NationStates Jolt Archive

Combat Bridge of the HSS Executioner, Ticonderoga system, Concordat of the Wick
06.08.1300 AF
2340 Solar Forces Standard

“No response from the Wickians?” Daur ask tersely as he studies the tactical projection and his weapons detonate against the Field, shattering asteroids.

“None, Admiral.”

“Most interesting,” he says quietly, and assumes that they cower in the asteroid formation awaiting their final in.

“Commander Fehde sends word that his command is breeching the outer perimeter of the Field now, sir. They have met no resistance.”

“Thank you, Mr. Colwin,” Daur nods his tanks to his flagcomsman. But the young man looks up quizzically from his displays.

“Sir, I am getting a strange reading from the ansible connection. There seems to be some inter—the ansible is gone!”

Daur’s head jerks upright suddenly, “Transmit orders to cut all acceleration to one-third at once! Instruct our rearmost squadrons to deploy an additional layer of recon-sats now! Pass word along to Fehdr, instruct him to be prepared for an ambush.”

Daur knows full well what happened to the Observer force that had been sent to Ticonderoga last—and about the ansible “malfunction” that occurred then. Two similar occurrences when two attack groups from the Hegemony just happen to be in the system are far too convenient. Either the Wickians are trying to stack the deck, or someone else is doing that for them. And the possibilities of who that “someone” could be make Daur want to be as ready as possible.

Combat Bridge of the HSS Absolution, Acler system, Imperium of Vernii
06.08.1300 AF
2342 Solar Forces Standard

Rear Admiral Marconi watches quietly as the flood of counters representing enemy missile contacts race in toward the perimeter of his command’s formation. Hundreds of missiles die before they even come close to reaching the outermost ring of war-frigates, easily exterminated in an equal—if not greater—storm to that produced than the rather paltry defenses of Acler’s primary world. But many counters race inward beyond the outer ranks of the fleet and in toward the core of formation, as their assault is now met by the war-frigates closer ranged PD energy weapons and then by the defensive muscle of the Hegemon II class dreadnoughts.

Marconi turns his attention to some of the optical feeds focusing on the very center of the fleet, where the massive Obelisk platform and the two Phoenix class dreadnoughts reside. While he admires the most powerful ship produced by the Solar Navy, Marconi has never carried his flag aboard a Phoenix. He boldly considers himself a fleet admiral and has maintained his flag aboard a Hegemon II class dreadnought as a statement of his belief in the primacy of fleet combat. But that is far from saying he depreciates the value of the Phoenix dreadnoughts or the Obelisk, and Marconi watches as the coordinated PD network of the two dreadnoughts and the Obelisk casually swat away the missiles that encroach on their engagement perimeter with an effort similar to a horse’s tail swatting a gnat on its hindquarters.

“Fleet status report,” Marconi says quietly as he looks to one of his tactical coordinators.

“We’ve lost the war-frigates Barbaric and Musketeer, with the Ordrid showing heavy damage to her portside. Four other war-frigates report moderate, but non-critical system, damage, Admiral. The dreadnoughts Mordred and War Storm report moderate damage, but also non-critical. Reports of no damage from the Regicide and her group,” Marconi nods quietly at the report Captain Renald’s ship—commanding the Obelisk group.

“Admiral, contact above the planet’s northern polar cap! Confirming multiple enemy contacts consistent with a formation of dreadnoughts and their screen, readings confirmed by CIC as those of Erewohnese class warships. Multiple contacts! Enemy is engaging.”

“Erewohnese…,” Marconi breathes quietly as a curse.

“War Storm is hit! Captain Quest reports loss of shields at thirty percent capacity, she’s losing engine power, and has suffered complete tactical control failure on her starboard side. Requesting permission to disengage and seek safety deeper within the perimeter.”

“Granted,” Marconi says quickly. “Send instructions to Renald, I want a full singularity strike prepared yesterday and I want another one readied for the tubes now. Signal to the fleet that we will support a singularity strike within the next four minutes.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“New contacts a four million kilometers off fleet’s portside, Admiral! Unknown configuration, unknown classes, multiple vessels. CIC has no information regarding their details or signatures. They’re opening fire, sir!”

Marconi’s surprise at hearing of unknown vessels matches that of the tactical coordinators own.

“New enemy contact bearing down on the Obelisk platform.”

“This is insane,” Marconi murmurs to himself, “there should be no forces like this.”

“Captain Renald’s requests permission to engage the enemy ship bearing down on the Obelisk.”

Marconi looks again at the tactical projection, watching as the fleet now finds itself engaged on both sides and by an enemy far greater in number and composition than previously expected. Counter-missiles from the war-frigates, the dreadnoughts, and the Obelisk now dance with hostile contacts as battle-lasers and ion cannons set to dispersion fire blaze away into the void. He snaps himself out of his silence.

“Permission denied, the flag division will engage the enemy vessel targeting the Obelisk. Send orders to the fleet, excluding the flag division, to execute Engagement Plan Gamma and prepare for immediate disengagement from the system once it is completed. Signal Lieutenant Commander Garricks and have the monitors brought back to face this new enemies formation, if they want a suicide engagement they shall have one. Transmit to Captain Renald that the fleet will support his first singularity strike and that I want his second out of the tubes the moment the first leaves our perimeter, target is designated as the Erewohnese formation.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“And be damned to those who first dares give reprieve,” Marconi says quietly as he stares into the swathes of red across his projection.

Marconi’s formation congeals out of momentary disarray from the unexpected size of the Acler defender’s onslaught into a mass of coordinated destruction, soon to fill the enemy ranks with equal or greater chaos that had previously only been delivered by the Obelisk cannon while the fleet dealt with the enemy onslaught. As another round flies forth from the cannon, the rest of the fleet responds in kind. The two Phoenix class dreadnoughts silence their main guns for an instance, but the silence is soon forgotten as the two vessels and the fleet’s dreadnought core deploy the second wave of the attack.

In perfect unison the two Phoenix dreadnoughts fire 22 Vortex class gravimetric “singularity” warheads partnered with 49 new Mace class fusion warheads brought up with Admiral Kruger’s command. For this wave the Phoenix’s deploy no EW coverage, but then they hardly need to. In unison with the dreadnought’s firing thirty Hegemon II class dreadnoughts of the fleet fire as well, sending 29000 missiles into the Acleri defenders, over sixty-eight percent that are screamer EWs. The Mace class warhead is another new development in the Hegemony’s preference for massive, shielded missile deliver systems. A core unit the size of a Vortex warhead carries three 10.8-gigaton fusion warheads roughly a hundred kilometers from the target before separating into three separate missiles that race toward spot-designated targets of convenience.

Even before the first strike has reached its target, the Phoneix class dreadnought send another racing toward the Erewohnese formation. This one is supported by their own EW fire, along with that of their supporting war-frigates. Nineteen Vortex missiles and 42 Mace units are covered by 2800 EW warheads that race to deliver their charges to a proximity destruction destination roughly 400,000 kilometers from the main Erewohnese formation. With their second volley fired, the Phoenix dreadnoughts return to supporting the Obelisk at raining indifferent destruction through the primary planetary system with their main energy batteries.

As the majority of the formation engages the Acleri defenders around the planet itself, Marconi’s flag division of six Hegemon II class dreadnoughts direct their fire at the unknown warships that had targeted the Obelisk. In short order they fire 2400 X-ray ship-killer warheads accompanied by 877 screamer EW warheads. The dreadnought’s fire is soon supplemented by the monitors that tear back through the formation, their plans for raining destruction against orbitals forgot as they race in pursuit of the new enemy. They prime their dreadnought and battleship caliber energy weapons as they rapidly close range, preparing to deliver unto the Collective warships gut wrenching “point blank” range combat that is their speciality.

But even as Marconi’s command spends its rage against Acler’s defenders and the unknown vessels a distinct change sweeps through the formation. Maintaining their formation the ships of the fleet change their course heading, taking them off their parallel path with the planet’s orbital ecliptic. The change in vector, as well as a growing increase in acceleration, put them on a course that will veer farther and farther way from the planet. Rear Admiral Marconi is no fool, he knows when the odds are against him. And he dares not disobey Hellings’ order to keep as many of his ships combat effective as possible by spending them frivolously in an engagement where a numerical superior enemy holds the advantage of surprise.

Combat Bridge of the HSS Solar Fist, Stocurm system, Imperium of Vernii
06.08.1300 AF
2344 Solar Forces Standard

Lastin notes with approval as his command simple dismisses the “barrage” from Stocurm’s mobile defense assets as if it was barely an issue. The fire unleashed by the system’s fortresses proves to be a bit more problematic. Space between the fortresses and Lastin’s command are turned into a raging typhoon of energy and missiles as the fleet’s war-frigates and dreadnoughts rage against their opponents. A war-frigate explodes in a fireball and the leading pair of Lastin’s forward dreadnought squadron experience considerable losses, while another war-frigate lags out of formation. But still the outcome of this battle is all but predestined.

The monitors become a slashing storm of fast-diving and twirling shapes as they seek to dodge and escape enemy fire. As they pass they spare time to fire their massive energy weapons into their enemy, at this range even a grazing hit can be damning. But of the 36 ships that entered into the fray, only 23 exit the other side of the Verniian formation.

Lastin smiles and chuckles at the Verniian forces in his tactical projection, “It is consistently the same. Between the Verniian’s love of their fortresses and their fetish with dividing their fire and targeting specific fleet groups their systems might as well be whores waiting for their clients. So busy being caught up in being cheap imitations of the Valinor that they will never change until the end is upon them, like the Great War.”

Lastin chuckles, “Signal to the fleet to commence Engagement Plan Eta, there will be no surprises here today—at least not from the Verniians. Give word to Commodore Nadal that he has permission to use the new Mace missiles as he sees fit against the enemy task force.”

“Yes, Commodore.”

While Lastin’s flag squadron and the war-frigates reorient to bring their attack full to bear upon the system’s static defenses, Commodore Nadal and the second dreadnought squadron turn their attention to the task force of destroyers and cruisers even as the surviving monitors turn back to once again tear into the enemy formation’s flank.

Lastin’s main formation sends 18 Mace units, six to each fortress, and 17,000 missiles, roughly half of which are EW screamers, to join them. As the main formation levels its guns against the static defenses, Nadal’s squadron fires its own at the Stocurm’s mobile assets. Sixty-five thousand missiles tear through space toward the cruisers and destroyers while the monitors skirmish on their opposite flank. By all accounts it seems like Lastin’s estimate will be correct: the battle for Stocurm will be brief, bloody and possess a single outcome.

Combat Bridge of the HSS Firestorm, Boroglia system, Imperium of Vernii
06.08.1300 AF
2344 Solar Forces Standard

“Only 4,000 missiles from the enemy formation?” Fortmeer queries after hearing the damage report, made even more miniscule by the distance of his command from the enemy.

“No, Commodore.”

“And they can be confirmed as not being fired by the destroyers?”

“Yes, Commodore.”

“Does CIC have any information regarding the classes that did fire on us?”

“It appears to be some sort of hollow-frame pod-layer, sir. No definitive details from either our intelligence or SecInt.”

“Pod-layers,” Fortmeer breaths quietly, “FlagCom, gives orders the rest of the fleet all ships are to retarget those pod-layers and disregard the destroyers immediately. Reprogram missiles targeting profiles to compensate for the destroyers’ decoy interference. Also have Captain Galtier prepare his fusion warheads along with ours. If they are pod-layers they will be vulnerable to soft-kills. He will engage with us on my mark, give Grahams notice of this.”

“Yes, Commodore.”

Fortmeer waits for the acknowledgement to come from Grahams, his flag captain, before giving the order, “Open fire.”

Fortmeer’s formation sends 500 10.8-gigaton fusion warheads dispersed across the enemy formation, their only intent to destroy as many of the pods as possible. The fusion warheads are closely followed by 11,000 additional missiles with roughly 8,000 of them being traditional ship-killer warheads and the rest being and EW screamer screen.

Unlike his colleagues in Stocurm and Acler, Fortmeer does not recall his monitors. Instead the agile attack craft—the distant heirs to the role of the long-abandoned Eagle class fast-attack cruisers of the Ducal Solar Navy—race onward toward Boroglia proper. Fortmeer hopes that the outcry of the planet’s orbitals may bring their mobile screen closer to home, if only in small numbers.

Sanctity Complex, Founding Sector, Eternity Isle, Braavos, New Ortaga, Roum System, Hegemony of New Ortaga
06.09.1300 AF
1734 Roum Local Standard

Arcturus Mengsk, the oldest serving officer in the Solar Army of the Hegemony of New Ortaga looks over the fourteen assembled faces present before him in what was the unofficial common grounds between the remaining ranks of the once all-powerful merchanter families in New Ortaga. In truth the Merchanters assembled still represented a power within the Hegemony, but it is one that had long since given up dreams of vast empires and conquest. These days the Merchanters were interested in little more than maintain their own little kingdoms and their century old patterns of conflict.

But that was something the Merchanters had done quite well. In theory Ansel’s power over the Hegemony may be absolute, but the Merchanters demonstrated that this was sometimes just a theory. On New Ortaga itself the Merchanters still dominated the First Sisters and the Sunspear cities, the oldest cities on the Ortagan homeworld. And even Ansel had dared not try to force them out of power—the Merchanters had survived the Corrins supplanting them and their Federation, chances where they would survive anything Ansel could throw at them or at least weaken the Hegemony in their death throws. And so Ansel had let the Merchanters become a diminished, independent fiefdom within his Hegemony, but only after they agreed to appoint a “Governor-General” from the ranks of the Hegemony.

The Merchanters had selected General Mengsk, an old Valyrian common man who had made a name for himself even before the Revolution. Ansel had protested initially, but the Merchanters had coolly said that he had said they could choose who they wished to. The Hegemon had backed down, rather than risking an incident with those who still made the Ortagan economy function to some extent, and Mengsk had remained. Upon occasion the aging general wondered if the Merchanters had not been aware of Kellarny and his plans from beginning. But so wound in their plots and their schemes, even in their current states, the Merchanters could hide anything they wish in the intrigues of their game of houses. Still it was a good sign that all the Merchanters had come when Mengsk had sent out the invitations.

Now Mengsk takes a deep breath as he stands in the golden circle beneath the raised table where the Merchanters sit. Toward the middle is Emil Konstantin, nominal leader of all the Merchanters who is empowered to conduct their meetings.

“Governor-General Mengsk,” the curly, dark haired and dark-skinned says calmly, “it has been sometime since the representative of His Excellency the Hegemon had need to summon us into a quorum. Tell us, for what purpose have we been summoned?”

“I am afraid that the Hegemon has no need of the Merchanters, Princep,” Mengsk says with a slight bow of his head and using the ancient Merchanter title. “Instead a greater cause is the reason I have summoned you here: the cause of the liberation of New Ortaga.”

Slight rumbles pass through the heads of the Merchanter families, Konstantin looks to his right and his left before proceeding.

“You speak of General Kellarny and his efforts in this area?”

Mengsk is taken aback for a moment, so the Merchanters had been aware.

“I do, Princep.”

“His efforts are well know to us and we respect the efforts the General has made. But what need does this issue have of us?”

“Princep, we fight for the liberation of New Ortaga as a whole from the grip of Ansel and his despotism. If we have our victory then New Ortaga’s independence and democracy can once more be restored. The longer Ansel remains in power, the more damage he does to our nation and our people, and if we have any chance to depose him we must take it. At this moment all of those with General Kellarny—from the Solar Army to the Liberationists, from the Collectivists to the Loyalists—are preparing for the strike. Our cause could be greatly aided if the Merchanters will side with us as well.”

“Of what concern is it to us as to who sits upon the throne in Silesia?” Mengsk turns as the open mouth of the Princep is stopped by Ian Gallego. “First it was the Corrins now it is Ansel. Under both we have endured and we outlasted the Corrins. We shall outlast Ansel as well.”

“Do not be a fool, Ian,” retorts Spencer Masterson. “We may have outlasted the Corrins but Ansel is no Corrin. He is not leaving us alone indefinitely. Most of us have seen how he has whittled away at our bastions, diminishing all our strength slowly. The man is doing the one thing the Corrins never had the patience for—he is bidding his time until he strikes. If we wait it is only a matter of time before we find ourselves joining the Corrins and their aristocrats moldering on crosses outside the Palace!”

Mengsk is consumed by the ensuing roar that follows. Outrage pours from both sides: those Merchanters for their long held belief they can simply outlast and those who seek action knowing what surely will come. To Mengsk’s satisfaction though, the voice to take action is filled with far more voices than those that are not—indeed only the Gallegos, Berchets, and Desmares seem to be favoring total inaction.

“Silence!” Emil Konstantin suddenly roars in a timber that belays his stature and rattles the hall. “This debate is unseemingly! This dissention among our ranks may be tolerable in more closed quarters, but not here.”

Konstantin stares down the other member of the table, sparing neither side of the impromptu debate from his knifing disproval. Then he returns to Mengsk.

“Governor-General, it seems there is some matter of dissent to be had here. If you will excuse yourself and await our decision…?”

Mengsk bows slightly again, “Of course, Princep.”

Mengsk turns stiffly on one heel and walks out of the room, under the gaze of the fourteen patriarchs and matriarchs of the Merchanter families. He waits in the expansive and grand—if somewhat worn—anteroom to the chamber before finally being summoned by a footman. Mengsk walks to the circle and bows slightly again.

“Governor-General, we have a response for you,” Konstantin looks slightly drained and Mengsk has no doubt that what he saw of the debate was not even the smallest taste of what had transpired behind closed doors. His eyes flicker across the other assembled. “Inform General Kellarny that when those that seek the liberation of Ortaga move in force that we will stand with them in solidarity, and lead those cities that we can with us. That is all.”

Mengsk bows deeply, “Thank you, Princep. Council members.”

Citadel, Axis III, Axis system, Hegemony of New Ortaga
06.09.1300 AF
1500 Axis Local Standard

Cima Garahou walks down the empty gangway to the landing pad on one of the outer lying spaceports of the massive military complex that is the “city” of Citadel. An Ansel class monitor awaits, armor glistening in the sun of the Axis system as the rays from the system primary highlights the blood-red stripes denoting its service to the General-Secretariat of the Tactical Observers. She turns to face her companion as they reach the three Observers dressed in their blood-red uniforms waiting at the egress ramp.

“You are certain that this can be undertaken now, Kendra? I am not so sure that Galt will be inclined to ask the Hegemon’s permission first if he captures you, and he may be more inclined to just beg for forgiveness.”

“The Polemarch would dare not touch me,” Kendra Ansel says coolly. “I would tear his head from his shoulders and fling it from the highest tower of the Whisper Palace even if he tried. But the time for action is almost at hand.”

Kendra turns, her arms crossed as the roaring winds turn her raven black hair into a black thunderhead flying behind her and her own blood-red uniform.

“The leadership of the Revolution is failing. If it is allowed to falter further a crazed intellectual and a cast out aristocrat may seize control of it. I cannot allow that to happen, not even if my own father stands in my way. The Revolution must be preserved at all costs.”

The fire in Kendra’s eyes with its tinges of insanity make Garahou turn her head aside.

“I see,” the Strategos of the Solar Forces says.

“Then I must go. I have need to slip my way quietly to the home world and to do so I must leave now. My duplicate will see to it that the illusion here is maintained. I expect you to attend to that as well.”

“I will.”

Kendra nods swiftly and then sweeps up into the monitor. As its gravimetrics thrum, Cima Garahou turns back to where a woman who looks exactly like Kendra Ansel awaits in an exact replica of her uniform. Even her voice and mannerisms appear the same. Where the leader of the Observers found such a woman Garahou has never asked—nor does she particularly wish to know.

Morning Star system, Collective Protectorates of Liberated New Hope
06.09.1300 AF
0741 Solar Forces Standard

In the amorphous zone between where the typically more civilized portions of a star systems inner region give way to its mid-reaches a small freighter crashes back into real space from the isolated realm of superluminal travel. The freighter is obviously stricken, trailing debris from aft sections that have obviously been ravaged by the touch of military grade weapons. The ship hurtles in-system with a panic driven fear, its flicking, poorly maintained commercial drives flaring at their maximum output.

The wail from its com operator adds to the aurora of fear surrounding the freighter.

“Mayday! Mayday! This is a priority distress call from the Far Star!” comes the call as the ship squawks Liberation transponder codes. “We have been attacked by Ortagan warships while crossing the Great March! We’ve taken damage! Engines are failing and we have multiple hull breaches! We need assistance! Repeat this is a priority one distress call! Mayday! Mayday!”

