hitherto unknown method of crossing space, the fleet of escorts and frigates will engage us much sooner. And what real fleet would engage without the siege weapons of capital ships? It is as if they do not know about our capabilities or if they do, they do not care and are committed to swarming us under and accepting casualties they could mitigate with a more cautious strategy. It is a decidedly non-human mentality.”
“In summation, then,” Carson said, his gut sinking. “We are confronted with an unknown enemy, of unknown means who quite likely know our capabilities but do not care that we can vaporize a half-dozen of them with one shot.”
His subalterns nodded.
He turned to Lieutenant Inoue. “Sound general quarters. Order all ships to slow to attack speed. Charge the PPC capacitors. And get me Admiral Klein now.”
Inoue leapt to obey. The bridge, beginning to settle down as the crew mobilized, leapt once more into a state of panic: weapons officers began speaking urgently to their gunnery stations, damage control team leaders raced from the room to their stations, and sensor officers began projecting their targeting data to the main sensor station at the centre of the room. ID tags began to appear on distant red dots.
From the side entrance, the customary guard was relieved and a small team of heavily armed and armored armsmen strode into the bridge to take up positions on the bridge. They each clutched shot cannons or assault rifles and had on the bulky armor of the marines.
Carson was about to speak again but he was interrupted by Klein in the fleet-wide channel. “Captain Carson! What is the meaning of this?” Klein was red-faced. In the background, Carson could hear his bridge crew panicking. “I did not order an end to our in-system transit. You will order your squadrons to resume acceleration immediately!”
Carson shook his head. “I don’t believe that is the best course of action, Lord Admiral,” he paused, tapping keys on his command console to send the accumulated data to Klein’s ship. “After reviewing the data, my officers and I have concluded that the incoming enemy ships are neither human nor Ewis. Furthermore, it is my conjecture that the speed of their advance suggests that they do not want word of their arrival reaching the rest of the Republic.”
He turned away from the Admiral to address the rest of the fleet. “All ships: I am not letting these eight-legged whoresons take this planet away from us. I need twenty ships to remain behind for a delaying attack while Genesis Alpha evacuates. Admiral Klein will lead the rest of the fleet to protect the shipyards as long as possible.”
Carson knew he had Klein in a bind, even as the Admiral began to read the conclusions and plan that had been sent to him. Technically, Klein had the right to order Carson to perform according to whatever plan he liked: however, this border fleet had been placed squarely under the command of Jackson, and his death dissolved the oaths of loyalty that bound Klein and Carson together. He was a free as possible under Republican Naval law.
Indicators began to flash as the ships in the convoy registered the communication and sent their replies. Gratifyingly, all of the ships under his direct command volunteered to remain behind for the counterattack. Of the rest of the ships, however…
“Bastard-cowards,” Carson cursed. Three ships out of the remaining forty frigates and escorts had volunteered. The Fortitude, which held most of the fleet’s fighter strength, hadn’t even bothered to respond. This was going to leave him short of manpower.
“Get me Taye, Mehra and Barthol,” he said to his communications officer. The woman nodded and connected him to his three subordinates.
“What’s the plan, boss?” Taye was, as always, first to say anything. “Standard engagement patterns, punch through them and then tie them up? Or make them come to us?”
“I’ve a mind to go for those big ships at the back,” Carson replied, rubbing his chin in thought. “If Barthol’s guess is right, they aren’t battleships, and we know they have infantry of some kind.”
“You think they might be transport ships?” that was Mehra, juggling computer printouts while trying to talk to his flag captain. “It would make sense. That approaching attack fleet is just as much a screen as an assault force then.”
“That’s settled then. Primary plan will be to punch through and then see how tough those big ships’ hulls are.” Carson said. “But first, there are things I need from you. Mehra, you’re in charge of the evacuation. Get as much stuff out of Genesis Alpha as you can without compromising the integrity of the defence. Prioritize R&D and knowledge assets as much as possible. Let Klein handle the shipyards. Barthol,” he turned to his escort commander, “take your entire squadron, bring all the data and run to the nearest HQ. There’s another gate on the other side of the star that should bring you out somewhere safe. Maximum acceleration and get my message through. Don’t stop for anything.”
Both his subcommanders saluted. Their images winked out from his command console.