The ship barrels in-system as its transponder codes continue to squawk. Indeed the Far Star had been a small, tramp freighter registered with the Collective Protectorates. Its captain had loaded an assortment of cargo destined for the Talbott Cluster months ago and had set out months ago. But rather than scrape together money to pay the Valinor junction dues the captain had decided to make a run across the Great March. It was a mistake he would live to regret as his vessel had been seized by a Solar Navy patrol picket on the farthest edge of Hegemonic space, mere light years away from the outer-lying edge of the Cluster.

Now the Far Star serves a darker purpose, and as its nano-surgery tweaked SecInt skeleton crew—features changed to resemble those of the real Far Star personnel—play their role the genetically engineered soldiers of Ginias Saharin’s Blue Force prepare for theirs. In the modified quarters of the freighter’s cargo holds they load into the breeching pods, waiting for the explosion that will shatter the freighter and let them race to make for their target: Admiral Sean Murphy, interim leader of the Collective Protectorates and the commander of the Liberation’s Silver Fleet.

Gadsen System
Home Stars Region
New Ortagan Hegemony

With a flash of light that could have blinded one’s eyes if anyone were so unfortunate as to view the translation of a Wickian warship from its jump point marked the periphery of the Gadsen System. Such a distortion of normal space was due to the violence of the translation which was an attempt for e said ships to emerge with the highest possible velocity, it was of course possible to make more subtle translations but it was speed which matter most here not stealth. Those more subtle translations were utilized by the scouts that had watched the Gadsen system since the start of the war looking for exposed and vulnerable targets, and they had found them.

Fifty small ships spread into five groups of ten, the traditional organization of a CSN monitor wing accelerated towards their marked targets which were the various industrial platforms maintained by the Ortagan Hegemony in an attempt to gather what resources they could from the systems substantial assets in its outer regions. These units did not have long to travel towards their targets and soon their close range energy and pulse weapons marked the dark void of space between their ships and the recipients of their anger. There were no warning shots, no calls for evacuation of civilian platforms only fire.

Just as the raiders efforts began to take violent effect upon their targets and local defenders responding to the apparent strike, fifty-one more distortions marked the Gadsen System these closer to the mid system, closer to the larger industrial platforms which were also of course better defended. But the vessels which emerged from these distortions were not the small agile monitors of the CSN’s Raider Squadrons in fact these ships were much different beasts of war, no mere raider or even squadrons of Battle Cruisers as the Verniians employed in New Edo. Twenty Dreadnaughts had entered the system accompanied by sixteen battle cruisers and twenty one cruisers. Their own much larger capital scale weaponry began to fire in anger toward targets of opportunity. Yet, even as they unleashed their anger against their oldest enemy the Wickian ships began to accelerate but not deeper into the system but rather towards the periphery.

Ticonderoga System

CNS Remembrance
Flagship of the Inner System TF
Rear Admiral Trell Commanding


The Ortagan’s Tactical Scanners would have been overwhelmed with sensor returns from the inner system. Even the best and largest holo-tanks would not be able to refine all the signatures of the starships scurrying about inside the field. Those civilian ships lucky enough began to flee through the exit corridors opposite the approaching enemy ships.

Within minutes of the enemy fleets arrival though the sensor disruptors began to active inside the field clouding any further investigation by the Ortagans. Before the ECM activated though the seventeen capital ships defending the inner system most likely would have been identified.

“BatRons Four and Five are reporting RedCon .” Shouted the communications officer from his station on the flag bridge reporting the full combat readiness of the Dreadnaught squadrons and Battleship squadrons which were apart of the Field’s Defense Squadron respectively. “Commodore Suiza reports that her complements of LACs and Adders have launched successfully.” He continued before another young voice rose over the din of reports.

“Hostile Launch, Multiple Hostile launches! Estimate 1000 plus birds, dedicated ECM platforms sir we can see shit!” Lieutenant senior Grade Alvarez reported to his Admiral.
“Calmly Lieutenant, what is there ETA at this range.” Trell replied his command voice instilling discipline only as a vetted commander could.
There was a moment or two of silence as the officer entered in his computations into the tactical computer before his answer revealed itself.
“Three minutes twenty seconds Admiral.” He replied confidently.

And then that specific amount of time later the barrage exploded, the field was a vast entity though the Ortagan weapons throw at it was more then enough to carve a corridor wide enough through it for the Ortagan Fleet to pass through, even though it represented very little of the Field’s area. As the explosion faded to black the Ortagans lead units had already begun to pour into the corridor,

“Admiral Ortagan monitors have past the outer marker of the field.” His chief of staff reported.

“Understood, contact Commodore Horton he is to initiate plan Charlie-Two. Also contact Fleet Central and tell them to deactivate the FTL/I to allow the departure of the Orbitals.”



Fort Defiance
Forward Support Base
Home Stars Region
Hegemony of New Ortaga

It was now 0508 hours Zulu on the twelve day of the third month of the 179th year after liberation. It was the last year of his life and he knew it, every day after the Myrmidon had worked his magic, Protector Villers felt a little more of his life slip away. He feared that for to many of those he was sworn to protect this would also be their last year of life, that he would fail them. The perilous situation his nation now faced was of his own creation perhaps that is what made it hurt the most. The Navy his Navy was scattered into four major taskforces under his own orders. He hoped an offensive deployment would have caused the Ortagans to spread the forces which would have otherwise been used to assault Ticonderoga to instead be deployed as reinforced garrisons. He had been wrong. The Ortagans had responded more quickly than he anticipated, they had struck his nation’s last and most important of system’s. This could be the last day his nation would see as a political entity in the Raumreich. All he ever wanted to do was to protect his people and to give them the means and capacity to rebuild their nations from the ashes of conflict. A familiar story similar to that of his predecessor, Protector Strength who had deluded himself into not recognizing the truth about the matters before him, had he fallen to that same vice of pride and absolute confidence in one’s self and strategies?

Perhaps he had, the last day had been wasted bickering with Nar’Hhalllas over the deployment of his forces and the abandonment of the occupied system of Dylar. Though that damnable fellow had no problems compiling with Supreme Commander Forrest’s orders to evacuate the system in a timely manner, strange that or perhaps not so. Their was bad blood between their two nations ever since the War of the Lion, Villers had tried to put that behind him. He had tried to work honestly with the Vaku, but his “allies” would have nothing to do with it. His trust was returned to him on a silver platter, with a thank you very much ….

He barely felt the burn of the sour mash whiskey as he downed a couple shots worth of the amber liquid. He had given that particular vice up years ago soon after the Battle of Gregor, but he had relapsed, another failure on his part. His eyes looked upon the simple text note that laid on his desk, the dispatch from Admiral Kuzack,


Priority: Flash Flash Flash
Case Zulu
I say again, Case Zulu
Admiral Kuzack COIC HF


Fort Defiance was located where it was for a reason, it was behind the border of the Hegemony but it was also a prime location for the deployments of the CSN. It lied not only within jump range of Vernii but Ticonderoga as well. With the Case Zulu issued all taskforces of the CSN and allied Mercenary commands would jump to the fort for reorganization and redeployment to the Home System. That would of course take hours even if everything went right and that was time that Villers feared his people in Ticonderoga did not have.

CSN Vigilant
Flagship of Home Fleet
Adm. Kuzack Commanding
Approx six light minutes from Solar Navy Main Body

“Ma’am message from Vizeadmiral Tereshkova.” Reported Lt. Commander Ninske, Admiral Kuzack’s communications officer.

”Relay it to my implant Nicholas.” She read the message in a mater of seconds.

“Contact Adm. Trell he is in charge of the evacuation, I want our FTL capable orbital out of here fifteen minutes ago, confirm the deactivation of the FTL/I grid.”

“Ma’am Ortagan monitors have begun to transit through the corridor blown in the field.” Reported Captain Hennessey her Chief of Staff.

“Do not engage with static defenses and missile pods, I want to keep those in reserve for the fleet action. Adm. Trell will have to deal with them with his own light forces.” It would be a bloody affair but Trell hade very capable monitor Commanders in Commodore Horton and his protégé Lt. Ginske, and he also had those fighter jocks led by the energetic Lt. Suiza. That kind of personal action at such close ranged demanded officers of their attributes.

Her eyes watched the large hollow tank as she watched the conflict between the light forces in the field unfold. The almost two score of enemy contacts soon became in disguisable as the Monitor flotilla in the field and their fighter consorts engaged their enemy.

Well it would be close but they had one last free moment before the defenders of Ticonderoga would be forced into action, she used her implant to enter the secure Nu-Space channel established and exploited by the allied commands in the system.

“Admiral Tereshkova…” She paused for only a moment but in that moment she considered everything she wanted to say, the sort of things Markus would make a speech of at such a moment. She wanted to explain that her forces would fight to the last to sacrifice everything to buy the evacuation time, in the forlorn hope that a relief fleet would arrive in time. She wanted to tell the Valinor woman that she had forged a bond worthy of the blood-named warriors of the Uprising in her defense of their home, but they had not the time.

“Strength and Honor, and may the gods protect you.” Her hand rose in a salute between two warriors.

CNS Hammer
R. Admiral Tourville commanding

“Well Barin, they suspect something is up. See they are decelerating now, and there is more of those unknown contacts that CIC is making out to be Recon Drones.” Tourville muttered to his Flag Captain.

“I concur sir, Adm. Tereshkova has transmitted her orders, and we are to prepare for attack and are to jump as soon as her command engages the enemy main body.” They had rehearsed the plan already multiple times in the simulators, in most cases they were able to repulse the enemy fleet at considerable losses, Home Fleet was predicted to lose over seventy percent of its number alone. But it was a known scenario for them, and Wickians were fanatical in the defense of their home, one could only wonder what the commander of the Solar Fleet’s forces was making of the inactivity and lack of resistance to his efforts so far.

“There it goes sir,” on the holo-tank the yellow globe representing the extent of the FTL/I bubble around the inner system, which had also previously overlapped to Solar Navy Fleet disappeared. “The path is clear for FTL, micro-jump, the Navicomp is already updating for optimal missile range.”

Task Force Long Bow as his command was designated was expected to jump into missile range of the enemy once engaged by Tereshkova’s command to provided suppression and support fire with their extensive missile batteries. It was really the only tactical contribution his force could render. The newer vessels of the CSN of which Adm. Kuzack’s force was comprised entirely of were close range energy sluggers. They were the modern equivalent of the armored knight of Ancient Earth, heavily armored and armed and deadly in close quarters. His own ships were mostly ancient battleships, in fact they were the original garrison of the Ticonderoga Fleet Station during the War of the Lion, the venerable Liberty-G class BB, known in the Imperium as Triumphants , they were long ago phased out by the Vernii. The Wickians however had consistently retrofitted their battleships with modern shields, sensors and gravimetric thrusters in an effort to keep them in service. But they were still missile boats, and traditional tactical theory stated that they had no business engaging Ortagan warships at anything closer then missile range.

Tourville had been called many things in his life but Traditionalist was not one of them.

“Send acknowledgment of receipt of the Admiral’s message, then jump the fleet to the engagement point Captain. I want targeting solutions of their nearest six dreadnaughts, classify them Boegy’s Alpha through Foxtrot, each division will launch alpha strikes on assigned bogeys. I want immediate rapid fire on all tubes, all but the power for maneuvering thrusters will be redeployed to the shield generators. And ensure that the shield wall is deployed ASAP. Lets go greet the Orts.”

Tourville’s smile was almost casual for his alteration of his orders. He would jump in and get the Ortagans attention, he would also do them much harm all things considered, though the return fire would hurt, but that was his plan. If the Ortagans placed their attention on his ships it would give Kuzacks and Tereshova’s elements that much more of a tactical advantage when they committed to their own micro-jumps.

“Sir, the Task Force reports FTL drives standing by ready to jump on your command.” Now that their drives were active the Ortagan Fleet would notice their position. He had no choice but to act now and quickly.

“Jump!”
Less then four seconds later the task force reappeared two million kilometers “Above” and to the “front” of the main concentration of Ortagan Vessels, Once second later a torrent of missiles belched from the battleship’s and three dreadnaughts tubes. They were not conventional laser heads though or even the heavy fusion missiles, these were a new breed of missile, the “Sprint” class missile. Where conventional missiles would detonate at range and pelt the enemy vessels with a torrent of x-ray lasers or attempt for a “contact” strike with a fusion detonation. The Sprint class was different, the older classes of missiles employed by the CSN used impeller wedges for propulsion, the Sprint class used the new gravimetric thrusters which accelerated to maximum velocity for all intensive purposes instantly. Missiles unlike manned ships do not need to consider the limits of inertial compensation and so they accelerated to just under the speed of light. They would take less then ten seconds to reach the Ortagan vessels at this range. And when they hit the full kinetic energy of an object moving at nearly light speed would be transferred instantly the point of resistance. The results would be telling in the first surprising moments of the deployment of this new weapon.

Five seconds later another broadside of the missile was spat at the much larger Ortagan Fleet, however it was too concentrated on the same six ships. Between these two launches “only” 5000 of the fast moving missile were launched, an insignificant number had they been the conventional missiles the Ortagan point defense computers were expecting. The sheer change in tactics and doctrine would be worth a thousand times more then any ECM platform in this case. The Ortagans would have very little time to react to this newest of threats.

Vakutu system

Graknala sar Sirajak makes her way down one of the corridors in a serene flow of white robes with the ornate red-scrollwork due her rank as Sivar’hra’Truka—the High Priestess of Sivar. Two other sisters follow closely behind her, their own white robes feature the scrollwork of fully tested sisters in Sivar. In front of them the lithe form of Jukaga nar Ki’ra’s chamberlain and majordomo leads them toward an open wooden door—the new Emperor’s lackey is from one of the hrai of a minor nar Ki’ra bannerman, whose name escaped Graknala’s attention shortly after he introduced himself.

Graknala inhales deeply as they draw closer to the open door. The air is filled with the sweet, cloying smells of the last summer blooms and perfumes of seeding sweet-grasses. But the air is also tinged with that slight reek of decay, the passing of the glory of a growing season. In less than a month autumn will descend upon Varu and the island imperial enclave. That touch of death is the bit that belays the nature of this meeting—Graknala knows this Emperor is dangerous.

The majordomo sweeps ahead of his charges suddenly, and turns to face a someone standing farther down the stone overlook.

“Your Imperial Majesty, the Sivar’hra’Truka Her High Holiness Graknala sar Sirajak has arrived and awaits.”

“We have waited expectantly for her arrival,” comes a smooth reply.

The majordomo turns and Graknala sweeps forward, white robes like swirling clouds descended from the sky. She narrows her eyes for an instant as the full force of the sunlight hits her after the semi-gloom that filled the interior of the sprawling villa. As her eyes adjust she can see the sprawling fields that dominate the island, the gardens and more cultivated air of the villa grounds simply fade away into the fields with no artificial dividing line. Several younger children romp in the villa’s fields, surrounded by a loose ring of guardsmen wearing the colors of the nar Ki’ra and the Krahnakh Ghayeer. Graknala’s eyes soften for a moment, but then she turns to face the awaiting Emperor.

Jukaga nar Ki’ra is by no means the tall, Graknala looks down upon him in the literal sense. His flowing mane—the hereditary nar Ki’ra red-gold-and orange tint—is well groomed and his gold and green flecked eyes stare with a virulent intelligence. He wears a simple uniform of military cut, trimmed in the colors and glyphs of the nar Ki’ra. But his guardians that stand along the wall to the door are Ghayeer.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Graknala says and offers the deep bow of her head.

“High Holiness,” Jukaga responds, inclining his head. “We thank you for coming so promptly.”

“The Sisterhood of Sivar lives to serve Our Lady, who guides all Vak through the rivers of blood and conflict, and she dictates we must advise, council, and heed the words of her most esteemed corporal servant: the Emperor of all Vak.”

“Yes…,” Jukaga’s words drift off for a moment as he studies Graknala and she meets him with an equal gaze. “Yes, it is for this reason that we have summoned you, High Holiness. You are aware of the nature of the betrayal in Gregor by the Forsaken-Prince?”

“The Seat has been made aware of it, yes.”

“The Forsaken-Prince has turned his back upon our ways, our people, and his own honor. He refuses to submit to the dictates of imperial law and stands in open rebellion against us, but not only against us. He stands against the will and words of Sivar. By all rights he must be condemned, cast out from The Great Goddess’ Light.”

Graknala controls her surprise, but she hears a sharp hiss from one of the sisters with her. Jukaga and his servants pretend not to notice the moment of indiscretion. Graknala had expected this—or a similar move—soon, but this is more rapid than she thought. For what need could the nar Ki’ra have to condemn his imperial predecessors so quickly?

“He has not submitted his response as an act of defiance against usurpation?” Graknala adds quickly. If Vrak nar Caxki has done that then the matter will still be an issue of the state, and the Sisterhood needs not to be involved.

“There has been no word from the Forsaken-Prince since he fled into the hands of the Verniians, casting honor aside as if it was a rotten fruit.”

“This will require the reforming of an inquisitorial court, Your Majesty. It has been some time since the Sisters sar Siragrak have had to perform such duties, we will need time to prepare. The entire Hall must be summoned before the Seat in order to hear this and then offer a final decision to the Steel Throne.”

“Time is of the essence,” Jukaga says eyes dancing with strange fire, “and if this is not done soon the Verniians may use the Forsaken-Prince’s standing to undermine our government. We have seen all around us the ways in which the Verniians work, in matters of empire they are little better than the Ortagans. If they sense an opportunity to sit a puppet ruler upon the Steel Throne they will take it. The Hall must take up this cause, to ignore it puts the whole of the Greater Empire at risk.”

Graknala gathers herself inwardly. So it will come to that, and if the Hall does not act Jukaga will spread that thought throughout the Council of Eight. And damnation upon the Verniians for their lust of new territories they barely even need for giving Jukaga everything he could possibly desire to make them utterly reviled. The Hall cannot risk another crisis with the Steel Throne or the Great Clans, not after the debacle previous instances has become. It seems that she too must submit to being ensnared in the Imperial nar Ki’ra’s plots, at least for now.

“What you speak is truth, Your Majesty. The attitudes and nature of the Verniians are well known. I shall summon the Hall to address the matter of an inquisition to examine the nature, actions, and honor of the…Forsaken-Prince.”

To his credit, Jukaga’s own bowing of his head bears no barely concealed gloating, even his eyes are once again expressionless.

“We thank the Seat for its appreciation of our situation in these dire times. We hope to have more fruitful discussions with Your Holiness in time.”

“The Seat wishes the same, Your Majesty. I must ask your pardons to attend to the details of what you have brought before us.”

Jukaga bows his head again, “My guardsmen shall see you out.”

Graknala turns in a sea of white and red as the two nar Ki’ra guardsmen step through the door. Her sisters follow soon after, and they move down the same corridor they came from earlier. But over halfway down its length, Graknala is surprised to see the majordomo leading an unexpected individual down the hall.

The Valinor Resident Consul is a silver-haired man with a neatly trimmed beard. He is dressed in finery worthy of the Imperial Court—both Valinor and that of the Vak—with his tailed coat, high collar, waistcoat with subtle gold weave, and the well-polished jackboots he has worn many times that he has when he visited the Sisterhood.

He stops and bows to Graknala, “Holiness, it is as always a pleasure.”

His Vaku is accented in the manner of all humans, their mouths poorly formed to deal with all the nuances of Vaku language. But as the Sivar’hra’Truka could only speak one of the many Valinor languages in private—and this certainly wasn’t the case—Graknala responds in Vaku, although it makes her feel somewhat ashamed for the inconvenience the Consul must suffer.

“Sir Peter, it warms my heart to see you. Too long has the Temple been without your visits and your ruminations to the Seat,” Graknala glances at Jukaga’s majordomo. He looks impatient and more than a little annoyed, something tells her that he had not been supposed to let the two speak—but his rank leaves him little room to command either the holder of the Seat or the Resident Consul.

“Believe me, High Holiness, I regret that as well. But I do not believe the present adaptation in the affairs of state will permit me to have much spare time. Will you accept my sincerest apologies at my absence and my promise to come to pay the Seat proper respects as soon as possible?”

“I will indeed, Sir Peter. I will remain expectant of your visit. But perhaps we should not keep His Imperial Highness waiting longer?”

“I believe that is wise, Holiness. May the Guidance of Great Sivar see to your Path through Conflicts,” the Resident Consul offers another deep bow.

“May Her Guidance that Sees to us all go with you as well, Sir Peter,” Graknala folds her arms and offers her own slight bow.

**********

The bells of evening tide sweep through Varu, swelling up from the throne city’s ports up to the Talons of Vakutu. The bells of the Great Citadel upon the Hill of Eshrad are among the first to respond to their brethren’s call. Their deep resonance echoes into where the Hall of the Clans of the Sisterhood is congressing.

From her unadorned throne known simply as the Seat, Graknala looks over the eight assembled clans. There are the sar Sirabrak, who attend to the maintenance of the Sisterhoods and the entirety of Sivar’s holy community across the Greater Empire. The sar Siravvar who attend to the Vak in death. The sar Sirabaruta who take up the Causes and spread the word of Sivar. The sar Siravatakh who form the true priestesshood and govern the ceremonies of the Temples—and from where Graknala herself ascended to the clan of the sar Sirajaks. The sar Sirakarthak who maintain the knowledge and learning of Sivar. The sar Siraragithnak who maintain the corporal affairs of the Temple needed to maintain the entire Sisterhood—namely Sivar’s treasury. And finally the two clans who have languished most since the unification of the Vak as a people: the sar Siragrak who dispense with Sivar’s justice and the sar Sirarargarkah who are the guardians and blades of Sivar and her Sisterhood.

Each ranking Sar’Truka—clothed in white robes adorned with red scrollwork paired with the color of their hrai in the Sisterhood—has listened to what word Graknala has brought from the Steel Throne. Since she has finished, silence has filled the room lit only by fire burning in giant brass bowls and open to the night through mazes of columns covered with glyphs.

Kalatha sar Sirakarthak is the first to speak.

“Prince Vrak leaves us little choice with the course of action he has taken. He did not—and has not—issued defiance against usurpation of the Steel Throne and he has fled into alien hands. Such a breach of protocol is…rare,” the other Sar’Truka and Graknala know that means unheard of. “And dangerous beyond all reason considering who has supplanted the Imperial nar Caxki on the Steel Throne.”

“The nar Ki’ra always were furthest from the full embrace of Sivar,” adds Naradatha sar Sirvatakh, “and have been since before the unification. Even if their reasons are false, it still makes them deadly even to us.”

All those assembled knew the story of the nar Ki’ra, so-called noblest of the Eight Great Clans. The nar Ki’ra had always been among the most power and most capable clans of the Eight, but they were also noted as being even more adroit beyond their mere prowess in battle. And their mysterious origins—descending from the mountain chain known as the Blade of Sivar to conquer a vast, rich realm in the Vak plains stretching to the sea—added to their image, especially as long as their claim to descendent from a warrior born by the will of Sivar from a mother untouched remained unchallengeable. Even dispute centuries of attempts to disprove it, the Sisterhood had little evidence to contradict the nar Ki’ra legend.

“We remain able to contest the dictates of the Steel Throne if we find them wanting of Sivar’s grace, let us invoke that right,” growls the muscular form of Sarakath sar Sirarargarkah.

Graknala moves to respond to the heated words of the leader of the Sisterhood’s depleted warrior clan when she is preempted by Darakatha sar Sirabaruta.

“Do not insult the Seat or the Hall with such ideas. The days when we can resist the Steel Throne and the Eight with impunity are long past, Sarakath, especially with the case Jukaga nar Ki’ra can mount against us in this instance. The Eight have long enforced their decision that the Sisterhood will no longer dictate matters in the realm of government. And they evidence that every day that they govern from Varu.”

A wave of bitterness sweeps through the room, a feeling that had been familiar to many long-dead Sisters and would be familiar to many Sisters long after the members of this Hall had passed. At one time Varu had been the city-citadel of the Sisterhood, and they had governed one of the wealthiest lands known to the Vak that was maintained by the sar Sirabaruta and avoided by the other clans in their wars. Varu and the Sisterhood had prospered, until the nar Ki’ra had decided to turn their dreams of unification into reality.

The centuries-dead, and thrice-damned, Karga nar Ki’ra had swept down from the expansive nar Ki’ra holdings to the north of Varu and changed everything. Clan after clan had fallen to his hordes until only the nar Kiranka and the Sisterhood had maintained their independence. The nar Kiranka would struggle for another three years before finally falling to Karga’s legions and those of his conquered allies. Less than a year later Varu and the Sisterhood had followed, and Karga named himself the first Emperor of the Vak—and had the defeated Sisterhood enshrine him as a holy embodiment of Sivar’s will for all time. That had been the beginning of the Greater Empire, and for over two centuries Karga’s descendents would hold his Steel Throne until at last they grew too neglectful of their conquered Barons and one had risen against them. True the first Imperial nar Ki’ra had been crushed, but rather than divest the Vak of the Greater Empire the first Imperial nar Qarg had put himself on the Steel Throne instead. And that pattern had followed down until today—although the nature of the contest for the Throne had changed considerably since the arrival of the Valinor.

“The nature of our course is clear,” Graknala says coolly. “It is a hard one—demonstrating that Sivar intends to test us against this nar Ki’ra as she did centuries ago. We must be strong and not allow our pride to blind us to this test, as it has in times before. Valaragtha?”

The sar Siragrak bows her head, “We listen in earnest to the Seat.”

“Prepare for the formation of a inquisitors tribunal, we must heed the Steel Throne and the Eight.”

“The Seat has our assurances that its wishes will be attended to.”

“Darathaka?”

“We listen in earnest to the Seat.”

“Send one of your rank to become an advisor to the Steel Throne again, one that the Hall may trust implicitly. We will comply with the Steel Throne and the Eight, but we will consider the need to have a far more capable holder of the Steel Throne and will provide for that future as best we can.”

“The Seat shall have what it asks for with Sivar’s name.”

“The Guidance of Sivar go with you all,” Graknala says, chilled. “We will need it in the times that lie ahead, of this I have no doubt.”

Ticonderoga system

“Concordat FTLi field is down, Ma’am,” Tereshkova hears the words as she cuts the message playing from Kuzak.

“Transmit final jump coordination to the fleet, and, Comm, transmit that final jump will commence in fifty standard seconds.”

“Aye, Ma’am.”

“Admiral, the Wickians are jumping! Rear Admiral Tourville’s ships just jumped!”

“Shit…,” Tereshkova curses quietly as she watches the cluster of Wickian ships attached to her command vanish from relative proximity, only to reappear a few seconds later virtually on top of the red counters for hostile Alpha One. The Wickians apparently always have to frustrate plans at the thirteenth hour.

“Comm, we jump now! Send that to the fleet,” she turns to flagship adjutant. “And pass that to Kapitan Stucov now!”

Tereshkova feels a vague lurching sensation in the pit of her stomach as the Verner jump drives of the Chimera engage, joined in harmony by those of the rest of her fleet. Following the example set by Tourville’s command, Tereshkova’s ad hoc fleet appears eight-five million kilometers off the collective sterns of the Ortagan armada. Twelve million kilometers behind the main force the single Valinor carrier—the HMCS Antiga’s Pride—completes her jump along with the Concordat CLACs. While the carrier group is forming up, the main force starts to release its drone assets. Mobile DOS drones spew outward from the ships of Tereshkova’s fleet joined by ECM drones and decoys. The snarl of the Kriegsmarine’s sensor jamming and interference flares into existence as the network comes online.

“Transmit orders to Kapitan Alus on the Pride, I want the fighters and the Concordat LACs held in reserve until further notice. We may have need of them to cover any disengagement either four Tourville’s command or mine.”

“Transmitted, Ma’am.”

“Chim, do you and Berry have the fleet’s PD and CM networked?”

“I am transferring additional assets to the Berith, Mein Frau,” the SI says calmly. “But they are non-essentially, the fleet is prepared.”

“Good,” Tereshkova turns back to the holo-tank. “We commence the engagement with firing plan delta-delta, and will assume the course heading as proscribed.”

Tereshkova doesn’t even bother making it an order, she doesn’t have to. Her commsman is already making it so. Seconds after her order comes down the forces of the United Star Empire commence their first full fleet engagement with the forces of New Ortaga for the first time as enemies in the history. Tereshkova’s engagement plan has her fleet hitting as hard and as fast as possible. With the bulk of her “ships of the wall” being battlecruisers she has little choice, their speed is their only true advantage in an engagement with Solar Navy dreadnought’s dressed for battle. But Tereshkova uses her knowledge of the Solar Navy’s PD systems—their inability to deal with large dispersed fire well—and her attack strategy demonstrates that.

Her fleet spats out a barrage of 6,000 missiles in three rapid-fire waves. Nine-hundred and eighty-eight are the formidable EW warheads of the Kriegsmarine, the Dragon Tooth-class that further snarl the void with their own independent jamming and interference—as well as a host of transmission gear designed to corrupt missile targeting profiles. Following behind their loud escorts are 4,986 of the standard issue Shark-class X-ray ship-killer warheads, feeding on up-to-date targeting profiles and guidance provided by the fleet’s own sensors. Finally come twenty-six Charlemagne-class fusion warheads—the tank of Tereshkova’s barrage—each carrying a 8.8-gigaton fusion warhead that is assigned a random target selected by the Chimera’s flag bridge and CIC.

Before another barrage is fired, Tereshkova’s warships accelerate along their new course. The entire fleet pitches upward in an ascent pattern forty-five degrees from their initial jump exit-point, taking them above the ecliptic the Ortagans are on. For a moment Tereshkova’s force is a serene arc curving up into space, mirrored by the movement of the carriers behind it. As the curve ascends it spats another wave of 6,000 missiles with another twenty-six Charlemagnes at the Solar Navy.

Alpha Centauri

Far away from the death and destruction raging along the war’s front lines, Friedelinde Alderman sits in her office her eyes filled with a different kind of vehement rage than that the Grand Coalition’s officers are hurling at their Ortagan enemies along with the fire from their weapons. She listens quietly to the hologram avatar of Sir Peter Irons, Resident Consul to the Steel Throne of the Greater Empire of Vakutu. In the chair opposite Sir Peter—“next to” the avatar—Lord Erwin von Ribbentrop listens soberly to the words of the Resident Consul as well.

“It is my estimate that it is only a matter of time before Emperor Jukaga moves against the Forsaken-Prin—pardon me, Majesty—the former Crown Prince Vrak in force. His grasp on the Steel Throne will not be secure until the entire Imperial nar Caxki line is dealt with in an appropriate manner.”

“Appropriate manner for the issue of Vaku succession meaning dead, correct, Sir Peter?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Friedelinde leans back in her chair, “Emperor Thrakhath was hesitant enough about coming in the Raumreich community full circle. And I warned him for years that Jukaga nar Ki’ra was not to be trusted, but I had not pictured him as being so bold as to seek a coup while we are at war with the Hegemony.”

“The nar Ki’ra are bold if they are nothing else, Your Majesty,” Sir Peter says quietly.

“Too bold,” von Ribbentrop says. “Too bold and too focused on preventing what they dub to be ‘interference’ in Vaku space by the Greater Empire’s immediate neighbors. This could be dangerous to the efforts of the Coalition, Your Majesty, very dangerous.”

The pair watch as their Empress sits quietly.

“What is Jukaga’s intent toward the Coalition, Sir Peter?”

“Supportive of it, Your Majesty, at least for now. Keeping the other clans and the realm as a whole focused on the war will alleviate many issues he would be experiencing on the home front. He won’t break with the Coalition, at least not until the war is finished. After that I do not know what he will do.”

“I believe I know all to well,” Friedelinde says, reminding herself of Jukaga’s visit to Proxima I a decade ago. She had listened quietly as the then-Baron had gleaned all information he could on the issue of her half-brother, the deposed Gustav II. And she remembered how he had lingered at the self-proclaimed Lion Emperor’s statue when they had toured the Avenue of the Aldermans from the Imperial Congressional Building to the Palace. “Keep us abreast of this situation, Sir Peter. I have no doubt that Emperor Jukaga will be making his weight and stature known to the international community before all is said and done. And that is something I do not wish to be surprised by.”

Sir Peter stands and bows, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

The hologram vanishes, and von Ribbentrop turns to the Empress.

“Does this mean we should consider a break in regards to the Alliance of the Two Thrones, Your Majesty?”

The Empress shakes her head, “No, Erwin. The Vaku are needed, but that does not mean we are required to endorse every action of their government—especially this government. All it means is we must maintain a more professional distance than we had previously. For all his failings, at least Emperor Thrakhath would occasionally bend to the words of advice from mouths other than his own and those of his lap-dogs. Of this Emperor Jukaga I will not say the same.”

On the Samson

"DRADIS contact," an officer announces from a far corner of the Samson's bridge. "Its got Liberation signatures... a freighter. Asking for assistance. Says it's been attacked by Ortagan forces."

Murphy looks into the holoplot seeing the bright red dot that just flashed into his system, barreling toward True Hope. "Tell it to hold its position. If it remains on course, shoot it. What's its condition?"

"Hull integrity has been compromised, sensors confirm its leaking radiation... it has taken damage."

"If it took any damage from the Solar Navy then it shouldn't have even made it this far," TacOp Seprodi notes quietly to the Admiral.

"Send out a life boat, evacuate the crew and tow the boat to Hannah Base orbiting Centris, have them all put in detainment until they can be debriefed. I don't want this ship or anyone on it near True Hope."

"Aye, sir."

Outside, in a closer orbit to the capitol planet of the Morning Star, the commercial and private orbitals still remaining bussel with activity as crews frantically strap missile pods onto anything and everything, focusing primarily on those closest to the side of planet facing the moon Tanzir, but also placing large amounts behind the Valinor forces on the other side of the planet.

EDIT:

[OOC: Valinon: how much crap have you sent me? I can't seem to find it in the forum but Vernii swears that you sent some DNs or something. I haven't had the internet for a while, but tell Vernii and he'll pass it along.]

Alpha Centauri system

Cynthia Geier starts as the low moans of the decelerating redeye from New Koln fills her ears and tears into her sleep. She stretches her neck and peers out the window in the relatively Spartan car, looking at the brooding dark shapes and lights of Augustgrad—the notorious industrialized capital of the Syberia province. She shudders inwardly as she sees the huddled shapes on the massive station platform. This far into Proxima I’s northern hemisphere Augustgrad knows no true summer, even as full summer approaches Augustgrad has marked no temperature above eleven degrees Celsius in the afternoon and temperatures plummet toward and below freezing at night.

The final echoes of the moan die away as the train glides to a total halt outside of Augustgrad’s station reserved for the use of passengers. At 0130 the station’s news-feed holos still run and the glowing white faces of three massive clocks stare down on the train out of the wintry gloom. Cynthia stands and drapes her shoulder bag over herself and makes her way toward the end of a car where an elderly man dresses in the uniform of a conductor sees the guests off. On his circular hat, on the collar of his uniform, and on is buttons the stylized mag-lev engine, roadway, and soaring starship of the United Guild of Rails, Roadways, and Aerospace (UGRRA) shine.

“Have a good night, Madam,” he mutters quietly and stifles a yawn.

“Thank you,” Cynthia adds quietly, and the man nods. She turns up the collar of her coat and takes a deep breath as she steps off the train.

And almost immediately the rush of warm air is swept out of her as the razor-blade of an Augustgrad wind pierces cloth, flesh, and bone.

A small gasp escapes Cynthia as her eyes rove the platform madly, looking for the local rep of the United Guild of Resources and Materials (UGRM). She finds herself growing angry and wearied as she finds no one. The only other figures on the platform are rushing toward the heated sanctum of the station or hastily collecting a ‘net download off the news-feeds before darting to another waiting train.

She turns to look to the platform across from her own, praying there was a mix-up in the platform numbers, unfortunately that does not appear to be the case. But in the distance, Cynthia can see an even greater hub of activity than the platform. Roughly six klicks away the outlying perimeter of one of Augustgrad’s freight-yards can be seen. The industrial hub would always generate traffic at all hours, but at this time of night the amount of activity present is highly unusual.

Cynthia considers dialing up her retinal inserts and optical wet-ware for a moment to confirm what she believes is the cause, but decides that is not necessary. She has no doubt the added activity is from UGRM personnel filling either one of their own trains or one provided by UGRRA with materials from one of the strategic reserve facilities scattered around the city.

While she continues looking out to the distant lights, Cynthia vaguely hears the sounds of someone rushing toward her—their steps heavy and pained in the numbing cold.

“My apologies…Ms. Geier,” Cynthia turns to find a man in a heavy coat sending a storming cloud of escaped breaths into the air.

“Worry about it later,” Cynthia says quickly. “Let’s get out of this weather.”

The man nods and they dart for the interior of the platform. Cynthia lingers in her walk through the spacious—yet warm—interior of the Augustgrad platform, and not just for the heated comfort. Augustgrad—and the Syberia province—is one of only two communities for the small Russian ethnic group that traveled to Alpha Centauri system along with the rest of the Kingdom of Pholus’ colonists over a thousand years ago. And they remain the most insular and reserved of the groups that collectively make up the “Great Valinor”—even with the addition of the former Dominionites to this category. Augustgrad’s architecture remains unique even in the Star Empire, especially where common public buildings are concerned. It seems that even the state-sanctioned planetary transportation monopoly UGRRA was forced to bow to their clout.

She is somewhat sad to go into the utilitarian aero-car parking garage underneath the platform proper. It certainly lacks the august splendor of the platform and its own devotion to Augustgrad’s obsession with the lost world of ancient Imperial Russia on Old Earth. But soon enough she finds herself captured by the swirl of lights and low clouds as the aero-car ascends into the air above the city-proper. Unlike the majority of the cities in Alpha Centauri, Augustgrad allows for aero-car altitude travel within its limits rather than having to waste time and money digging into the frozen ground beneath the city to create an extensive transportation network like in New Koln, Durandel, or Stormwind.

She follows the city’s towering central quarters with their massive obelisks to the industrial combines and aristocratic families that dominate Augustgrad—none more obvious than the towering edifice that houses the central headquarters of the Mironenko’s United Syberia Industrial Conglomerate. But the lights rapidly start to lose their brilliance as the ‘car drifts toward the city’s outlying districts, a maze of manufactories, warehouses, refineries, and more perpetually buried in the winter along with the city that spawned them.

**********

Cynthia looks down at the veritable ziggurats of refined titanium, battle-steel, synthesized titanium, and a host of other refined materials locked into their individual stasis cells in the cavernous UGRM warehouse. She compares the manifests on file with UGRM’s central office in New Koln to the local administrations records, and then compares those to the list of requests forwarded by the USIC and several other of the military’s contracted manufacturers around Augustgrad. This is the fourth warehouse Cynthia has inspected since her arrival, and it has proven to be a relatively redundant function. The fear of UGRM’s central administration that records might be discrepant has proven to be largely unfounded—no one seems quite willing to risk the wrath of the government or the military for a bit graft skimmed off the strategic reserves.

Cynthia pulls up the certification form for the warehouses on her comp-pad and puts her e-signature to it. She then brings up another certifying the release of the resources to the USIC and its affiliates by tomorrow morning and adds it again. As it spits out a ‘disc she turns to Boroda Kevorkov, the UGRM administrator for Augustgrad.

“Everything is in order. I have instructions for the dispersal of these resources to the military’s contractors at once. Central wants the delivery process started tomorrow and finished within forty-eight standard hours at the latest.”

“Right away,” Kevorkov says with a nod as he takes the ‘disc. “Will you need a place to stay tonight, Inspector? I know some of the local hotel managers…”

Cynthia shakes her head vigorously, “No. I have a ticket for the redeye at 0500 to Gunzburg. I would appreciate a ‘car back to the station though.”

“Done,” Kevorkov says with another slight nod.

Cynthia smiles and takes a moment to take another long look at the rows of massive stasis cells. This is far from the largest warehouse for the reserves she has visited, but it is also far from the smallest. And technically it is not even the true strategic reserve. What UGRM is distributing these days are specially designated supplies readied for emergency release—in order words emergency supplies designed to be distributed as quickly as possibly without having to start burning through the reserve proper. Still at the rate she has been tasking these for various tasks designated as important by the Star Empire’s military establishment, she wonders how long it will be before the reserves are being burned through.

“Not long at all,” she whispers.

“Pardon, Inspector?”

“Nothing, let’s see about that ‘car, Administrator.”

**********

Taking considerable comfort in the heated confines of the waiting mag-lev, Cynthia waves as Kevorkov’s driver—the same nervous young man who had originally picked her up—races back toward the warmer confines of the platform. She then turns her eyes to the glaring lights on the horizon where the distribution of additional assets are still underway, the activity of several hours earlier apparently undiminished as far as Cynthia can tell.

Over 800 years ago—after the second war with the secessionist state of Ironholm—Emperor Dozle II had created the first strategic reserves and the United Guild of Resources and Materials to manage them. The formation of the reserves and UGRM had been largely because in the hour of defeat Dozle II had been smart enough to realize his populace’s disgust at imposed rationing and strict guidelines on essential war resources had been as much a factor to his armies defeat and the greater stalemate that came of it. Initially the reserves had been limited to vital industrial materials necessary for war-time production, but when their creation showed considerable improvement in chances for success in the later wars with Ironholm they were expanded. The greatest additions to the reserves and UGRM had come during the Outer Dominion Wars and then during Gustav II’s reign before the War of the Lion had even started.