“That’s going to leave you undermanned,” Taye said, frowning. “Three ships from the convoy, my Jericho squadron and the Bastion are only sixteen ships. We’re not carrying full loads of fighters either. And even if you’re just trying to get in range of those transports, you’ll need more ship hull between you and them.”
“Taye, you’re not comi- ” before he could even finish the sentence, Taye had shut of communications.
“Sir,” one of the bridge crew. “Jericho Squadron is breaking formation and turning to intercept the enemy fleet.” She looked down at her interface, and tried to stifle a grin as she said her next sentence. “Signal from Jericho leader: ‘Get over here before I take all the kills for myself.’”
Carson sighed.
“Two incoming communications, Flag-Captain. One from Admiral Klein, and another from the frigate Antipova from Saber Squadron.” Carson sat back on his command chair, grimacing. “Put the Admiral on first.”
“Flag-Captain,” said Klein. He was no longer furious. For all his faults, Klein wasn’t as complete an idiot as the average the Republican Naval officer. “Part of me wants to have you court-martialed for pirating an attack fleet and ignoring the orders of a superior officer.” He paused. “It seems, however, that the incoming attack fleet is going to spare me the trouble. Good luck, humanity salutes your sacrifice.” He said the last sentence mockingly before letting his communication wink out. “Put the second one on,” Carson said.
“Sir,” a young face with dark hair and wide eyes answered him. “I am Captain Ortega of the Antipova. I have the loyalties of three other captains through deed and bloodright. We are turning to join your delaying action now. I only ask for my ships and I to be placed in the vanguard.” Seeing Carson’s confused expression, he continued. “Genesis Alpha has long been a holding of House Ortega. And House Jackson is our ally in war and peace.”
Carson nodded. That would explain a lot. While officers in the navy – many of them coming from noble backgrounds – were supposed to put aside the allegiances of their house, it was impossible to extinguish all loyalties. It was what made the navy such a factitious force, and why sometimes loyalties and formal oaths mattered more than the operating procedures. “Very well Captain Ortega. Take your four ships, as well as Troubadour, Genju and Wunder,” he named the other three ships that had volunteered for the delaying action. “You’re the spearhead, we’re the shaft.”
From behind him, another of his officers called out – this time, it was Lieutenant Winchester, one of his flight coordinators. “We have fighter launch from Fortitude – five groups, requesting to dock with us. Squadrons are Halo, Nightveil, Running Crimson, Skullbiters and Excoriators.” That was a piece of luck: Carson’s ships did not have full fighter squadrons, since they expected not to run into any serious resistance on a border patrol. Thought a hundred fighters were just a drop in the bucket, Carson would take any ships he could get. “Give them permission to dock,” he ordered. Winchester nodded and began to organize the groups.
He turned to Inoue. “Get us turned around, we’ve got a fight to get to.”
They had been accelerating for four hours now. In that time, Carson had managed to add a little more to his makeshift plan: Ortega had taken his seven ships and arrayed them in an arrow formation at the bow of Bastion, while Taye had brought Jericho squadron in tight, providing overlapping arrays of fire that would allow hopefully allow her to keep the enemy ships off his own. This was the kind of formation rarely practiced: since the enemy had no siege weapons, they could safely bring the fleet close together. Furthermore, compacting as they did might allow them to punch through the enemy formation without being engaged and picked off as a larger formation might.
Also, he was glad that he had not followed Klein’s orders. The enemy fleet – even the transports – had accelerated to ludicrous speeds in the last few hours: had they still been following Klein’s plan, the enemy fleet would have caught them ten hours shy of Genesis, with poorly rested crews and completely out of formation. Though, he reflected, they would at least have had the safety of numbers in that case.
The attacking ships seemed to be putting out some kind of interference: as they got closer and visual sensors began to be useful, the threat count of the attacking fleet had tripled in numbers: where before the estimate had been about seventy ships, they now faced nearly two hundred attackers, a number more suited to a full battlefleet than an patrol group. Worse still, another stream of ships was issuing from the gate. Klein was going to find himself completely overwhelmed.
Conversation was terse both on the bridge and the communications network. Carson had linked all the ship captains together on voice-only, and the captains called out new information as they saw it.
“Aim for the southwest corner of that cloud,” that was Captain Tieng of Yakarta, an older woman missing one eye with her orange hair tied in a ponytail. “It’s the weakest section and might be easiest to punch through.”
“Lot of targets out there,” that was Silas, Taye’s aide-de-camp and backup troublemaker of Jericho Squadron. “Should probably throw some atomics in there to mess things up.”
“Maximum range for the heavy weapons reached!” crowed Lieutenant Shang, Bastion’s senior weapons officer. “Firing solutions plotted! Permission to fire?”
“Permission granted.”
The lights dimmed as the twin Particle Projector Cannons mounted on the topside and ventral turrets of the Bastion fired, dumping power from quick-recharge lithium-fusion batteries into discharging two gigantic azure streams of fire in the general direction of the enemy fleet. On the screen, two of the enemy frigates disappeared.
“Firing atomic torpedo!” said Shang. Bastion carried two-dozen of the powerful nuclear missiles. Once released, they accelerated rapidly and could be detonated either on impact or on command. “Charge set for timed detonation!”
On screen, a small red arrow issued from Bastion and charged towards the enemy. A distance that would take even the fastest ship several long minutes to travel was traversed in under a minute as the torpedo reached maximum thrust.
Then the torpedo’s primitive onboard computer reached the end of its countdown and triggered an atomic detonation. The shockwave disintegrated seven enemy frigates.
Carson’s frigate captains cheered lustily as the results were seen by every sensor office in the Republic fleet.
“Enemy ships are vectoring! Formation expanding!” that was the sensor station calling out. Carson could see blob of enemy ships beginning to diffuse, spreading wider. Whoever was in command was a quick thinker: the ships were trying to force themselves apart so as not to get caught in the nuclear blast.
They were too slow, though. “Keep up that fire! Weapons free!”
Again, the Particle Cannons whipped energy at the enemy, and another red arrow disappeared from the screen.
They had time for a third salvo before the lines met. Carson shouted for Winchester to launch their fighters.
The communications link filled with shouts: Ortega had led his vanguard group into the teeth of the enemy, targeting the southwest corner. They were reporting minor damage as they took fire from the bow guns of the enemy. Carson frowned. You didn’t mount bow guns on ships. It was too hard to aim them unless they were in turret mounts, and even then you’d have little time on target.
“…watch out! There’s a group on our left…main guns firing…lost portside maneuvering thrusters…my god! They’ve latched onto us! Boarders! Prepare to repel -”
Then Bastion and her frigates were directly in the midst of the enemy. The ship shook as the Bastion’s conventional cannons fired: a ragged crescendo that shook the ship. They were being reloaded and fired as quickly as they could acquire targets.
“Enemy frigates making for our topside particle cannon turret!” Carson started, tearing his eyes away from the sensor readouts.
“Roll on our central axis to present starboard guns! Keep up the firing pace!” he shouted, his fingers dancing over the command console. “Where’s Impaler?” that was the frigate tasked with covering his bow topside quadrant. “Anything from Captain Ventanus?”
The ship shook: not from recoil this time. This was the shockwave of a frigate detonation.
His sensor officer was pale. “That was the Impaler.”
Carson swore. “Re-task Nightveil and Running Crimson squadrons to keep them off the turret. Status report! How many frigates are left?”
“Nine!” That was a shout from the bridge – someone on the bridge, the whole place was insane as officers ran back and forth.
“Sir!” a desperate shout. “You need to see this!” without any prompting, the main screen was filled with an image. Bridge crewmembers stopped what they were doing to look at the thing on the screen, their mouths agape in shock.
The thing on the screen – Carson couldn’t bring himself to describe it as a ship – was close. Within spitting distance by naval standards: it had latched on to the Antipova as though attempting to board and seize the ship. However, unlike a traditional boarding action which involved coming alongside an opponent and firing magnetic clamps across, the enemy ship had collided with Antipova and sunk what looked disturbingly like fangs into the ship’s hull.
“Clear the comm chatter! Isolate incoming transmissions from Antipova!”
Suddenly the bridge was silent. Carson began to make out more details about the frigate, which was nearly pitch-black in coloration. Besides the fangs, he could see that its hull wasn’t smooth with the lines of manufactured material: instead, it was rough and irregular, with curious markings up and down the flanks and chitinous-looking plates covering it. Cannon fire seemed to have removed a chunk of the plating. The material seemed to ripple: it almost looked like the gullet of a regurgitating animal from here.