Now the strategic reserves and UGRM had stockpiles of everything that could be considered a war time resource: raw materials, refined metals, grains, fusion batteries, maintenance kits, and hundreds of other resources. The amount of warehouses and storage facilities scattered across the Empire from Alpha Centauri to Chandara often seemed bottomless—and so did the transportation infrastructure created to maintain them. But what remained amazing was UGRM’s lack of drain on imperial tax revenues, even during the height of the Outer Dominion Wars UGRM had managed to generate enough revenue to keep from being a complete burden. UGRM maintained this by releasing overstocks in the reserves and selling them on the open market—as with all of the state-sanctioned monopolies like the United Guild of Railways, Roadways, and Aerospace and the United Guild of Water and Power, UGRM had to show it would not be a permanent burden.

But Cynthia worried considerable about this conflict with Ortaga, and she had a feeling that she was not the only one feeling concern. The war had not even formally been joined when the Reichsprotektor’s office—closely followed by those of the Council of the Grossgeneralfeldmarschalls and the Star Lords of the Admiralty—started issuing edicts supported by the Palace to start distributing resources and support the various industrial contracts in their move to achieve full war-time production. Already UGRM had seen over seventy percent of its emergency distribution stores evaporate almost overnight, and the orders to generate more just kept pouring in. The majority of the Star Empire may linger in a blissful slumber consider the Ortagan Hegemony and its latest more to be a threat on some distant horizon, but Cynthia knew better. A fever pitch of activity was brewing just below that placid surface, and one she witnessed all too often.

Every bit of the UGRM infrastructure was in full gear, evaluating their stores, acquiring new assets, and transporting their accumulated stockpiles as fast as they could. Her seventy-plus hours a week were an all too common feature within UGRM from the central administration on down, and it just didn’t start with her Guild. With UGRM’s transportation infrastructure swamped, UGRRA had been dragooned into supporting its functions and their operations were almost as at a similar suicide pace. Cynthia knew well of the additional trains; the deactivated engines and cars impressed into service—yesterday Cynthia had watched as a trio of ancient MX-37s were slaved together in order to pull an additional freight train; and the week-long freight transportation schedules already in place. But now she heard additional rumors: UGRRA contracting to the independents likes Twin Star and a host of others for ships—after filling the holds of military tenders and logistic ships; UGGRA essentially impressing individual freighters for service; and in one case suspending the traffic routes around Proxima III so a priority shipping convoy of UGRRA, UGRM, and Reichswehr ships could be filled to capacity and then sent over the wormhole’s horizon to Yalta as quickly as possible. How much of this was true Cynthia didn’t know—her time to research such whispers was severely limited. But additional rumors of personal messages to the affected corporations, ship-owners, and disgruntled politicians from Lord Adonis, Grossgeneralfeldmarschalls, and supposedly Grossadmiral Forrest himself gave them considerable weight.

And that just made it all the more worrisome to Cynthia’s fatigued mind as her train sped southward to warmer climates closer to the temperate regions of the Valinor Vaterland. The vast military machine that carved out the Star Empire first created by the depraved mind of Gustav II—the true Lion of the Star Empire more than anything else—has not even hit its stride. Indeed what is happening now is little more than a lumbering predator shaking off the inactivity of a long slumber—testing its claws, trying disused muscles, and summoning old reserves of adrenaline for the coming hunt. Cynthia can only wonder what will happen when this war does take the imperial armed forces to their full stride—wonder and hope for the best.

Because the entire Raumreich knows all to well what happens when the war machine of the Ortagan Hegemony clears the gate and hits its stride. But this time, it is an even greater scale than any example previously.

Cynthia shudders from more than the departing cold of Syberia.

Acler
Bulwark

"Enemy missile launches....Sir, CIC confirms multiple signatures consistent with singularity missiles."

Heber's gut wrenched as blinking white rings appeared around the tiny icons for those missiles, designating them with the highest priority for destruction, just as almost thirty thousand more icons appeared on the master plot, before their icons became fuzzy, some blinking out altogether as sensors lost contact with them due to their EW intereference.

"Second launch! Size unknown, but CIC confirms singularity missiles present in it."

This was a job best left to those who knew how to handle it, and the Commodore stood by quietly as his tactical and PD officers began coordinating their own defensive efforts with that of the other forts.

Charon

Rubinsky's plot displayed practically the same image as Heber's, but he at least received some good news right alongside the bad.

"Pyro reports completion of pod dispersal, all pods have been linked to our battle computers."

"Excellent, concentrate all our fire on the two enemy Phoenix dreadnoughts. Send orders to the fleet to scatter at maximum acceleration, and engage Defense Plan Three."

Pyro, like most fleet ammunition carriers, was simply a super-freighter refitted with more access doors to her cargo holds, and enlarged ones at that. Inside her cavernous holds, she carried enough pods to fill a dreadnought flotilla's capacity to full. Each of Rubinsky's dreadnoughts could handle eight thousand direct control links simultaneously, and he had enough missiles for sixteen of his twenty-one warships. The floating pods all reoriented toward the enemy as the fleet's battle computers took control, and they fired together as one, sending 128,000 missiles toward the two unfortunate enemy dreadnoughts, a storm of missiles seven times greater in number than the first shots fired by the forts.

Behind them, Rubinsky's dreadnoughts scattered in every direction but Acler's, putting as much distance between each other as possible. Missiles raced out from their broadside tubes, their targets were not the warships of the Solar Navy, but this time their own counterparts. As the two groups met, they detonated with the furious energy of fusion bombs and x-ray lasers. Next came the screaming waves of counter-missiles, ripping holes in the storm of enemy missiles. As the range closed to the final light seconds, the Erewohnese' energy batteries opened fire, sweeping destruction across the enemy. Then, at 400,000 kilometers, the previously unknown Mace units detonated, and momentarily surprised computers and officers hurriedly began reprioritizing and redirecting their fire to deal with the new threat. Finally, as missiles began their attack runs, the last ditch PD laser clusters opened fire, and then the tide of destruction washed over onto them.

2nd Squadron's entire 1st Division vanished in a singularity detonation, and another claimed two more dreadnoughts from the already understrength 3rd Squadron. X-ray lasers tore at the sidewalls and armor of the surviving dreadnoughts, and another two vanished from the plot as they were hammered into wreckage by multiple gigaton level hits.

As the last explosions subsided, Rubinsky sighed. His twenty-one dreadnoughts had been reduced to thirteen, one of which was barely battle capable, and three with moderate damage.

"Pick an enemy war frigate and hit it with our stern tubes, signal the fleet to withdraw to the far side of Acler."

A final 130 missiles shot back in meager reply to the enemy as Rubinsky's units limped to safety.

Bulwark

The fortresses had done almost exactly the same defense plan as the Erewohnese, with one major exception. They staggered their missile launches, hitting the enemy missiles with a constant streak of fusion warheads and counter-missiles, and finally engaging them with their own energy batteries and PD laser fire, and assisted in their struggle by groundside batteries.

After the last enemy missiles had been spent, Heber found himself intently drawn to a holographic display of his fortress, areas of it outlined in red and yellow, and listening as an officer from DCC gave him the summary.

"Three of our ODPS have been destroyed, offensive energy capability has been reduced by thirty percent, twenty tubes are out of action, and three radar and lidar emplacements are destroyed."

"Not too bad then, assign repair priority to our tubes, I want them combat ready as soon as possible."

There was a tap on his shoulder, and Heber turned to face Captain Isidore, who's taut expression hinted at bad news.

"What are the status of the other forts?"

"Keep reports light damage, Tower is a bit more serious, but not bad. However, Garrison was tagged by an enemy singularity warhead and destroyed. Rear Admiral Bartimeus is dead. You're in command now sir."

Ex Cathedra

Vice Admiral Yularen clenched his fists in anger as one of the forts vanished from his plot, and as the pitifully few remaining Erewohnese units withdrew. Goddamn training exercises, we should be there fighting them right bloody now!

"Sir, the enemy fleet is changing course, they're moving away from the planet."

"Adjust course as necessary to keep us closing the distance with them."

The blue tinged sphere representing his fleet's powered missile range overlapped onto the red dots as the vanguard of lighter escort warships finally reached 20 million kilometers from the nearest enemy units."
"Lead squadrons are all requesting authorization to fire."

"Granted." He selected the closest squadron of war frigates. "Have them concentrate their fire on that."

Yularen's lead squadrons consisted of twelve squadrons of heavy cruisers and eighteen squadrons of destroyers. Missile fire spat from their bow tubes, a mere 1,152 compared to the numbers being tossed around previously, but he hoped to compensate for it by concentrating it upon only a few targets.

+++

Stocurm

Eiffel's units had time for one last salvo of 448 missiles as the monitors closed back into energy range, and then the two groups of ships found themselves locked in a mortal duel as their energy batteries blazed away at the agile monitors. Within moments, seven of his destroyers and three cruisers had been destroyed, and another eleven warships suffered various states of damage. Then, the wave of enemy missiles crashed down upon them, and all that remained afterwards were drifting hulks and a small number of escape pods.

The fortresses continued their fight against the enemy, continuing to fire at the war frigates, and putting up a voluminous amount of PD fire against the enemy missiles. One was hammered by the spawn of a Mace, suffering heavy damage and remaining barely combat effective, while the others received moderate damage, and new icons would begin to appear on enemy plots as LAC squadrons shot from their launch bays.

+++

Boroglia

The four SCSs got off one final salvo, concentrating all 4,000 upon a single dreadnought, before two of them were hammered into scrap. The other two, and their destroyer screen, turned to withdraw back toward the planet.

The monitors racing toward Boroglia soon found themselves engaged by the twelve automated defense stations in orbit. Staggered missile launches harassed them during their approach, and finally joined by the hammering blows of battleship scale graser fire as the range narrowed.

Acler

"Hostile torpedoes inbound, several thousand contacts including jammers!"

If the RFS is one thing, it is proffessional, even though it might not look to be the case. So there is not much panic to be had aboard the eight Robotic warships as the near four thousand Ortagan missiles streak towards their targets. With a few hundred warheads for each ship to worry about, perhaps they should be a bit more concerned. Jamming-equipped missiles ruin sensor resolution and turn a collection of distinct points into a set of large contacts, but this does not terribly interfere with Tanganiyka's frantic evasive manouvers.

Aboard the Lord Ix, the commodore watches the tactical plot as no fewer than six Ortagan dreadnoughts head for his command, and as a collection of Monitors races for an engagement. With only eight ships, none of them big enough to face even one of the enemy dreadnoughts alone, much less six of them, a traditional battle would be suicide. Better, he thinks, to disengage and harrass the much larger enemy force from a safer distance, possibly drawing the particularly dangerous monitors away from the protective umbrella of the greater Ortagan fleet.

"All ships, deploy countermeasures buoys! Load and prepare aft tubes!"

"Aft tubes loaded and ready, sah! Release all buoys! All gun crews, prepare to engage missile targets!"

The Lord Ix's buoy magazines, two long tubes stuck onto the battleship's upper spine, open at the end, and an inductor coil accelerates the cylindrical counter-missile buoys out the opening, the long teather cables pulling taut as jamming is started. Commodore Tanganiyka is banking on a combination of the countermeasures buoys, which mimic ship sensors returns and move, by virtue of their teathers, at warship speeds, to offset the massive numbers thrown against him. At the same time, the aft-facing torpedo tubes, the eight of them mounted in two blisters on the Lord Ix's underside, begin to release much smaller 89cm high-speed weapons at the pursuing monitors.

Captain Yog, on the Carysfort, follows suit and soon the cruisers have some 800 89cm torpedoes homing on the monitors, most of them with a hardened armor piercing tip but some carrying the RFS's own, rather crude, torpedo ECM electronics.

The time taken for the Ortagan missiles to reach Tanganiyka's position is drawn-out by virtue of his already growing separation from the dreadnoughts, although things do not go all his way. When the missiles do catch up, many of them explode on the decoys, but when these are all shot away, point-defense gunners and the ships' own anti-torpedo fields take-on the still frightening volley. The majority of the missiles are destroyed in this manner, but a significant amount still gets through. Gorgon, whose PD suite is lacking compared to the other ships in the squadron, takes heavy damage and has both its primary ion cannon mounts destroyed, along with most of its primary sensor array. Casualties are heavy, but fortunately the drives still function within acceptable parameters. Glatton, the other Robotic monitor, fares little better, loosing one of its primary mounts and all of its primary array. Fortunately, the monitors' heavy armor keeps structural damage to a minimum and allows the already-handicapped ships to manouver.

Damage aboard the cruiser complement is generally light, but Champion looses fire control and several manouvering drives, severely handicapping operations even early on.

(OCC: This is LRR. I can't seem to log onto the forums right now.)

Combat Bridge of the HSS Executioner, Ticonderoga system, Concordat of the Wick
06.08.1300 AF
2358 Solar Forces Standard

Doral watches as the Field collapses under the barrage from his fleet, but his face remains impassive.

“Still no response from the Wickians?”

“No, Admiral.”

“Instruct the forward screen to accelerate to all-head full and start focused deep-scans on the cleared are of the Field. And get me Fehde’s report; I want to know what his squadrons see in there.”

Doral watches while his flag communication section buzz with activity and turns back to look at the tactical projections. There isn’t so much as a murmur from the Concordat’s military. What the hell is going on here?

“Jump footprint! Jump footprint! Two million kilometers above our present heading, Admiral!”

“What!” Doral bellows. “What happened to the inhibitor field?”

“Unknown. Enemy is firing!”

Doral watches in horror as the Wickian vessels deploy c-fractional grade weaponry at what might as well be blank range. His own mind screams in a panic, and is followed by those of the hardwired systems of the fleet’s collective PD network. The Solar Navy may not rely on automated systems to the level of the Valinor Kriegsmarine or the Verniian Imperial Navy, but it is does not deny the usefulness of automated systems where PD is concerned.

Tactical officers stare at the read-outs as their programs suddenly lock the system and take over. Doral’s fleet becomes a torrent of artificially controlled activity as Tourville’s opening barrage tears across the vacuum at them. Every energy battery in the fleet from the main cannons and batteries to PD emplacements set to rapid-fire and hurl bolts outward to meet their foe. Emergency grav-beams are spun up in a desperate attempt to lock on to some of the missiles and forcibly hurl them off course. Belated counter-missiles spew outward in a desperate attempt to intercept. Space around the fleet flares in multiple fireballs from the attack and counter-attack, it is a maelstrom.

By the time the torrent of both sides has spent itself, the damage to Doral’s command—not to mention his pride—is as obvious in the vacuum as it is on the Vice Admiral’s tactical projection. Eleven war-frigates and four dreadnoughts are simply gone from the formation. Two other dreadnoughts are damaged, and six other war-frigates bleed from their own wounds. Even one of the Phoenix class dreadnoughts—the Hand of Fate—shows critical damage to its bow weapons and sensors, plus a host of secondary damage.

And Doral’s eyes smolder at the blinking icons of the recently arrived Wickian fleet. The CIC’s reports on their class start flowing in.

“Abandon our current course, retarget the fleet on the new arrivals. Open fire under Engagement Plan Harfox. Burn those hulks of space!”

Doral’s command slews radically, the angered beast fully ready to reduce a lesser creature to nothing more than broken hulks and component atoms. At this range the singularity arsenal stowed in the Phoenix dreadnoughts are useless, but with the proximity of the enemy fleet that hardly matters. Heavy battle-lasers and ion cannons cross the void first, closely followed by their lesser siblings the regular battle-lasers and ion cannons of the fleet. Three of the Phoenix dreadnoughts, excluding the Hand of Fate, send the sickly green energy of their main particle cannons storming toward Tourville’s command. Following as if to reflect the counter-missiles belated charge is the response from the fleet’s own missile salvo, some 31,000 thousand missiles (mostly X-ray warheads covered by a thin screen of jammers) shout vengeance and damnation at the Wickians, something that is all too common in this battlefield. The missiles hardly matter, more of the mutilation of a corpse, at this range the energy batteries of the Solar Navy are approaching what is considered virtual the academy idealized “ideal kill zone.” The gunners of Doral’s fleet would no doubt be salivating if the thrill of combat and revenge did not wet their throats already.

But the roaring sound of the fleet’s revenge suddenly sounds hollow when the unexpected second fleet suddenly appears eighty-five million kilometers off his fleet’s collective stern. Doral’s eyes fill with a horror greater than that they knew with the appearance of Tourville’s fleet, as the CIC report rapidly confirms the unique signatures and systems of a Valinor armada.

“Valinor…” Doral breathes.

At eighty-five million kilometers the fleet has more time to respond to the Valinor attack than it did for that of Tourville’s. Counter-missiles race out as part of the initial wave, to seek their opponents and to be distracted by Valinor EW warheads. But explosions start to ring the accelerating wave of missiles as the opposing sides weapons start to find each other. As the missiles close energy weapons take up the call of the PD coordinators, and even start to specifically target the fusion warheads as the ships’ sensors start to breakthrough the jamming. Rapid-fire Dart class missiles fly out and more desperate rapid-fire batteries come online, but missiles still come. As Doral watches the Valinor fleet start to ascend in the projection, his flank is ravaged.

Three war-frigates vanished, followed by one of the already lamed dreadnoughts. Another dreadnought erupts in fire, and one turns off course. Its helm controls momentarily damaged while desperate crews seek to override and reestablish protocols. The Hand of Fate bucks amid a series of explosions, her stricken starboard side allowing more missiles to crash into her. The stricken Phoenix starts to decelerate, trailing debris from her aft quarters and wing pylons.

Dolar is filled with fear for the first time in his career. He is an officer caught in a position no other comrade would envy: pinned between two opponents, one that enjoys a significant advantage in terms of ship capability.

“Give orders to the fleet,” he says quietly, “match acceleration with the Valinor and match their course. We will ride and engage with them. Designate Commodore Fox’s squadron and its screen to deal with any survivors from the Wickian flotilla, and have the fleet retarget on the Valinor.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“Pass the order to hit all-ahead full and have a redeployment jump plotted as well.”

“What of the monitors, Admiral?” comes the word from the com section. “Commander Fehde asks if you want him to fall back and support the fleet.”

“Order is to press onward. He will divert the Wickians attention and leave us time to deal with the Valinor.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

Doral’s fleet heaves in its course once again, moving to track the Valinor fleet. The Solar Navy responds to Tereshkova’s attack with a probing barrage of three waves of 8,000 missiles each, targeted at the foremost, middle, and rearmost of her ranks. Doral has suddenly become cautious, but then any sane officer in the Solar Navy confronted with the sudden appearance of a Valinor armada would be.

Fox’s dreadnought squadron and its screen track the havoc surrounding the formation of Wickian warships, waiting to eliminate any survivors. Meanwhile Commander Fehde’s monitor squadrons breakthrough the field and begin to setup their attack runs as they evaluate the closest targets.

Combat Bridge of the HSS Lyr, Gadsen system, Hegemony of New Ortaga
06.09.1300 AF
0001 Solar Forces Standard

The Gadsen system, along with its primary inhabited world Callisto, was one of three systems that made up the First Suns Sector, the heartland of the Hegemony. The First Suns Sector represents just how massive the Solar Forces have become. Solar Admiral Thorton Osvald commands three fleets, plus a teeming horde of static defenses, for three systems and can call in reserve support from both Axis and the market enclave of Tyrador. Above all else, the First, Second, and Third Solar fleets are all intact having sent no units to support the offensives of Hellings’ Outer Frontier Security Fleet.

But for all the resources, all the power, and all the ships at his command Osvald is far from complacent. While his warships may not have seen much frontline combat, they are regularly—some would say excessively—drilled and many are regularly rotated into one of the OFSF units to receive live-fire experience. Vice Admiral Benjamin Haydn watches the progress of the Wickian raiders on the tactical projection in full detail.

Haydn is positive that the Wickians consider Gadsen’s outer system to be a target rich perimeter, and by the standards of their navy perhaps it is. But he knows better. With the virtually bottomless resources of the conquered Great March to exploit, the Hegemonic mining industry had become an interstellar concern of magnitude, especially when those resources were coupled with the warp-gates. Haydn had watched as one by one the outlying mining posts of Gadsen and most of the Home Suns had slowly been shutdown. What was the point in maintaining them with far richer resource nodes abroad, and with those nodes have free labor in the form of impressed alien slaves and IntSec criminal labor gangs? Now the resources of the Hegemony came in a different form, pulled from strip mines on the planets of the Great March then funneled to refinery facilities in cis-lunar orbit around Callisto in Gadsen, St. Asaph in St. Ives, and New Ortaga in Roum by sublight warships transitioned through warp-gates. Haydn glanced at the screen, even now a continual stream poured through the warp-gate now dialed for RS-12, located farther away than Dylar.

Haydn turns his attention to what is left along the system’s outer sector: mining facilities operated by local firms, unable to afford the move outward; smaller satellite refineries; and various manufactories. They will affect the systems industrial capacity, but on a far more local level than the Wickians probably realize. Still they are the origin for the host of screams, bellowing panicked “orders”, and more that make Haydn want to cringe with disgust.

He turns to survey his flag staff as the klaxons sounding battle stations and general quarters start to finally soften.

“The fleet is ready?”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“Com, have we transmitted the alert to Roum and Axis?”

“Transmitting now, Admiral.”

“Hold that message, Lieutenant.”

“Sir…?”

“Add a message directed with priority to Admiral Osvald. Inform him that I am moving the Third Solar to meet the Wickian raiders head on and eliminate them. I request additional support from the Second and Third Solar to support Callisto’s defenses while I am deployed. Message ends and add my receipt.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“And shut down that chatter now,” he growls at the emergency broadcasts. “It is making my head hurt!”

“Yes, sir.”

Haydn sighs when the noise finally vanishes, ironically it is paired with the counters of eight mining facilities and three factories being blown out of space by the Wickian attack. His eyes trace the movement of the Wickian core fleet and its dreadnoughts.

“Give me a personal channel to Rear Admiral Ciriaco, Commodore Galt, Commodore Kale, Rear Admiral Falst, and Captain Barthian.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

Fifteen seconds later Haydn has his section commanders assembled before him as holograms hanging on the edge of the tactical projection.

“Your sections are ready?”

“Yes, Admiral!” comes the chorus.

“The Wickians have made their mistake, and it is time we destroyed their little remnant fleet once and for all,” he highlights a nav-point less than twelve million kilometers above the main Wickian formation. “The fleet will jump here and engage as soon as we complete the translation. I want the tubes loaded and the energy weapons spiraled up now. Captain Barthian, your monitor flotilla will jump in here,” he highlights a position less than 400,000 kilometers below the Wickians. “You will ravage their flanks while we deliver them the hammer. Is this all clear?”

“Yes, Admiral!”

“Good. We jump in two minutes, your helmsmen and navigators have all been synced with the Lyr’s time stamp. Haydn out.”

Haydn turns back to the projection, watching the “battle” rage on. He smirks. The Wickians killing civilians without a call to evacuate, Villers and his officers might as well have worked for the Hegemonic news services. And Haydn has no doubts that it will be dumped into the greater ansible network via the sats in Immolan and Axis around the Valinor wormholes.

“Idiots.”

**********

When the history books of this war were written by minds distant across the span of time it goes without question that the irony between the second battle in Ticonderoga and the battle in Gadsen will be noticed. Shortly after the Wickian admiral Tourville made his own radical jump into virtually point blank range with Vice Admiral Doral’s fleet in Ticonderoga, Vice Admiral Haydn makes one of his own.

In a flurry of blinding white energy from a translation back from the jump, Haydn’s fleet of eighty-four Hegemon II class dreadnoughts, fifty-five Roum class war-frigates, and ninety-six Ansel class monitors pounce on their prey. At the same instance another series of flashes appear immediately bellow the Wickian raiding fleet at less than 400,000 kilometers and the 180 ships of Captain Barthian’s monitor flotilla swarm toward their enemy.

Before the monitor flotilla can even bring its energy weapons to bear the Third Solar Fleet launches its first attack. Sixty-three thousand missiles fly outward less than four seconds after the retranslation, two screens of jammers covering for X-ray warheads and 334 Mace class missiles. Then the dreadnoughts’ energy batteries start to lock on, seeking to carve into the Wickian dreadnoughts. There war-frigate screen releases another eight thousand missiles at their enemy as the monitors race forward, opening with ion cannons and battle-lasers at the closest targets of opportunity. Below the Wickian fleet, their brothers do the same as the continue their charge.

But two factors of Haydn’s attack are incredibly unusual. First is the position of the Third Solar. All the ships of the formation lay on their side when regarded with the Wickian fleet, presenting their broadsides to the enemy below their position. It is a perfect realization of the three-dimensional warfare necessary in space, paired with the wonders of internal compensator technology. The second factor are the four ships lingering behind the Third Solar, arrayed in a loose half-sphere with their bows pointed vertically downward toward the enemy. The four hulls are totally non-descript, excluding the revolting utilitarian nature of their construct. Eight massive spheres, cut in half by the ships main hull body, run their length and they are the size of a Wickian cruiser. They appear to have no purpose, as they do not fire any weapons in unison with the fleet. But then their main systems come online, and the four IM-7 ships show their true purpose. More commonly known as “the Immobilizers”, these ships are the FTLi platforms of the Solar Navy, and have rarely been seen outside of the Great March. Indeed, most of their previous uses has been to run down pirates or merchantmen in the Great March. But here their newest use may prove to have the most military benefit to the entire Hegemony.

Less than a half-light minutes out from the orbit of Callisto, the system’s primary warp-gate cluster becomes a hub of activity. Two gates suddenly glow and a spiraling portal of energy is opened. Additional dreadnought squadrons move out, ships from the systems of St. Ives and Roum here to support the defense of Gadsen.

Combat Bridge of the HSS Absolution, Acler system, Imperium of Vernii
06.08.1300 AF
2356 Solar Forces Standard

Marconi ruled himself as being a fleet admiral, not one of the increasing number of “strategic” admirals the Solar Navy now produced. And like any good fleet admiral he knew when the odds were against him and it was time to salvage what he could of his fleet as quickly as possible.

Marconi’s calculating gaze watches as the Erewohnese send out their massed barrage before turning to his own missiles. He looks at the tried, but still present, defenses surrounding the primary world of Acler. And then he looks at the group he leads, racing toward the unknown targets. Finally, not nearly as far away as he would like, are the main units of the Acleri defense force barreling toward their planet. Marconi swallows hard, he faces a very difficult decision.

But to follow his orders from Admiral Hellings is paramount.

“Com, the fleet is to disregard all other threats. Defend the Lich and the Lucifer at all costs. Fleet-wide PD assets are to be devoted to their defense, localized ship-side PD for all other threats. And have the fleet prepare for a blind jump. We are clearing the system now. Rendezvous point is Erewohn.”

A long silence fills the bridge.

“Yes, Admiral.”

Retreat has been unthinkable for so long in the Solar Navy, more so because of the presence of the Observers rather than any outright fanaticism or stupidity. Divested of that particular burden, Hellings and his subordinate officers have a whole new array of possibilities open to them. But that doesn’t mean that they have been leeched of their distaste.

As the 128,000 missiles of the final true Erewohnese barrage hurtles toward the fleet, Marconi’s command responds. The networked PD responds with delayed-fuse fusion warheads, long-range cluster missiles, interceptors, and even a few X-ray warheads. Limited decoy drones fly outward at random, screaming and shrieking to lure away the Erewohnese attack. As they close closer the fast Dart class missiles respond, flying away in torrents from the fleets war-frigates and in coordinated firing groups from the dreadnoughts. The hardwired PD of the Obelisk opens to support the closer range action, and its own response is equal to that of at least three full squadrons of war-frigates.

Seven war-frigates positioned in front of the two Phoenix dreadnoughts are ripped open, exploding in a storm of life-pods. Desperate calls light up the com networks as their occupants here of Marconi’s orders. Dreadnoughts and war-frigates snag as many as they can, literally hurling them toward their bays with little regard for safety protocols. Monitors anchor several other ones, while fourteen unfortunates hurtle toward the primary world of Acler—unable to redirect their controls in time to approach closer ships of the fleet.

While the fleets jump engines are coming up, the battle rages. A dreadnought vanishes in an explosion that tears off most of its bow quarters. Suddenly fire wreathes one of the Phoenix dreadnoughts, and she slurs in space. Her gravimetric signature shudders, fluttering for a moment before stabilizing at less than three-fourths normal capacity.

By that time the missiles from the approaching Acleri defenders and the parting shot from the surviving Erewohnese arrive. Darts fly to meet them, and rapid-fire energy batteries follow closely behind. A pair of war-frigates pitch on one side as fire erupts about them, but they survive. And a trio of dreadnoughts shrugs off some impacts from other missile strikes.

Then the light of jump translations starts, and in a handful of seconds the surviving warships of Marconi’s fleet are gone, vanished as if they never existed.

Combat Bridge of the HSS Solar Fist, Stocurm system, Imprium of Vernii
06.08.1300 AF
2354 Solar Forces Standard

Lastin grimaces as he watches the play of holograms representing the fight between the sparse mobile assets of the system defenders and his own monitors continue their desperate movement and scathing attacks. He dismisses it for a moment, turning back to the stats on his main formation.

For the most part the fleet is holding its own against the fire, only one other war-frigate has been destroyed with an additional two being damaged. The dreadnought Arlith has lost overall tactical control over her portside PD systems, but localized rerouting is correcting that. A shower of Dart counter-missiles races out to obliterate most of the response from the system’s surviving fortresses. But now Lastin can see the new counters representing LACs starting to appear. He takes another glance at the combat that is rapidly drawing to a close.

And has his grimace reinforced. Of the thirty-six monitors that were originally part of his command, only eighteen have survived. Lastin doesn’t favor their odds against however many LACs the fortresses may have hidden in their bowels.

“We are switching to Engagement Plan Phi. Target will be the fortreses. And have the monitors close in on an attack vector on the starboard-most fortress. With any luck their LACs will be stupid enough to try and run after them.”

“Yes, Commodore.”

The surviving monitors start to build acceleration again, although three lag behind the main body of the formation. Their gravimetrics are apparently damaged from the engagement with the Stocurm task force.

For a brief moment the fire from Lastin’s command halts, but then it resumes. This time the bombardment is far more focuses, and specialized. The fleet deploys 3,000 missiles targeted to each fortress. One thousand of each are jammer missiles, 1800 are X-ray warheads, but the remaining 200 are Mace warheads. Lastin wants to eliminate those platforms as quickly as possible, once they are gone he can engage the LACs and destroy them at range.


Combat Bridge of the HSS Firestorm, Boroglia system, Imperium of Vernii
06.08.1300 AF
2356 Solar Forces Standard

Fortmeer watches with disgust as the dreadnought Rubicon slews out of formation, her gravimetric signature wavering and spiraling at random. At the forward ranks of Fortmeer’s cautious, profile forward approach, it had too little cover from the networked PD of the fleet. The stricken dreadnought drifts slowly toward the rear of the formation, waiting to resume a position toward the rear. A war-frigate starts to follow the dreadnought shortly after, it too showing considerable damage. He watches as the Boroglian task force moves to retreat back toward the planet.

Cautious as he is, Fortmeer is not about to let an enemy merely withdraw at their leisure.

“Continue engaging the system’s mobile assets, designate them as Alpha-One. Instruct the monitors to press onward into the system, avoid engagement with the fortresses. They are to go in close to the systems civilian orbitals and use them for cover.”

“Yes, Commodore.”

Eight of Fortmeer’s thirty-six monitors were unable to avoid the fortresses’ barrage, another two were destroyed when their gravimetrics were damaged and they lost acceleration. But the rest press onward, now closing with the systems orbitals and moving along them like some sort of swarming parasite.

Away from the planet, Fortmeer’s command builds acceleration as it turns to fire another full broadside at the retreating pod-layers and their destroyers. This time he wastes no fusion warheads, instead he sends off an impressive round of 12,000 missiles, only 3,000 that are jammers. The others are X-ray warheads directed to target the core ships of the enemy formation, including the pod-layers.

Bridge of the Far Star, Morning Star system, Collective Protectorates of New Hope
06.09.1300 AF
0753 Solar Forces Standard

“So they won’t be completely naïve,” Lieutenant Herodot says quietly. “Not that I suspected them to be.”

He cuts the com for a moment and looks to the scattering of other IntSec agents dressed in the torn and damaged “uniforms” of the Far Star.

“It looks like we will be abandoning ship after all,” Novogroddsen, his second adds. “Should I pass the word along to the cargo?”

“Yes, I will attend to the Liberationers. The rest of you get to the shuttle.”

While Novogroddsen goes to check on the Blue Force, Herodot activates the scrambler array and slips back into the role and voice of the panicked Far Star captain.

“Control we are unable to comply with your holding request! Our ship is breaking up and our helm control is failing! If we stay the ship is going to break apart!”

Herodot garbles the channel with only partially artifical interference.

“We’re going to the runabout! We’ll hold at the present position once we leave the ship! Repeat, moving to runabout, will hold position after we transfer! Send someone to pick us up! Before the fucking Orts come!”

Herodot smirks then makes his way toward the shuttle, which if need be can see them safely back to Seljuk and the safety of the IntSec-controlled planet. He jogs quickly down the hall without bothering to check the hanger bay. He has no doubt Saharin’s mutants are already strapped in to their insertion pods, ready to rush the Silver Fleet’s flagship.

Three minutes later a small shuttle bolts out of the freighter’s small hanger and rapidly moves to clear its faltering parent ship. With that done its engine signature rapidly drops, and it acceleration moves as it cuts to maneuvering bands only. The shuttle is probably the riskiest part of the whole plot. It is a Valinor manufactured craft, purchased in the Cluster from some Valinor tramp merchantman that were down on their luck and desperate for cash months ago. It maybe a little too new to hold up to the ruse, but if queried the “crew” have the official documents from the purchase and transfer along with a seal from a legal rep from the Protectorate of Grayson’s government. And as far as the captain of the Valinor merchantman knew, the purchase had been legitimate.

The Far Star hurls onward, swerving on an increasingly erratic course as the system’s primary and that of the Liberation home world and the bulk of the Silver Fleet. There is an explosion on its portside, rigged of course, and then suddenly its engine signature falters for a few seconds before failing completely. Now the ship is little more than a hurtling projectile, barreling toward the planet. But in her now vacuum exposed hold, low-power systems come on line and ready simple light industrial magnetic launchers originally intended for the ship’s life-pods. In each tube three pods wait, each holding a fully equipped member of the Blue Force, their time to be revealed to the universe is almost at hand—soon the entire Raumreich may know what really is produced in Saharin’s laboratories.

Onboard the Samson...

“We’re going to the runabout! We’ll hold at the present position once we leave the ship! Repeat, moving to runabout, will hold position after we transfer! Send someone to pick us up! Before the fucking Orts come!” is heard across the bridge as an ensign's eyes widen, looking into the holotank.

"It's approaching at high velocity, Admiral... directly toward True Hope."

Murphy squints into the tank, swallowing before issuing a command. "Open fire on the damaged craft with laser batteries, tell the Halliburton to peal off a few missiles to make sure. Make sure PD is ready. Continue to have the runabout towed to Centris. All those aboard are too be treated as hostile prisoners. This smells."

Meanwhile, in the depths of the Emperor's Basin...

Darius sits in front of the small telecomm in his and his wife's room, she standing behind him with her left hand warmly grasping his shoulder. To his left is the supposed Minister of Liberation, Andre Jacobs. Behind them are a few other high ranking surviving government members and some of Darius’ most trusted allies in the diplomatic world of the Morning Star, all of whom had been recovered by Kuma-Adad and brought to the underground base for safekeeping.

On the screen before Darius is a charming face above a white-collar shirt and blue tie. “You’re clear for broadcast, Mr. Guardian.”

“Good,” replied Darius, sitting up straight in his chair and straightening his white tunic bearing the crest of the Prime Guardian on its breast. He clears his breath, then raises his chin to the screen, which captures his image, sending it to a system of computers which in turn send it to more computers, scrambling whatever hints could link the broadcast back to it’s original location. From there the signal travels to satellites and various receivers to be seen by every remaining citizen of the Liberation, even those in the armed forces.

Armored Marines pause in basecamps, looking down at their wrist comms to see their new leader’s face. On the Samson, Darius’ voice begins to fill every corridor and room. In living rooms and bedrooms across the nation, the Prime Guardian’s message can be heard.

“Free men and women of the Liberation, I come to you today a stricken man. No more than a few weeks ago, Ortagan forces assaulted our system without mercy. Despite the best efforts of Fleet Admiral Murphy and every fighting man and woman of the Silver Fleet, a squad of Observer death-ships careened into the heart of the once shining city of Hamunaptra. The ships’ detonations took a toll of over five-hundred million lives…” Darius could feel something well up inside his chest, bringing him to pause. Talia’s warm grasp on his shoulder tightens, remind him to speak. “leaving the city in ruins. Using this window of opportunity, Clergy led insurgents have taken control of the upper-west side of Trinidan and several other cities across the system.

“In the wake of Admiral Setties’ death, I, one of the few remaining government Ministers have taken the title of Prime Guardian. Now, in our nation’s darkest hour, I wish to give the citizens of this still strong country hope. One week ago, we, the remaining members of your government, began drafting a Great Charter. Within this Charter reads the founding truths on which the Liberation, administered within these Collective Protectorates of the Homeland, was built during its fight for survival amidst the oppressive Clergy Regime, which has plagued our people for so long.

“Let it be known to you and our enemies at our border that we remain strong, and that this document will bring solidarity to our people through its promise for tomorrow: it’s promise of safety, of rights, of freedom, and yes, even democracy. So hold strong in the face of danger and know that once this tribulation has passed, a new generation shall rise: a generation which has survived new threats to its sacred freedom and prevailed, a generation which can look brightly onto tomorrow, a generation of survivors. Fight knowing that you not only fight for your lives, but for the living soul of the Liberation. Thank you, and good luck.”

Acler

Vice Admiral Yularen's heart pounded as the enemy jumped away. His eyes instantly began searching the holoplot displaying the inner system as a whole, desperately willing CIC to find the enemy. Minutes passed, and the tension slowly drained away. The enemy wasn't coming back, at least not for now anyway.

"Bring us back on course for high orbit over Acler, and begin rescue and salvage efforts," he ordered as he noted the signatures of drifting debris, both friendly and enemy in origin, on the plots. Detail a destroyer to intercept and recover those enemy life pods, I want them alive. Inform Rear Admiral Malone he's in command, I'm retiring to my quarters."

+++

Stocurm

+++

The point defenses of each fortress could normally handle a mere 12,000 missiles total, but just like at Acler, the deployment of the previously unknown Mace units and so many of them at that, caught PD computers and officers by surprise.

Sidewalls crumbled under the barrage of gigaton yield energies, armor vaporized under the fury, and compartments ripped open to unforgiving vacuum.

Two of Stocurm's fortresses were simply gone, and the other two had been hammered into barely combat worthy conditions by the assault. Just over fourty percent of their total LAC wings had managed to launch in time, and slightly over 240 of the tiny warships manuevered to engage the enemy monitors. The leading squadrons opened fire with their singular missile launchers, volley firing as their revolver type magazines burned through their supply of missiles. Ten waves of sixty missiles each screamed out at the enemy monitors, as their motherships charged their BC grade grasers and increased to maximum acceleration.

Boroglia

+++

The final two system control ships were torn into wreckage by Fortmeer's fire, and escape pods spilled from the tumbling wreckage as the remnants of their small crews abandoned ship.

The system's destroyer flotilla continued to run for it, and a new missile salvo spilled from both broadsides of each ship and being joined by fire from the stern tubes, reaching a total of 704, then reorienting in flight before engaging their drives and hurtling back toward their pursuers. Bow mounted grasers tore at the monitors in orbit of Boroglia as the ships entered the maximum limits of energy range, although their fire was pitifully weak compared to the automated batteries that continued to rip and tear with their vastly more powerful battleship grade armaments.

Vernii

The nu-space conference center was deathly silent. Fleet Admiral Leveson and the other admirals of the Imperial Navy had been urgently summoned to it as emergency reports from Acler, Stocurm, and Boroglia had begun flooding into Gregor.

The virtual chamber was dominated by a massive holo-tank displaying a small map of the Imperium, the green spheres of the systems being attacked ringed by halos of flickering red, as other sections of the tank were devoted to the combat situations in the systems themselves, detailing scrolling information of system defenses and attackers as fast as it could be updated and processed. The battles in Stocurm and Boroglia were not going well, in fact, the difference in forces had meant that the systems' defenders had been virtually written off as casaulties before the first shots had even been fired.

Acler was the center of attention. It was the Imperium's third most important planet, after Vernii and Erewohn, and it was the largest concentration of Imperial forces outside of Gregor itself.

Leveson sat, resting his cheek against his fist as he sullenly stared at the system's battle map. He could already see the end in his mind, the ASF being wiped out, Acler bombarded, maybe even occupied, the resulting public and political outcry forcing the navy to go on the offensive before it would be ready, the subsequent crushing defeat, and the potential fall of Vernii itself.