A thought struck Carson. “It’s… organic. It must be.” Gasps from the bridge crew as many came to the same conclusion.
Inoue had walked over to him to look at the command console over his shoulder. “Is it deploying troops? That weird undulation – it’s almost as if it’s spitting something into the –”
Suddenly, the bridge was filled with the transmissions of Antipova. Voice only, and even then filled with static. Carson thought it was Ortega on the line, but he couldn’t be sure. The voice that had been so calm and resolute only hours before was hoarse from screaming, choked with panic and fear. “We’re hitting them but they won’t stop! Dear Emperor, those claws! They’re all over us! Run for it! Look out, look out, plasma bom -”
Then he screamed. And screamed and screamed and screamed.
“Is the ventral particle cannon charged?” Carson mentally cursed as his voice cracked. He saw the fear in the eyes of his crew. Inoue, just as rattled, shook his head to clear it, then nodded to answer Carson’s question.
“Target the Antipova. Put them out of their misery. And jam all transmissions from ships currently being boarded.” He thought for a second, tested his revised plan and realizing that the usual concerns of survival didn’t matter here, gave the order. “All ships capable of receiving transmissions, accelerate to maximum: break free of this engagement and rendezvous with us on the other side of this engagement.”
He grimaced inwardly. His original plan had been to stay in and dogfight with the enemy, but with the loss of ten frigates after only twenty-five minutes of fighting, they needed to regroup. The enemy ships’ high rate of acceleration would require them to make high-g turns to pursue as he exited the back of their formation, hopefully forcing them to chase him if they didn’t want him to get within range of their transports.
“Guns, lay down a pattern of atomic torpedoes to discourage pursuit. Flight control, recover the fighters. Helm, full speed ahead. Roll us back to our original orientation. Engineering and damage control, I want reports on my console in fifteen minutes.”
Carson sat back and gritted his teeth as Bastion shook all around him with the rhythmic firing of cannons and the detonations of his comrades’ ships. The universe had suddenly gotten a lot larger and more unfriendly.
In the end, it cost them two more frigates to get away, along with dozens of fighters that ran out of fuel trying to pick their way out of the melee. The last frigate loss was Captain Tieng. The fleet had gotten a final transmission from her Yakarta: her gruff voice lowered to a whisper as she begged over and over again for somebody to ‘save her brave boys and girls’. They got an image with this transmission too: a burning bridge with bodies and parts of bodies strewn everywhere.
Now he had all his captains back on the same channel. Not a mistake he would ever make again, leaving that on during combat though, he reasoned darkly, he probably wouldn’t have the chance to make mistakes again period.
His captains were solemn now. Troublemaker Silas was wide-eyed, his normally good cheer evaporated. Taye was scowling enough to kill with looks, and she kept wiping away the blood trickling down from her forehead: the result, she claimed, of a particularly hard turn to put a frigate under her portside guns.
Bastion was about as bad as Taye looked: one of the last bangs had been a munitions locker going up. Though damage control teams had tried to patch the leak, life support reported that, slowly but surely, air was leaking out of his ship. With the next fifteen hours, they’d all asphyxiate to death. Right now, that seemed to be a more appealing option than facing the massive enemy fleet that was right on their heels.
So far, his improvised plan was working. His instincts to shoot the big ones had been proven correct: now, both the original fleet and the newcomers were trying to converge on him, while the transports, trapped by their own momentum, were trying to slow but were only succeeding in wallowing in space.
“What now?” that was Taye. Her voice was one part dizzy to two parts fury: it was how she reacted, Carson knew, to insurmountable situations. Where others would give up, Taye would buckle down and keep shooting. It was an attitude that had gotten them both out of more than one scrape.
He wondered how soon the rest of the Republican Fleet – composed of officers with a lot less determination – would survive in this new and frightening age.
“We’re nearly in range of the transports,” he said, though they both knew exactly when the Bastion’s PPC’s would reach effectiveness. “I’m going to pop them like balloons till they cry uncle, both of their fleets will catch up to us, and then we’ll go down like heroes in story and in song.” His tone was inappropriately light. ‘In story and in song’ was a reference to the oath of honour Naval Academy graduates took at convocation.
No one even chuckled. Morale was shot through.
“Coming into range.” That was Shang on the guns. “Permission to fire?”
Carson closed his eyes. “Permission granted. Give them hell.”