The red enemy icons winked out all at once.

It took the assembled admirals a second to notice, and then a bit longer to comprehend. A jump, probably to withdraw and regroup..., he thought, fearing the enemy would be jumping back any second to give it another shot. His fist tensed, digging his fingernails into his palm as he waited for the Solar Navy to come back and finish the job, but it never came. Reports slowly came in as sensor stations began reporting no sign of enemy activity in the system, and then the red halo simply disappeared from the system's icon on the strategic map, and Leveson felt as if a ton of weights had been lifted from his soul.

Acler burned with the bright and steady green light of an Imperial system, a welcome counterpoint to the burning red icon of occupied Erewohn, and the sorely needed piece of good news to counterpoint the disasters unfolding in Stocurm and Boroglia.

But Acler was saved, for now at least, and for that, Leveson was profoundly grateful.

"By the end of the day, I want a full review and revision of our current strategies and tactics underway. This is utterly unacceptable that our enemies, even in a battle where they were numerically and technologically inferior, can manage to inflict higher losses upon our forces. If we are to triumph in this conflict, the current state of affairs cannot stand. Our forces cannot bring us victory if they are saddled with inadequate combat strategies, and I want this fixed immediately."

Combat Bridge of the HSS Solar Fist, Stocurm system, Imprium of Vernii
06.09.1300 AF
0008 Solar Forces Standard

Lastin’s tactical projection becomes a swirling quagmire of moving counters around the engagement between the Verniian LACs and his own monitors. Lacking their own missile launchers (sacrificing the internal magazine space for better engines and larger caliber energy mounts) the eighteen surviving monitors enact near-suicidal evasion maneuvers trying to dodge the fire as they try to bring their own weapons to bear on the enemy and the missiles. Four monitor counters flash once and vanish from the display. The surviving fourteen close to engage and the steady strobe signaling engagement surrounds their icons.

Lastin watches as another counter vanishes.

“Com, give the order for the monitors to retreat. Instruct Commodore Nadal to support the monitors with his squadron. He is to engage at range with proximity weapons,” Lastin smiles. “Let us see how willing the Verniians are to play when they are so utterly outclassed. If today’s record shows us anything it will be that our gunnery sections shall enjoy another round of moving target training drills.”

“Yes, Commodore.”

Lastin nods then activates the direct link to the Solar Fist’s bridge.

“Yes, Commodore?” comes the crisp reply from Captain Summers.

“Keep my squadron on course, Cor. We will be finishing this soon enough.”

“Yes, Commodore. Shall I continue engagement with the fortresses then?”

“Hold fire until I give the order, but have targeting solutions readied and all weapons prepped. I will see to it the rest of the squadron is ready,” Lastin lazily snaps his fingers at the com officer to pass his orders along.

“Yes, sir.”

Lastin cuts the contact, “Give me an open channel, system-wide.”

“Done, Commodore.”

“Attention all survivors of the Verniian naval orbital defense forces, this is Commodore Michael Lastin, Solar Navy. You are hereby informed that you have five standard minutes to evacuate your stations and proceed to the primary world of the Stocurm system before my fleet will commence to finish their destruction. Your time limit will start upon acknowledgement of these terms. Any and all craft seeking to evacuate to locations other than this system’s primary world will be destroyed. If I do not receive a response within the next three standard minutes I will recommence the engagement. Also be advised that all civilian installations above the planet should commence evacuation immediately. Lastin out.”

Lastin glances at the projections and watches as the monitors accelerate, tearing themselves away from the battle and toward the main force that is pressing closer in system.

“Give the order to Commodore Nadal, he is to fire at will.”

“Yes, Commodore.”

Lastin’s second dreadnought squadron turns and hurls 5300 missiles at the approaching wave of LACs. A screen of only 300 screamer warheads shields a tidal wave of X-ray warheads designed to obliterate capital ships, contemplating what they will do to LACs is appalling. The three closest war-frigates prep their own weapons for engagement, awaiting the orders to support the dreadnoughts from Commodore Nadal.

Combat Bridge of the HSS Firestorm, Boroglia system, Imperium of Vernii
06.09.1300 AF
0010 Solar Forces Standard

The bow of a war-frigate leading Fortmeer’s formation is shadowed in flame as a pair of warheads slip through his commands PD and hammer the vessel, counters for damage appear above its icon and her captain reports damage to the portsides sensor network and weapons control. Another war-frigate belches a pillar of flame as a lucky warhead ruptures a series of weakened bulkheads, venting lower storage areas in to space. The frigate’s ability to make war is relatively undamaged, but the ship does look absurd trailing ice crystals from a ruptured water tank. The dreadnought Unconquered takes a hit along its bow, but continues without a flinch.

Fortmeer turns his attention as his command fires another salvo into the retreating destroyers. This time his ships pick targets of their own opportunity and 14,000 missiles—roughly a third being screamers—sail toward the embattled destroyers. But now Fortmeer studies his distance from the orbital fortresses and the actions of his monitors.

“Give the order to cut acceleration to all-ahead one-third and prepare to start engaging the fortresses,” Fortmeer doesn’t even look at his com officer. Another four monitors have perished leaving his command with only twenty left. “And give orders to the monitors to break off the assault and retreat. They are to break across the ecliptic and use the moon as cover.”

Fortmeer’s fleet forms up in preparation to engage the system’s fortresses. Meanwhile the monitors turn their course and make to dart through the gaps between the fortresses and the civilian orbitals, they race toward the sanctuary of the lunar shadow.

Far Star, Morning Star system, Collective Protectorates of New Hope
06.09.1300 AF
0800 Solar Forces Standard

Before the Liberation’s Silver Fleet can even bring its weapons to bear another series of explosions tear across the freighters side. The apparent hulk bucks wildly in its death throws as another explosion tears across its stern. For appearances some sort of chain reaction has been set off, perhaps a failure in the freighter’s reactor or damaged engine. Without a crew aboard to transmit any sort of reports it is doubtful that the cause will ever be fully ascertained.

As the Fleet’s energy weapons start to track the ship, she finally succumbs to her fate. A raging fireball erupts from just before the stern and she breaks in half. The bow continues to pitch end over end while the stern turns to so much shrapnel of shattered hull-plating and bulkheads. The bow starts to disintegrate.

But the bow has survived by design, not by the strange grace of some bizarre twist of fate. Small fission micro-piles activate and briefly run power to their single use systems. Twenty-four thin, needle-shaped projectiles fly outward from the remnants of the Far Star painted matte black and coated with every sort of passive ECM and stealth covering the Solar Navy and Ginias Saharin could muster. They drift in the wreckage of their parent vessel for a few moments seeking their target. Then their limited guidance systems finally find the transponder of the Samson.

Gravimetric drives light to full acceleration and they quickly build to hundreds of gravities. Inertial compensators strain and the shielded guts of the pods further protect their occupants in cavities rapidly filled with gel-foam. The guidance systems continue their acceleration, prepping for emergency maneuvers in the inevitable event that the Silver Fleet opens fire. Saharin’s own projections estimated that no more than fourteen of the twenty-four, and more likely less than eleven will survive to make contact with the Samson.

But those odds seemed reasonable to the Rear Admiral’s strange mind.

In the distance Novogroddsen lights the modified gravimetric drive of the shuttle and tears for distance with the oncoming pursuers. Seventy-three seconds after engaging the drive he activates the jump drive and takes his SecInt crew away from Morning Star, headed back toward the Hegemony’s space.

“The Far Star… it’s running!”

“Send Destroyers to pursue,” the Admiral, responds.

“… And now it’s jumped.”

“Something’s up. Deep scans, full coverage.” The Admiral searches the holo-tank, pondering what the caper could possibly be.

“Small objects… scanners having trouble tracking them.”

The Admiral’s eyes widen as he sees the tiny blips fading in and out on readouts. “Full PD and energy determent! Don’t let any of them get near the fleet! Tell the battle-groups to splinter and inform the COs to prepare for transfers of command.” Murphy’s inner terror grows as he considers the possibility that the small objects scattered and bearing on his fleet are vortex missiles or some other Ortagan horror.

“QC… 3… 11, no, 15… 19 objects confirmed, Admiral, all bearing on… the Samson… 21 objects, still spotty tracking.”

Murphy could do nothing more. His dreadnaught is incapable of any daring maneuver; it was the veritable sitting duck. All he could do is sit and wait to see if his men had marked every target and could take each and every small object out.

In space, the spray of counter-missile fire and lasers might seem to a layman as if the Silver Fleet were taking on the whole Solar Navy. A few Ortagan pods spin out of control as they are winged by counter missiles, then are cut in twain by bursts of laser fire upon being revealed. Some are accidentally destroyed while a good many are hit by lucky detection.

As they swirl through space, Saharin’s estimates were actually pessimistic. Sixteen of the pods made contact with the Samson. Luckily enough for Murphy and the crew, however, two of those contacts were made up of debris and another four were quickly dispatched as they attached. So there sat ten Ortagan pods, hanging onto the Samson’s hull like so many tiny parasites.

Alpha Centauri

The grey citadel of the Glockhauser-Engelmann Complex—the core of the offices of the Reichsprotektor, the imperial high command, and the general staff—broods under the gradually warming suns of a Proxima late spring. Deep beneath the Complex—far behind the lines of ceremonial Reichswehr guardsmen and an even deeper level of sophisticated modern security systems—Reynard Adonis has ordered the superiors of the general staff to report to him at once. It is an action that advances the course of the Star Empire to war closer to the brink, an action brought on by the flashing icons across military holo-maps and strategic reports that report of Ortagan raids against the Verniian systems of Acler, Boroglia, and Stocurm.

Followed by a sparse entourage of aides the senior members of the general staff enter the conference room. First comes Konteradmiral the Earl Jorgen von Falkenhayn and the representative (as well as primary officer) for the various planning departments within the Kriegsmarine. He is followed by the spiky red-haired form of Kommodore Michael Bloem, the Office of Kriegsmarine Intelligence’s representative. Shortly after comes Standartenfuhrer Griswold of External State Security. Then the black trimmed charcoal uniforms of the Reichswehr—the svelte, feminine form of Oberst Dame Dorothy Cobb is followed by Hauptmann Keegan, representing the Office of Reichswehr Intelligence. Finally, trailing behind and looking to be wearing the khaki uniform of his ministry as if for the first time, comes Kommodant Sukhomlinov of Internal State Security.

Adonis stands slowly, “Please be seated, time is of considerable importance.”

Adonis motions to the two Sardaukar to leave and guard the door. When it shuts and the bunker room’s security systems are fully activated, a spiraling storm of strategic holograms (detailing the entire mapped Raumreich) and the avatars of several SIs and RIs flare into existence.

“We have a problem, ladies and gentlemen. The Ortagans grow more bold and we may soon find ourselves in a position without the advantage of surprise because Ansel’s men have forced our hand in Ticonderoga. I have Grossadmiral Adonis’ and Grossadmiral Forrest’s personal assurances that Tereshkova will seek to contain the Ortagans in Ticonderoga, but the disparity of Coalition forces within the system make it almost assured that some Ortagans will escape. We must confront the possibility that the Ortagans will consider this an act of war and respond accordingly.”

Silence fills the room for minutes that seem like hours. Finally, Sukomlinov breaks the poignant silence.

“Do either of the grossadmirals have proposals for actions in light of this event?”

“Lady Katherine says to prepare for the possibility of Roum considering outright violation of the Gadsen Accords. Sir Quentin says, and I quote, ‘assume the worse is inevitable’,” Adonis mouth seems to twitch in a tight smile. The general staff gives the impression of shifting uncomfortably without moving.

“Alic,” Adonis turns to Griswold, “do you have any updates to add outside the report I had you forward before this meeting?”

“None, Lord Adonis, the Verniians continue to engage the Ortagans in all their systems but there have been no conclusive reports. There has been no contact with Coalition forces in Ticonderoga since the ansible was disabled.”

“Then we need proposals from both the Kriegsmarine and the Reichswehr as how best to proceed under these circumstances. I am to present these proposals to Her Majesty and the Prime Minister within the hour. Jorgen?”

“I have been in conference with Grossadmiral Gorgas, reports from OKI assets—combined with those of ESS initiatives—confirm that the Ortagans have mobilized the entirety of the mobile assets we can confirm they possess in order to facilitate their current offensive. We also have additional surveillance reports from both Axis and Immolan that units typically stationed in these systems have been transferred, presumably to join the Ortagan fleet assembled at Erewohn or to support these latest moves into Verniian and Concordat space. The attack on Ticonderoga is clearly a move to force the Concordat out of the war for good. BuPlan confirms that the Ortagan operations in the Imperium are a forward action designed to force the Verniians to delude their fleet strength at Gregor in the least, and possibly to seize these three systems outright.”

“Any report of action against Morning Star?” Adonis brings a map into sharper focus closer to his own seat. The other general staff officers are manipulating data through their n-plants, adding information to the holo-maps, or conversing quietly with their respective SIs and RIs—preparing for their own report to Adonis.

“None, My Lord, the Ortagans are moving to force a conclusion on as many fronts as possible—apparently they can only afford to do so in two simultaneously. Taking all this into consideration BuPlan and the Kriegsmarine believe the only plans of action remaining to us—excluding the deployment of our strategic SDWs and QSWs arsenals—are to continue to follow the Cross Guard Plan and wait for the Ortagans to take the offensive again or to adopt the Yalta Plan, variation XVI. Grossadmiral Forrest’s fleet will stay in Yalta with its central location providing for ease of reinforcement for almost all major worlds of the Coalition while our own fleets in Archangel and Klein are moved to seize the Ortagan forward strategic weapons deployment points in Immolan and Seljuk. We believe that if we adopt the Yalta Plan the Silver Fleet, the Imperial Vaku Navy, and possibly the Concordat Navy will support our actions. A joint strike against Seljuk will almost guarantee victory—unless the Hegemony weakens its home fleets or the Erewohnese force to save it. In order to save both Immolan and Seljuk, OKI estimates that Axis would be forced to detach forces from both the home and Erewohnese fleets.”

“What of Axis?”

“My Lord?”

“What does the Yalta Plan call for in regards to actions against Axis and its strategic weapons?”

“My Lord, unless a full Coalition fleet can be marshaled to take Axis it remains beyond the means of either our fleets at Archangel or Klein. The only means to secure Axis now would be to alter variant XVI to call for Grossadmiral Forrest’s fleet in Yalta to assault it at once, supported by our own defenses around the wormhole terminus zone.”

“We cannot move Sir Quentin from Yalta at this time, Jurgen. What action will be taken against Axis under variant XVI as it stands now?”

“The strategic arsenal at the wormhole terminus will be brought to full readiness and prepped for deployment, My Lord. If the Ortagans move to engage from Axis or deploy their own strategic arsenal we will engage with the terminus defenses.”

“Can we neutralize the Ortagan arsenal in Axis if it is brought online?”

“OKI believes so, My Lord. The Ortagans have given no clear indication that they realize the modifications we have made to the terminus zone defenses on either side of the wormhole. When activated they should take the Hegemony by surprise and allow us to destroy their arsenal.”

Adonis looks up at Griswold, “Does the ESS have any thoughts on this matter?”

“We can confirm OKI’s estimates, My Lord. But our own attempts to gain regular access to Axis have met with little success. No evidence from our initiatives in Roum suggest that either Ortagan intelligence or the Solar Navy are aware of the strategic QSWs on their side of the wormhole—or of the sunbusters on the Yaltan side.”

“But no definitive corroboration?”

“No, My Lord, we cannot corroborate the reports of the OKI with our own information from Axis.”

“There is no way to move conclusively against Axis without Coalition support or moving from Yalta, Jurgen?”

“No way that offers us a better choice, My Lord. Any other course of action would leave our defenses at home even weaker, and we might not be able to counter a strategic weapons strike by the Hegemony in that event.”

“Our decision is made for us then,” Adonis takes out his script-slate style comp-pad and jots a few notes. “Jurgen, prepare three additional copies of Yalta Plan, variant XVI, for my use and have them sent under seal to the Palace and my offices there at once. Pass the word along to the First Star Lord that I am presenting it to Her Imperial Majesty and the Prime Minister as the Kriegsmarine’s best course of action under these circumstances.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Oberst Cobb, the Reichswehr’s take on these events if you please.”

Cobb nods curtly. At one time, over nine centuries ago, the Reichswehr had been the preeminent branch of the imperial armed forces while the Kriegsmarine had been little more than an innovative way to absorb the military budget. Now, the pretense equality was all the Reichswehr could hope for. With the expansion of the Star Empire—first across Alpha Centauri and then across the Greater Raumreich—the Reichswehr had become the primary defensive arm of the imperial forces. Stationed across the imperial dominions it provided for the security of Her Majesty’s worlds. Only the surviving three surviving mobile operations armies and the naval detachment service branch were completely offensive units. In theory the rest of the Reichswehr and the dominion militia units could be called to supplant the operational groups numbers. In practice this had not even been done during the height of the post-War of the Lion occupations on Gregor and Acler.

“The Reichswehr stands by Plan XX, My Lord. The only way to solve the insecurity generated by the chain of events in Ticonderoga is to move at once to secure as many of the Ortagan forward strategic deployment points as possible. Grossgeneralfeldmarschall von Richter is ready to deploy our forces in Klein to support the Kriegsmarine’s move on Seljuk, and attach additional units from those station on Falasmayon to the fleet in Archangel. Under Plan XX, Reichswehr fast-deployment armor will deploy from fleet coverage and destroy the strategic arsenals and military bases by all means necessary. Full orbital superiority—as well as high atmospheric strikes by Kriegsmarine Harbinger drones will be required to secure these objectives.”

“Are we speaking of occupation?”

“Not in the traditional sense, My Lord. Under Plan XX, the Ortagan civilians will either surrender and not move against our forces assaulting the military targets or will be considered as irregulars supporting the uniformed personnel of the Solar Forces.”

The room stiffens for a moment.

“That is an altogether bold statement, Oberst.”

“Baron von Richter concludes, and we support, that the Ortagans are still ruled by fear. If their military fails them, they will choose to cower in their cities and not resist.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then they will be irregulars operating in open resistance against the occupational authorities of both worlds and will be treated as such.”

Adonis eyes are hardened ice, “I will submit Plan XX to Her Majesty and the Prime Minister then, Oberst, unless the Reichswehr has something else to add.”

“No, My Lord.”

“Then I want three additional copies of Plan XX in my office at the Palace at once. Also inform the Grossgeneralfeldmarschall of Proxima Centauri that he will report to me tomorrow morning, 0800.”

Cobb’s eyes narrow, “Yes, My Lord.”

Adonis scratches several additional notes.

“Thank you for your time. I want all of the general staff kept abreast of the situation in the Inner Marches as it occurs. This is a fluid war, and I want up to the second proposals and theories being considered. If there is a way to win this war without obliterating half the Raumreich, I want them found. Dismissed.”

Yalta system

The last remaining units of Forrest’s screen complete their transition across the wormhole from Alpha Centauri and engage their gravimetrics. The squadrons of the new, unmanned cruisers and destroyers move upward, rejoining the vast formation of ships of the wall, carriers, screening units, and EW vessels. [b]Oberleutnant zur Sternen[/i] Vergyl Afterman steps onto the flag bridge of the HMS Reich as the current ship’s watch is preparing for the call for the evening meal.

The flag bridge is quieter than it had been since the move to Yalta. Besides a pair of officers in the tactical section, as well as Kapitanleutnant Ludendorff manning the flag comm, the only other figure is the slightly stooped figure of Quentin Forrest. Afterman approaches quietly, but surrounded by holograms and peering deep into the swirling storm of information and reports Forrest doesn’t even seem to notice. Afterman looks at the Grossadmiral’s face a for a moment—a face that seems to have aged by years since the race to the Yalta terminal. Forrest’s eyes twitch and dart—partially to read the reports and partially as he dictates functions on his n-plant. A hand moves idly to brush the forehead and the receding hairline while another moves toward the small of the back. Forrest stands and rubs his knuckles deep into his spine.

Then the Grossadmiral seems to jump, noticing Afterman for the first time.

“My apologies, sir,” Afterman adds quietly, “the latest reports from OKI have been put into the system with the comm update after the transition.”

“Thank you, Mr. Afterman,” Forrest’s voice is tired as he turns back to the protection and has it renew several sections he had been viewing. Acler, Boroglia, Stocurm, and Ticonderoga still pulse with the red outlines designating hostile contact between Coalition and Ortagan forces. But then the image shifts and the maps swirls to present a view of the red-colored systems of the Ortagan home systems. Names that for Afterman—and much of his generation—that have no pictures or images attached to them except for the ones that circulate from official Ortagan state services: Roum, Axis, Gadsen, St. Ives, Immolan, New Edo, Berchest, Xerxes, and Seljuk. A network of icons representing either confirmed or speculated positions of Ortagan fleets comes up.