Who – or whatever – they were, they were persistent. Shang took out nine transports with the PPCs at maximum range before detonating a three-spread of torpedoes that killed six more. The rest came on doggedly. Even with all their efforts, sensors reported at least thirty more transports ready to rain their deadly payload of ground troops on the unsuspecting population of Genesis Alpha.
Then the monsters caught up to them.
First to die was Silas: one second his frigate was there, and then it wasn’t. Plasma blasts – that was what his engineering officers were telling him the alien ships were firing – ripped through the engines and detonated the vulnerable nuclear reactor at the core. Silas’ picture winked out with a hiss of static, and Bastion shook with the impact of detonation.
“PPCs at gunners’ discretion. Shang, I want a torpedo barrage. Two missiles down their gut to slow them.”
“Aye sir! Torpedoes away!” Another detonation. The first wave of onrushing enemy frigates winked out from the sensor board. The second wave caught Captain Indra’s Onrust where it was never meant to be and cut it apart. Pilots were reporting fighter deployment from the enemy ships: disgorged as if they were the offspring of some vast insect, the enemy interceptors were fast, tough, and wreaking havoc among the Republican fighter corps.
“Starboard rocket pods!” Carson shouted. Dumbfire rockets streaked out to maul an enemy frigate that clearly intended on latching onto Bastion’s hull, stripping chitin armor off and giving it the naval equivalent of a swift uppercut to the jaw. “Portside maneuvering thrusters, cut to 45% output. Starboard, go to 200%!”
“Sir, we need to issue an alert before doing tha-”
“Belay that! Do it now, helm!”
The ground lurched. Officers were thrown from their feet. One unfortunate ensign half out of his chair was thrown into a bank of terminals: he landed with a loud crack and spreading pool of blood. Carson’s head snapped around as the mighty Dreadnought executed a swift turn to port than presented the portside rocket pods to the other enemy frigate that had been creeping up on Bastion’s wake. They fired.
“Particle cannons overheating, sir!”
“I don’t give a damn if the cooling systems cook the crew alive, keep the fire rate up!”
Up ahead, Taye was managing her subordinates as best as she could. She had five ships left: each of them began a stately turn to port, presenting a total of thirty naval-class cannon to the enemy. The first salvo tore up two enemy frigates and caused the rest to visibly flinch.
Then, instead of completing the turn to present their much narrower bows to the enemy, the frigates kept firing, their large flat cross-sections totally exposed.
The enemy could not miss at this range. Shikinami died almost instantly as fifteen plasma cannons converged on it. Then Nanyang lost maneuvering thrusters. The comm was filled with Captain Zhou’s curses, and then it too went up as enemy gunners found their range.
“Roll to present starboard guns. Maximum fire rate!”
Trying to take revenge for the dead crews, Bastion rolled on her central axis to present fresh guns and armour toward their opponents. Then it cut loose as only a Dreadnought could, pouring autocannon, mass driver and railgun fire into the enemy alongside flight after flight of missiles. Excoriator squadron, which had been hiding in Bastion’s shadow after a run-in with an enemy flight group, pounced at the same time and tore through two damaged enemy frigates.
Having been left alone since their desperate salvo now that Bastion was drawing the attention of the entire enemy fleet, Taye still did not charge forward as might be expected. Instead, her three frigates began a bone-crunching turn to present their starboard sides to the enemy, putting up fresh armor and crossing in front of Bastion as she reloaded. Fighters flocked forward at a snarled command from Taye, putting themselves in harm’s way to stall the enemy squadrons trying to shoot off the frigates’ guns or engines.
Carson gasped. They were shielding Bastion with their hulls.
For one instant, all three proud war-vessels were pouring damage out, as though channeling the power of their reactors through ports on their hulls. The very next instant, two frigates were aflame, practically evaporating under heavy fire.
Only Taye’s ship was left, and they had pounded shut every one of her cannons. Now she turned to present her bow to the enemy. Then she accelerated.
A few enemy ships caught on, but at least one wasn’t fast enough: a wounded frigate that had been caught in Bastion’s desperate gunnery. Taye didn’t have any weapons left except the armored prow of her Cassandra.
The impact practically sheared the enemy ship in half. Carson waited, hoping that the momentum was enough – but no, while the enemy frigate was most certainly dead, Cassandra had become lodged in its corpse. A moment later, enemy fire found Taye.