Afterman takes a deep breath when he looks at the icons representing the infamous and vast fleets that guard Ortaga proper still cut into the projection. Roum, Gadsen, and St. Ives all remain safely garrisoned by their respective armadas. Even New Edo is still home to the fleet that the Verniian raiding force encountered a week earlier as far as OKI and ESS can confirm. Gold-white dots representing the known positions of Ortagan strategic arsenals snap into existences moments later, a small network along the periphery of the Ortagan home systems in Immolan, Axis, and Seljuk.

“The Ortagans,” Forrest says slowly, “have at any time enjoyed the option of simply being able to sweep aside the resistance in Morning Star and Ticonderoga at least—and most likely all of Vernii outside of Gregor itself. They could fight a war against Vernii, Vakutu, and ourselves all at once and meet us on almost all fronts—even discounting the Collective Protectorates and the Concordat. But they play games with us, Mr. Afterman.”

“Sir?”

“The greatest military machine ever built in the Raumreich, in terms of numbers if nothing else, Mr. Afterman. And over half of it is kept at home. The largest navy ever assembled by any one nation in the Inner Marches is used as a security and police force if OKI is to be fully believed. And still the Ortagans feel compelled to construct the Gold Crescent,” Forrest’s finger draws a line from Seljuk to Axis to Gadsen. “I think we may soon find out what all this really means.”

“I am not sure I follow you, sir.”

Forrest zeroes out the hologram, allowing for the full Great March to be seen.

“OKI and the ESS can say what they like about the Hegemony needing the garrison force the Solar Navy must maintain in their home systems in order to maintain order over their own fear of invasion as well as their own populace but I have my doubts, Mr. Afterman. But I have had my doubts about this for over forty years. The Ortagans know their advantage comes largely from numbers, but they handicap themselves in our—in the Coalition’s—favor. The only thing I can think of that may promote them to remove this handicap is to face a war with us.”

“Or violate the Gadsen Accords,” Afterman adds quietly.

Forrest nods, “Or violate the Gadsen Accords. It’s the question no one in the Complex, Sanctuary, or the Citadel of Marshals can answer beyond speculation. Confronted with a war against us will the Ortagans even bother with conventional warfare? Or will they move for a purely strategic engagement. I think we will find out in less than twenty-four hours. Tereshkova will try to stop the Ortagans in Ticonderoga, she may even die in the attempt. But I do not think she can succeed—not with the numbers she faces. Then it will only be a matter of time before Hellings finds out that we aided the Wickians. Once Hellings finds out it will only be a matter of hours before Roum is informed. When Roum is informed the Hegemony must decide if it will risk a battle between fleets across the Raumreich or if it will seek to simply obliterate its enemies outright. We are gambling on the decision of a regime that has only the most basic grasp of what other nations consider sane.”

Forrest takes a deep breath and taps his hands against the edge of the holo-tank.

“Forty-eight hours after the conclusion of the battle in Ticonderoga I think we will have our answer. If the Ortagans move the home fleets to reinforce their offensive elements it means conventional war between ourselves and the Hegemony. If not….if not it means that there will be no victor in this war no matter who is fighting whom. The only way to stop this will be to try and disrupt the Crescent as much as possible.”

“Can we do that?”

“Alone, no, but if this Coalition means anything we may have a chance. I want you to have the general staff transfer all materials regarding the file Operation Tear to my personal files on the Reich, Mr. Afterman. Post-haste. And then I want you to make sure I am not disturbed for the next three hours short of the Ortagans deciding to invade Yalta, Gregor, Morning Star, Vakutu, or all four at once. Mr. Ludendorff?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“I want a secure direct link with the Reichsprotektor in two hours. If you have any difficulties in reaching him, I wished to be informed and I will handle it.”

“Aye, sir.”

Forrest nods for a moment, looks at the holograms, then grasps his hands at his back. He turns and looks at Afterman for a moment.

“Take for dinner now, Mr. Afterman. God knows this is not much of a breather, but it is most likely all we will be given for sometime.”

Rhinemetall Quarter, Mile High City, Earth, Sol
The very, very most important decisions in the corporate culture of Conquest Incorporated were reached over lunch.

The first to arrive, dictated in equal parts by his deeply ingrained sense of German punctuality and the absolute joy with which he approached food, was Leon Rheinhardt. The magnate, heir to a proudly maintained national lineage in an era where ethnicity was increasingly blurred into meaninglessness, delighted in the culinary art of a people long since scattered by the winds of time, and had insisted – politely but with great determination – that the day’s business be conducted at Mäder’s, where he could act his favorite part as spokesperson and advocate of a culinary tradition that could be summarized generally as “More meat!”

The Rhinemetall executive greeted the establishment’s owner warmly, exchanging the usual pleasantries, before surveying the restaurant, emptied of its typical midday customers by various corporate security apparata. Both his own personal Rhinemetall bodyguards and a contingent of Human Resources agents were wrapping up their sweeps for explosives and surveillance equipment and taking up their respective positions – HR, due to their higher status and capability, around the dining room itself, positioned every dozen feet or so along the wall, the Rhinemetall troops in the kitchens, ancillary facilities and in the restaurant’s main foyer.

His critical eye appeased, he took his seat, adjusting his suit vest and brushing an imaginary piece of lint from his cuff.

No sooner had he ceased his affected preparations than he caught sight of two of his colleagues, Mssrs. Hammond and Liu, of Hammond Aerospace and TerraTech Industries respectively, entering near the bar. Rising to his feet, he extended his hand in greeting.

“Yi! James! How very good to see you both,” he said. “I look forward to today’s discussion only somewhat less than our luncheon.”

The three sat, placing drink orders even as they continued talking. “Mint julep, ‘hon. Thank you very much.” This, of course, from the exemplar of the great Southern gentleman, Mr. James Hammond. The last two syllables had a slight emphasis, mirroring a sly smile that blossomed as he discreetly surveyed the figure of the departing waitress. “Ah daresay the offerin’s must be perfectly sumptuous, judgin’ from your ceaseless advocacy.”

“Mm,” contributed Liu, directly into the cup of tea that had just arrived, as per his order. “I trust Seiji and the Director are on their way?”

“Oh, indeed. Seiji is running late, and Richard is collecting some last pieces of data.” The German tore open a hot bun, its fluffy innards steaming, and slathered it with butter. He indicated the entrance with his creation before biting a chunk from it. “Speak of the devils.”

Seiji Akimoto, chief executive officer of Triumph Media, walked briskly alongside his boss, Richard Zheng, Director of Conquest Incorporated. As they entered, HR agents and Rhinemetall troops alike crashed to attention. With a vague wave, Zheng returned them to their prior, watchful status.

The men all arranged themselves around their table and exchanged informal pleasantries, asking after children, wives or mistresses where appropriate. Menus were distributed. The meeting began.

Zheng removed his customary leather gloves while he was speaking, pinching each finger off one by one, and placed them on the table. “Gentlemen. You are all perfectly aware of why I called this meeting, so let us discuss the proposition I put to you all earlier: should Conquest Incorporated, its subsidiaries and affiliates allocate military assets in defense of the Gregor star system against the Ortagan Hegemony?”

The immediate silence was a thoughtful pause. Lunch meeting or no, Mader’s or no, this was deadly serious business.

But the pause was fleeting – these men were well used to deadly serious business.

“The Ortagans,” rumbled Rheinhardt, his voice absolutely saturated with contempt, “are communists. The more of them that are dead, the better.”

A murmur of agreement ran around the table. The only communists in the Mile High City lived in ghettoes and slums locked away from the rest of the populace – indeed, in most cases, from sunlight. Communists were an endangered species.

Liu Yi nodded. “Absolutely true. However, Gregor is a stage set for many players. Virtually every power in the Raumreich will have a presence in what will likely be the climactic engagement of the war. Fleets both larger and of higher quality than our own will be smashing themselves into oblivion. Is not the risk to our own nascent offensive naval force one too great to bear?”

“Actually,” Zheng answered, “the opportunities for gain outweigh those for loss, as far as military capability is concerned. Our investment will consist of three squadrons of our new Judicator dreadnoughts and their attendant escorts and support craft, as well as other fleet elements – a costly one, to be sure. On the other side of the equation, the potential for useful salvage is extraordinarily high. The Star Empire of Valinon, the Imperium of Vernii and a host of other nations involved are, frankly, our technological superiors insofar as the art of war. I am not suggesting that we make off with their governments’ property, but we may” (here he paused to cough into his hand, almost as if he were slightly embarrassed) “be able to appropriate the odd weapon mount during the post-combat scrabble for survivors and what have you. More to the point, anything that has ‘The Hegemony of New Ortaga’ stamped on it will be fair game – and many craft that fit that description carry some of the most powerful energy armaments in the Oversector, and by extension, the civilized universe.” A chuckle. “Certainly powerful, anyway.” The executive sobered. “There exists an additional benefit.”

He chose the appropriate fork for the consumption of the appetizer placed before him by the waitress that had so consumed Hammond’s attentions minutes earlier. “The Raumreich’s war – ours, should we choose it – has been witness to some staggeringly callous atrocities. Many of the Hegemony’s senior officers have been complicit in these crimes, and those that survive the war are likely to be executed for these deeds upon the conclusion of whatever politically appropriate legal fiction their captors feel to be appropriate.” He smirked. “Or simply out of hand. The point being, ultimately, that a significant percentage of the Hegemony’s officers – that aren’t dead by this time, anyway – will be desperately seeking a way out. Through Conquest’s splendid offices, they will receive one. New names, new faces, new histories; new lives. Lives as officers of the CICSS, lending a backbone of finely honed experience to an officer corps that lacks exactly that.” He looked coolly around the table. “This project will be much facilitated by the possession of an Ortagan fleet registry, which would make it easier to track down the most desirable officers once the Hegemony has fractured and the war is over. This is all not to mention the defense industries that will be open to us and the military expertise we will be able to draw on once we emerge as a player in the Raumreich Oversector. Something that will be impossible should the Ortagans come to control it.”

The last point was an afterthought, an obvious consideration that the executives assembled were already well aware of. But this scheme of the Director’s… well. Conquest Incorporated’s employees did not generally possess a boundless degree of compassion or virtuousness, but the operation that their superior was suggesting – indeed, appeared already to have set in motion – was unsettling. All the same, he had not asked for responses at any point, and the undertaking was clearly not open to discussion.

“And, the others?” Liu asked cryptically. “What have they decided?”

“The others,” Zheng responded, eyebrows suddenly arched in annoyance, “are prepared to acquiesce, allowing us to continue to manage our little project,” here he gestured generally around him, “as we like.”

“How very kind of them.” It was Rheinhardt’s voice that broke the silence for the second time. “There are also strategic considerations, both in military and commercial contexts. Tiburon’s artificial wormhole linking Gregor to Sol was to be our entryway into the Raumreich, just as the Free Expansion Zone was to be our sphere of influence. Both are imperiled by the Ortagan assault that everyone assumes will be forthcoming. Not only will they be denied to us should they fall, but investment opportunities in an economy as super-developed as Valinon’s or as state-run as that of any Ortagan puppet state would be negligible – and those are the only alternatives it seems at all reasonable to expect.”

“Not only that, but we should be well aware of the investment that has already been expended.” Akimoto put down the remnants of the crab cake he had ordered to start, freeing his hands up to spread in a gesture encompassing all those present. “I daresay none of us credited those fears that the Hegemony would prove so resistant to defeat when we last made purchases from the Verniians, or we would hardly have paid the better part of a trillion credits for our leases within the FEZ.” His well-maintained ethnic lineage was evident in his Japanese features as he broke into an abashed grin. “Also, while I have no evidence for this, I imagine that all of us have recognized the financial repercussions of Verniian fear of attack. Plunging prices across the board. I, for one, am knee-deep in orbital infrastructure.”

The clinking of ice cubes marked Hammond’s reply. “Ah fear that ah too have played the part uh speculator. In the same field, as well.”

“If only the Ortagans were expected to raze the planetary industries, as well,” Zheng remarked wryly. A Conquestian would make profit where there was profit to be made, but he could not bring himself to feel at all excited about the prospect of the Imperium’s fall. “So are we to understand that the five of us, and the organizations that we represent, have vested interests in Gregor’s integrity, as well as potential ones?”

Those assembled grumbled embarrassedly and unanimously in assent. It was grating to be caught in the position of vulnerability that they had found themselves in.

“And concordantly, in light of those points which we have discussed today, are we unanimous in our commitment to Gregor’s protection and the continued health of the Imperium of which it is the seat?”

“Absolutely.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t honestly believe anyone expected to answer any differently, sir.”

“Ah agree without reservashun.”

“Then I happily declare our business concluded, gentlemen.” A mischievous twinkle of the eye was evident as Zheng leaned back from the table to allow the waiters to remove plates and deposit entrées. “We are now able to focus entirely on our meals, and discard the pretense of this meeting in favor of its real purpose: giving Leon an excuse to come here.”

Rheinhardt’s eyes remained riveted on the pork shank that had just been deposited in front of him. “My great thanks, sir.”

CNS Intransigent
Flagship of Home Fleet
Ticonderoga System
Capital of the Concordat
0221 Zulu

Impetuous didn’t even begin to describe Admiral Tourville’s actions, and as much as she wanted to chastise him for going against the grain of their plan, she couldn’t. In fact it was probably the same exact action she would have done in her own youth. We at least the results were telling, his ad-hoc taskforce had taken a sizable chunk out of the enemy fleet before it was even aware of their presence. Kuzack felt her stomach chill for a moment as the Ortagan Force counter attacked…

CNS Hammer
R. Admiral Tourville commanding

“Sweet Tester!” remarked one of the junior sensor operators as the results of the Phoenix strikes made themselves known. This was the young officer’s first battle against the Ortagans. Just like his admiral they had heard about how their fleets were savaged in the past fighting the Solar Navy and now they had just witnessed the consequences of enraging their enemies.

The most devastating attacks delivered were by the three Phoenix’s main batteries their massive energy beams carved through Tourville’s command. One beam alone punched through the sidewalls of the venerable battleships Allegiance as if they did not exist, without the beam losing any of its potency it tore a hole through the ship. For a moment that was all until the secondary explosion took effect, the vessel was obliterated. The Allegiance though was only an annoyance, an obstacle blocking the beam from its true target, the [i] Hammer Tourville’s dreadnaught was better defended then the old battleship, but it had not received any of the new upgrades and defense technology which most of the Fleet benefited from. The beam hit just amidships as an immense explosion covered the flagship.

Gadsen System

Adam Peregrine watched the last yellow blip disappear from the holo-tank, the yellow blip representing secondary targets, not enemy vessels of war or hostile unknowns but a target which could not fight back. The destruction wrought so far by his fleet was not indiscriminate or senseless. It was the pre-meditated destruction of facilities which supported the Ortagans war effort. There was collateral damage, he knew there would be going in, but there intent was to destroy the infrastructure of the outer system not the System’s civilian habitation areas. And it only took limited forces to do so, he had kept some of his force off the playing field as he learned long ago a good commander does not reveal all his cards at the onset of the game, the one who would survive and return from the field of battle understood what economy of force meant.

In the end it took no longer then 180 seconds for his fleet to accomplish the first phase of the operation as the holo-tank was cleared of targets. He heard distantly the voicing of cheer and congratulations from his staff who expressed their feelings about the success of the mission so far. The Wickians for the first time in history had attacked the enemy where they perceived themselves strongest, the morale boost from news of the mission’s success would be incalculable.

Peregrine though had served in the Concordat’s and before that the Commonwealth’s navy longer then even Protector Villers, his experience with combating the Solar Navy was unmatched by anyone in the Allied Navy. This raid was not an operation he supported and he protested its activation to the Protector himself. For reasons which the Protector convinced him of years ago in the dark days after the defeat which drove the Wickians from their homeworld, the days after Admiral Strength’s fall and President Ginske’s usurpation of authority. The conversation they had in the then Commodore Villers private quarters on his broken dreadnaught had been profound. The old Wickian shut his eyes a moment recalling the words and that scene.

“We cannot defeat this enemy Adam, at every turn he has beaten us, in every battle which we fought he has been superior.” Villers let the words roll of his tongue defeated.

“That is not our fault Markus, the Vernii have abandoned us as they seek empire in Borogl-“ He stopped as Villers cut him off.

“That matters not, we are warriors ourselves, honor demands we fight our own battles does it not? But for all of our honor for all our pride and history, right now the Ortagans and most importantly Channing Ansel views us as an enemy not even worth killing. Given that we must attempt to survive.” The words had horrified Peregrine as he heard them, “We will hate the Ortagans, we will detest them, but to kill them we must first survive….by recovering in a way that will not draw any attention. Eric” Villers named the fallen Protector of the Commonwealth. “Did not understand that and our nation has suffered for that…I will not suffer a repetition of the mistakes of the past.”


They had survived and rebuilt the Nation to face this moment of fire and death. As Peregrine looked into the holo-tank once again he noticed the large collection of angry enemy icons located at the system’s main planets and warp-gates. It was time to leave. The admiral looked at the icons as if they were Ansel incarnate.

“We have survived. I am an Avenger of lost friends and comrades. We have hated you, detested you and just to kill you we have survived.” As his staff began to wonder about the Admirals sanity he quickly dismissed any of their concern as his loud baritone command voice spoke.

“Fleet Orders, permission to initiate FTL jump granted, Execute Withdrawal to rally point Alpha-6.” Peregrine felt the subtle vibration begin to course through the 3 kilometer long dreadnaught as the FTL/I prepared to engage. And for a short moment there was nothing as the jump engines activated.


OOC: More to follow today but I love half posts and its been far to long since I posted last so here is evidence that I have done Something.

Stocurm

A message was quickly sent in reply to Commodore Lastin's flagship.

"Units of the Solar Navy, this is Rear Admiral Sheldon, commanding officer of Stocurm Planetery Defense. Your message has been received and accepted, we will begin the evacuations at once."

Flights of escape pods and shuttles continued their frantic pace from the civilian orbitals, soon joined by pinnaces and shuttles crammed full of crewmen from the fortresses.

In accepting the Lastin's offer, Sheldon had scuttled his career, but his men would silently thank him in their hearts for not wasting their lives in a futile effort of fighting for the honor of the flag, and actually saving civilians who may have otherwise perished under enemy fire.

The LACs weren't as fortunate, however. Lastin's fire smashed in upon their relatively fragile hulls, and a mere 70 out of the almost three hundred of the tiny craft survived. As they received new orders, their crews shut down their drive systems and hurried to their parasite shuttles.

+++

Boroglia

Another 740 missiles fired back from the fleeing destroyers into the pursuing enemy formation as the enemy's missiles raced in upon them. Eight destroyers exploded in balls of flame and expanding plumes of wreckage.

The automated defense platforms snapped off final shots with their energy batteries at the fleeing monitors, and then ceased the engagement as their computers noted the new primary threat as Fortmeer's fleet began to close the range. Their gleaming silver hulls rotated, keeping the crater pockmarked sections of their armor facing away from the enemy, and bringing fresh weapons and sidewall generators to shield them from the fire that would be incoming shortly. Hatches slid open, and bulbous decoys fired away from each, bringing powerful electronic distortion generators online.

Conquest Quarter, Mile High City, Earth, Sol
The Mile High City was an absurdly developed chunk of real estate. Kilometers of superscrapers and megacomplexes lay atop half-forgotten ruins of cities long past, metropoli that had grown until they overlapped one another, their boundaries merging into a massive expanse of concrete and steel. Surrounded by tin pot dictatorships and quasi-socialist republics, the Mile High City grew straight up. Shafts of brilliant metals flew upwards into the sky, their densely glittering peaks a testament to the efficacy and might of unbridled growth and unbridled capitalism. It was in this ideal melting pot of corporate creeds that Conquest had been born, as perhaps it could have been nowhere else. Here it had thrived amongst its pillars of steel, its towers of iron.

Hardly anyone remembered that the Indus river valley lay in the City's enormous boot print. The cradle of urban civilization had disappeared, crushed by a wave of refuse, ruins and the forgotten foundations of the modern edifice. It hardly mattered, in any event.

Simply, it meant that the average building in the Mile High City was a city in itself, home to millions, with a complete infrastructure and an advanced economy. While some of these superscrapers were devoted to a particular corporation or purpose, most were a hodgepodge of living space, commercial sectors and 'public' services - in every way a self-sufficient municipality.

This meant that the Customer Service Complex was an oddity, in that it was reserved for one purpose alone: to serve as an embassy for all those who sought one with Conquest Incorporated.

All one of them.