When the end came, the amount of overkill was almost complimentary. Both PPC turrets were ripped off via the simple expedient of enemy escort-class ships ramming into them. The enemy fleet soaked up atomic warhead after atomic warhead. Finally, the torpedo tubes were empty. Halo squadron, now down to a dozen ships, was swept aside, leaving the way clear from enemy fighters to nip at Bastion’s heels.
A dozen enemy frigates broke from the pack and charged. Carson’s gunners were still putting round after round of magnetically propelled metal into nearspace, and they all took severe damage getting close. In the end, like vultures gathering around a carcass, they bit into the hull and began to disgorge troops.
There were now two full marine squads on the bridge: in addition, someone had the bright idea to break open the weapons locker. Any crew member not trying to prevent Bastion from dying was clutching a miniaturized shot cannon. The guns were designed to be simple to operate: point the loud end at the enemy and pull the trigger until they dropped. Each only had seven rounds.
One of Carson’s eyes was swelling shut. The same impact that had taken out his topside PPC turret had slammed him into the armrest of his captain’s chair, injured three other crew members, and killed Lieutenant Shang when his monitor blew up in his face. Carson had a shot cannon clasped in one hand, and his officer’s pistol strapped to his waist.
“Breakthrough on deck seven,” his security officers were in the spotlight now, synthesizing information about the boarders pouring in and reporting to Carson. “Marine squad six is falling back to junction fifteen-epsilon.”
“Seal fifteen-epsilon and vent the atmosphere.”
“Sir, they’re not going to clear it in time.”
“Ensign, they’re too slow. They’re going to be overrun and then the boarders will be able to get in unopposed.”
The ensign, a young woman by the name of Katrina, gritted her teeth. “Venting fifteen-epsilon.”
“Number two reactor dow-” the announcement was punctuated by the lights on the bridge dimming. There was no longer enough power for lights. Sudden darkness elicited screams from those of the crew with energy left. Others just stared dully.
Suddenly, the heavy blast door of the bridge bowed inward as though something massive had smashed into it. More screams. The marine sergeant was yelling for people to get behind cover.
Carson ducked behind the still-sparking console that had killed Shang. Beside him, Inoue checked the load for his shot cannon for the tenth time.
The door gave on the second impact, metal tearing loose with a terrific screech that stunned the crew. Almost before the metal hit the ground, the marines were firing, shot cannons and assault rifles loud in the confined space.
Then things came through the door. In the twilight, with faces and hands and guns and aliens illuminated only by the soft glow of computer terminals, it was hard to see too many details. All Carson could make out were too many legs and too many eyes and too many claws and too many fangs.
A screaming marine was torn in half by massive bladed scythes. Another didn’t have time to make a sound before a massive stinger sliced through his body armor like so much paper and impaled him to a bulkhead.
Inoue was screaming as he fired, the shot cannon making a bright flash alongside the bang as the shrapnel filled the air. He fired his last round and kept pulling the trigger as he screamed, his eyes wild as though praying for the gun to magically reload.
An alien came out of nowhere, moving much too fast, scuttling forward on what seemed like a dozen legs. One of the appendages glowed sickeningly bright for a second, and then Inoue was gone, burned up by a plasma blast.
Carson raised the shot cannon and grasped it in two hands, pumping the gauge to load it. He fired once, twice, three times, four at the alien. On the fifth blast, it finally went down, gurgling and oozing fluids that mingled with the human blood coating the chamber.
The air was pungent and thick with scent: blood of course, but also vomit and other bodily fluids as crew members lost control in terror. Sobbing and screams filled the bridge. Carson fired twice more in the general direction of the door. He was pretty sure he didn’t hit anything. Behind him, he heard Winchester cursing the enemy as she lay in a pool of her own blood.
Not bothering to duck behind cover, he drew his pistol and checked the magazine. It was family heirloom, given to him on his graduation: it had the House Carson crest etched onto it in acid.
He started to crack away. He had eight hard-slug rounds. He expended seven, managing to do little more than irritate an alien in the process of eviscerating a screaming marine.
Carson looked around the bridge, taking everything in.
So, he thought to himself. This is what the end of the world looks like. He was strangely calm.
Then he snuggled the barrel of the pistol under his chin and pulled the trigger.