The CSC was arguably one of the most hugely wasteful structures ever conceived: several cubic kilometers of space (in absolute terms, of course - walls and stuff tended to eat up some of that), and only a single diplomatic mission.

Count Charles Paget, of the Imperium of Vernii, headed an embassy that was, if nothing else, well provided for. It occupied a swath of offices and indoor gardens (one of which really qualified as a park, complete with waterfall), was separated from the rest of the complex by a (entirely superfluous, of course) security barrier to ensure the Verniian’s safety, and enjoyed direct access to high-ranking customer care representatives.

It’s not like they were exactly in short supply, those.

All in all, the titanic CSC was somewhat depressing. Its wide corridors and soaring atria rang with the footsteps of security personnel as they made their rounds, checking the innumerable empty offices again and again. While mostly automated, the task was monumentally boring.

But it was not with the jackbooted footsteps of law enforcement or of lowly buck privates on their interminable circuit that rang from the smoothly fashioned walls of the CSC today, but instead the sound of the immaculate dress shoes of Sky Marshal Günther von Richthofen.

The Sky Marshal was of the Prussian upper crust, a rigidly upright man of stolid mien. He saluted crisply to the CI detail watching over the entrance annex of the Verniian embassy, continued moving forward until he stood face to face with the tastefully armored portal, and rapped once, sharply, on its black and white façade.

Assuming that the Vernii gate control personnel were listening, von Richthofen cleared his throat. “This is Sky Marshal Günther Magnus von Richthofen. I come with business from Director Zheng.” After a brief pause, there appeared, fleetingly, a minute twinkle in his eye. “I am afraid that I do not have an appointment.”

I do so hope that the Imperium of Vernii enjoys surprises.

Combat Bridge of the HSS Solar Fist, Stocurm system, Imperium of Vernii
06.09.1300 AF
0022 Solar Forces Standard

Commodore Lastin looks on with a gloating smile as the herd of escape craft fly from the Stocurm orbitals. The pattern is mimicked by the parasite shuttles fleeing the deactivated LACs.

“This is the only way to fight a war,” Lastin whispers to himself. “Com, have Commodore Nadal destroy the surviving LACs and then proceed to assist our operations over the planet. Transmit orders that the rest of the fleet is to commence primary engagement to destroy all orbitals—civilian and military. All weapons are to be released for this operation.”

“Yes, Commodore.”

While Nadal’s squadron visits its final wrath against the surviving LACs, the bulk of fleet under Lastin moves to do what it was commanded to do in Stocurm. Five thousand missiles with over 2500 fusion warheads race toward the Stocurm orbitals. Before that wave has even reached its target a second is fired, and as the first wave reaches its target the third wave is fired. Lastin’s fleet starts to close, readying energy batteries to quickly dispatch any surviving facilities before moving to jump back to Erewohn.

Combat Bridge of the HSS Firestorm, Boroglia system, Imperium of Vernii
06.09.1300 AF
0029 Solar Forces Standard

One of the fleeing monitors, hit by a shot from the platforms, hurls end-over-end bleeding fire then explodes. Fortmeer watches anxiously as his fleet forms up to challenge the surviving Verniian defenses. He watches as his sensor feeds start to fluctuate and distort as the fortresses bring up their EW measures, then turns to the comsman.

“We engage with proximity weapons. All squadrons to prepare for full fusion warhead strike on my mark.”

“Yes, Commodore.”

Fortmeer watches patiently as the chronometer counts down a full two minutes, “Give the order to open fire.”

With the war-frigates providing screamer missile coverage for the dreadnoughts’ larger missile arsenals Fortmeer’s command sends out a wave of 9850 missiles with a rough half-and-half split between screamer variants and fusion warheads. The fusion warheads run the gambit from a mere 1.5-gigatons to almost 200 10.2-gigation behemoths. All are set for proximity detonation, even if they do not hit the surviving fortresses they will at least blow the EW coverage out of the way and allow Fortmeer’s command to make a better pinpoint strike.

Liberation Dreadnought Samson, Morning Star system, Collective Protectorates of New Hope
06.09.1300 AF
0813 Solar Forces Standard

The guidance systems aboard the breeching pods prepare their final courses, oblivious to the death of their fellow craft around them. The sixteen surviving pods fire their directional gravimetrics and reorient, bringing their “bows” to bear on the Samson. Then they activate their main drives, flaring beacons all less than thirty-five kilometers away from the Silver Fleet’s flagship.

It is a crude way to board a ship, although by the current standards of warfare actually boarding an enemy vessel at all is considered crude. The last boarding action seen in the Raumreich was in the aborted Wickian invasion of the Vakutu system. Where a party of Vaku marines had boarded Wickian dreadnoughts and by some reports wreaked havoc in the close confines of the Wickian warships. But the built up, high density forward sections of the pods leave little room for imagination, and their acceleration strips that away.

Three rough clusters of pods now bear down on the Samson. Seven pods are on an intercept course for amid-ship. Three hurtle toward the stern quarters of the dreadnought. The final six pods make for the bow quarter of the Samson. What is actually a randomly dispersed pattern, based only on proximity location at the time of breakthrough from the PD, looks like a precisely orchestrated boarding operation. If Saharin had been present he would have no doubt appreciated the irony, but he isn’t

While closing below fifteen kilometers the pods’ systems divert all power to a small array of gravimetric shields located around the bow. Two pods are hit by the Samson’s PD, dropping the total to only fourteen pods. But then the attack finally hits the Liberation flagship.

Fourteen gravimetric-hardened battering rams tear into the sides of the Samson bleeding off energy that could most likely only be superseded by that of high-end missile strikes or C-fractional weaponry. As they tear into the warship, the pods activate powerful magnets to slow themselves and allow their cargo to find its exit.

With the pods moving toward a stop, gel-foam starts to drain off and Saharin’s genetically engineered marines bring their armor full online. Before the gel has even fully drained away the pods are already breaking open, sending forth sinister shapes in black armor wielding heavy assault needlers with an under-slung grenade launcher. Dripping the remnant gel like some demonic babe emerged from the room the Blue Force troops start to move. Snippets of coded conversations fly between the scattered units while the schematics from SecInt and Solar Navy Intelligence are fed into heads-up displays. Within fifteen seconds after the initial breaching the three groups of Blue Force troops are already on the move: the one amid-ship toward the flag bridge, the one from the bow toward the main bridge, and the final one toward the officers’ quarters.

Conquest Incorporated

The com. unit on Count Paget's large desk buzzed politely. Setting aside his pen and the document he was signing, he pressed it, somewhat annoyed at the interruption. "Yes, what is it?"

"Your Lordship, I apologize for the interruption. Sky Marshal von Richtofen is here, he requests an audience with you."

"I don't see him on my appointment list."

"He doesn't have one sir, but he says he's here to discuss business from Director Zheng."

"Oh, then it must be important. Go ahead and send him in."

"Right away sir."

The security gate to the embassy proper slid open quietly, revealing a pair of khaki and black clad army grunts that snapped to attention, and a cute blonde secretary waiting.

"The ambassador will see you now, if you'll just follow me sir," she said with a smile and cheery expression.

The secretary led von Richtofen through the embassy's warren of offices, coming to a stop at a set of oak doors. She knocked politely, heard a faint "come in", and gently opened it, waving gently for the Sky Marshal to enter.

Paget's office was rather typical of a wealthy politician of his stature. Soft lights gently illuminated the walls and ceilings, tasteful and expensive artwork and scultures adorned the walls, and a window behind the count's desk occupied the entire wall, providing a great view onto the city beyond and giving the entire office a rather dramatic appearance.

Paget rose from his desk, a warm smile playing across his handsome and aristocratic face. "Welcome Sky Marshal, to what do I owe this pleasure?" He waved to one of the comfortable chairs in front of his desk. "Please, have a seat."

+++

Stocurm

The abandoned orbital stations over Stocurm were quickly demolished by the fury of the enemy weapons, reduced to tumbling and shattered wreckage, as the adandoned LACs were swifly eliminated. Lastin's victory over Stocurm's defenders was complete.

+++

Boroglia

Three of the twelve batteries perished to the heavy incoming barrage, as the surviving forts fired off a second wave of decoys and EW drones to replace the losses from the first enemy salvo. Hatches slid open, and their first retort to Fortmeer's heavy units issued forth, a mere 900 x-ray missiles compared to the almost ten thousand that they had been attacked with.

OOC: Apologies for not getting replys up sooner…was busy at school then had a death in the family haven’t been around for two weeks. Back now so lets do this thing…And yes I do have a thing for killing off my characters all or a sudden :/

IC: Yalta System
Trade Hub of the Valinor Star Empire

The three translations into real-space near the Allied fleet would have been under a lot of scrutiny if it were not for their IFF which was broadcasting CSN transponders. A large small freighter whose age was evident by its worn and rusted hull was flanked on both side by two small Wolf-class Space Superiority Monitors. A short message was sent to the allied Flag with standard Allied codes and encryption.

“Allied this is Lt. (jg) Alverez commanding the CNS Sprite I have under my command P.O.W from the recent action which took place in the Gyrps system. I have orders to transfer them to Allied Facilities in this system. Note that their commanding officer a Captain Kagoshima has survived the battle as well. Alverez out.”

The prisoners may have been ill-fed and their sanitation facilities may have been over-stressed but they had reached their destination alive and whole, even their captain who was only “asked” a few questions while in custody, those bruises obviously came from a fall…clumsy Ortagan.

Gadsen System

In the time between Adm. Peregrine’s order to jump out of the system and the actual execution of that order, a mere five seconds at most the Wickian Fleet had lost the initiative of battle and were now trapped in system. The hurried reports of Peregrine’s flag officers held a sense of shock and horror.

“Enemy Fleet translation, danger-close!”

“Enemy Ordnance inbound!”

“Interference from unknown source, jump engines are jammed!”

All these reports issued at once, the ship lurching violently as it took damage in the initial broadside.

“Shit…” Peregrine grunted as he felt his shock-frame torn from its anchor. He felt himself spinning in the air and hit the deck of his bridge with bone cracking force. His bridge was filled with smoke and smelled of charred flesh. As he picked up his head he noticed that his feet were crushed under his own shock-frame… he laughed bitterly for a few moments not noticing his skin-suits tourniquets activate above his knees and the large amount of painkillers entered his system. He reflected that every thing seemed so clear so vivid for a fleeting second as the face of his chief of staff appeared in his visor. Her look of concern all but reassured him of his fate, and that of so many others on the bridge… he opened his mouth to speak, to tell her the two words to activate the contingency plan he hoped he would never have had to use…he never knew if she heard his gasps before darkness overtook his eyes.
Meanwhile all the shock and horror of the previous moments were lost on the Wickian vessel’s point-defense as their computers took control automatically and began a suppression barrage of the incoming ordnance of the Solar Navy. But the enemy was far too close to their position; there simply was not enough time. Hellfire from fusion detonations, and the large lasers of the Solar Navy consumed the Wickian Fleet in its hate; soon any visual of the 1st Expeditionary Task Force would have been lost as it was enveloped.

Ticonderoga System
Capital System of the Wickian Concordat
On Board CSN Vigilant
Flagship of Home Fleet

“Admiral, the Hammer has transmitted Case Omega!” That report confirmed that Admiral Tourville’s flag had launched its survival beacon with its black box signaling that the ship was destroyed or crippled beyond repair. She doubted many of the crew would have made it to the life pods, and some still probably languished in the burning depressurized hull…Tourville was a rising star in the navy but it seemed he was now dead, the star that burns brightest does burn shortest.

“Commodore Harmon’s LACs have reached attack range of the main body of the enemy fleet, commencing attack...” She heard her tactical officer report as the LAC wings from Home Fleets carriers and their Dominion consorts committed themselves.

LAC 235
116th LAC Squadron
4th LAC Wing


Beneath the armor-plast visor of her helmet Commodore Jackie Harmon smiled viciously, the enemy had made a mistake and for whatever reason had ignored her command’s entry into the battle. Perhaps that was because the Solar Navy was too concerned in squashing the pincer attack of the Valinor and Wickian attack, (indeed they have inflicted heavy losses on Adm. Tourville’s command already) or perhaps they were fooled by the heavy ECM that Wickian LACs relied upon but even at this range that would only obscure her command’s numbers not prevent their detection. Either way it was time for some pay back.

“All wings launch plan Bravo 2, scatter formation razzle-dazzle…initiate!” On her command to initiate six missile dropped from the LACs missile bay seemingly hanging is space before their impellers activated accelerating them away from the parasite craft at great acceleration. Harmon knew her LAC would be in the thick of this fight at knife range where frankly LACs operated best, and her weapons package followed this knowledge. The LACs anti-ship missile were very quick and likewise they were quite short legged less then 1.5 million klicks…but her units were within that range here…She watched the missile fired from her 800 LACs head towards their targets, if they hit even dreadnaughts un impeded they would cause heavy damage, but their targets were not the Solar Navy’s dreadnaughts but rather its escorts, the enemy War-Frigates. At 500 k-klicks the MIRV’s activated a dozen missiles each separated from their main drive, over 60,000 missiles now screamed in at the frigates, forty percent were dedicated ECM missiles or dragons teeth decoys, the rest were cruiser rated laser-warheads. As they detonated and bombard the escorts with their beams, the LACs followed in their wake activating their own spinal grasers…

CNS Vigilant

“Admiral message received from the Daimyo Captain Glacier has assumed command of the third task force and is attempting to withdrawal from the battle. He reports that his force is under heavy attack by an Ortagan Dreadnaught squadron and that his command can not hold.” Kuzack grunted as she heard the report, Glacier was 6th in the succession of command. She had met him once during one of the Guard’s monthly drills and thought him to be an overweight and lazy officer who had grown to enjoy the comforts of the Merchant Guild over the Navy. She suspected he was even bought and paid for with the Guilds bribes. She looked at his battered command as his heavily out-gunned battleships furiously attempted to roll their wedges to intercept enemy fire all the while withdrawal as fast as they could with their slightly better acceleration rates. His damaged ships even were moving to the core of the wall while their less battered consorts exposed themselves to fire. Perhaps he was made of sterner stuff then she gave him credit for.

“Admiral CIC reports that the enemy flag is the Executioner commanded by Vice Admiral Daur.” Kuzack admitted she knew little about him, however he has appeared cool and collected in this fight, not one to panic. Unfortunately it seemed the Ortagan Admiralty was getting better…

It was time for her to bring her command out of hiding, she had two options, she could jump in support of the engaged Valinor fleet, and probably end up much the same as Tourville, even with her new dreadnaughts…or she could move against the detached dreadnaught squadron. It was a simple decision. She had time to commit to a single micro jump before the FTL/I would activate again once the Orbitals jumped to Sanctuary…

“Range between enemy main body and the detached squadron?” Kuzack asked.
“8.5 million klicks Admiral.” Still in support range of the main body then, it’s a shame that Daur wouldn’t let that squadron wonder a bit further, but as it was his own command was still accelerating towards the Valinor Task Force and away from her own embattled units.

“The Fleet will jump to point 3391x9158, 2.5 million klicks in advance of that Dreadnaught squadron’s line of movement. Mission priority is the relief of the 3rd Task Force and the suppression of the enemy squadron. Primary Targets are enemy dreadnaughts. Spin up FTL engines prepare for jump. The squadron would have approximately 3-5 seconds warning if they detected the large amount of energy it took to spin up Wickian FTL drives. Then Home Fleet jumped into the fray.








OOC: What a suprise there are loose ends....Gadsen Thetis Gregor posts to follow tomorrow morning I HOPE!

Stocurm system, Imperium of Vernii
06.09.1300 AF
0037 Solar Forces Standard

Lastin's command lingers over the devestation above Stocurm for only a matter of minutes, watching to make sure the deed they had set out to perform was completed. As the last explosions tear through the dying orbitals of the planet, the small armada reassembles on Lastin's flag squadron and starts to accelerate, pulling away from the planet's orbital pattern. In a series of self-warping patterns of white light against the midnight of space the raiding force vanishes making for Hellings' operational center in occupied Erewohn.

Combat Bridge of the HSS Firestorm, Boroglia system, Imperium of Vernii
06.09.1300 AF
0038 Solar Forces Standard

Fortmeer stares into the holograms of his fleet as the counters representing the Verniian missiles intercept the course of his command. Brief flashes of yellow spark around the perimeter of his command as some missiles evade the fleet's collective PD. The war-frigate Talon, so grievously wounded in the last exchange with the Verniians, glows a brighter shade of red. Only the intervention of the dreadnough Unconquered had saved the frigate at all. The Talon trails out of the formation, rapidly losing power as her engines start to fail.

Fortmeer winces, "Com, signal to the Talon's captain, he is to give the order to abandon ship and activate the self-destruct protoccol posthaste. The Unconquered will collect the surviving crew."

"Yes, Commodore."

"And give the order to continue engagement until the Verniians are destroyed."

"Yes, sir."

Fortmeer's war-frigates lay another screen of screamer missiles as the dreadnoughts provide the brute force yet again. This time there are 9842 missiles flying toward the fortresses with the rough half-and-half divide maintained between the fusion warheads and the screamers. Fortmeer watches and waits to see if this will end the engagement.

Combat Bridge of the HSS Lyr, Gadsen system, Hegemony of New Ortaga
06.09.1300 AF
0019 Solar Forces Standard

Klaxons blare outside the secured blast door of Vice Admiral Haydn's combat bridge as the Third Solar Fleet ravages the Wickian raiding force that had given battle in Gadsen. The tactical projection is nothing more than a sea of confused and staggered images, as the Third Solar's sensors try valiantly to maintain live feeds while their eyes are ravaged by the pure destruction Haydn had unleashed. Space around the Wickian armada has been morphed into a storm of fire, radation, and the debris of a battle.

Haydn accepts a report from one of his tactical officers then almost immediately throws it back at the nervous junior officer.

"Com, the fleet is to maintain engagement pattern at the present, no variation."

Across the projection Haydn's chief of staff, Commander Michael Grider, looks up at his commanding officer.

"Admiral, if I may speak?"

Haydn gives a vague wave as he changes the projection to try and gain more data.

"If we continue this engagement at this range and at this magnitude it is likely our own ships may soon find their marksmanship suffering, Admiral."

"If we do not continue this engagement, Mr. Grider, there is the assured outcome that the fucking Wickians will disembowel almost a squadron of dreadnoughts and two squadrons of war-frigates when we break off and shut down the Immobilizers to perform another micro-jump. We continue the engagement, Mr. Grider. We continue it until such time that either we or are enemies are destroyed. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Admiral?"

"Good," Haydn snaps his fingers at the com officer. "Give the order."

"Yes, Admiral."

The Third Solar continues to pour fire into the Wickian fleet. It is a merciless wave of destruction as Haydn's warships simply send barrage after barrage as soon as they can. Energy weapons, fusion warheads, X-ray warheads, screamers, and monitors continue to fall upon the Wickians with unending fury. At this range Haydn's total lack of tactical grace barely matters. At this range his orders will produce one thing: results.

"Thank you, your Highness." Sky Marshal von Richthofen sat and surveyed the room, glancing at the expansive floor-to-ceiling window behind Paget. The same sort of dramatic flair the Director is fond of. Shaking himself from this fleeting abstraction, he refocused on the man now seated opposite his own chair, his sharp gaze giving the impression that his eyes had never wandered at all.

"We are both busy men, your Highness, so I see no reason why we should not leap straight into it." A pause communicated a sense of throat-clearing, even though no such throat preparation occurred. "At the request of Director Zheng, the CICSS conducted an extensive survey of the course of the war in the Raumreich. The purpose of this investigation was to ascertain how best the Megacorporation of Conquest Incorporated could assist the Imperium of Vernii and the other free peoples of the Raumreich in defeating the Hegemony of New Ortaga.

"In light of the precarious nature of Gregor's position, and by extension that of your government, the CICSS leadership concluded, and Director Zheng has agreed, that significant and immediate military support is the only appreciable contribution available at this juncture. To that end, I hereby formally convey the intention of Conquest Incorporated to take military action in defense of the free peoples of the Raumreich Oversector, in the interests of peace, prosperity and market stability." Von Richthofen smiled. "First Fleet is at the service of your government."

OOC: You all will probably hate me for posting this but, i had a 6 page word reply ready to go, when i hit save my computer froze then died...been having problems since. that was a week ago...now i got a page again and will do my best to post tonight.

Lets get this thread rolling again ! And i guess i cant bitch about ortaga not posting as ive been a month in replying...

OOC: Hey everyone...I know its been a couple months since I last posted here, if anyone remembers me posting at all. As of late I've been having a bit of personal troubles. But they are quite over now. I was simply posting here to see if there is any way at this late stage of the thread to become involved again. Best of luck, all!