The Eastern-Coalition
15-01-2006, 14:04
2162 A.D., the Height of the Great Sol War, 40 years ago
Twisted shards of armour plating, chunks of metal chassis, frozen and mutilated corpses floating between them all, conspired together to fill the otherwise empty void of space. The scene was horrifying enough to make a grown man check beneath his bed before he went to sleep, as though Hell itself had opened up and released an untold evil upon mankind. For the souls that now floated into oblivion it may as well have done, if the horrified looks frozen onto their pale, bloodied faces were anything to go by. Despite the horror, it was a strangely relaxing scene. Of all the places to rest in peace, space was the best seat in the house. If only their last living moments hadn’t been full of violence and agony then perhaps their tortured souls could be comforted by that thought.
But the horror was not over. Not by a long shot. This was a battlefield that would be used over and over again, for the next decade or more at the very least, like the chess board of Satan himself, only using mortal souls in place of wooden pieces. This patch of space was destined to witness more violence than a psychotic killer on a slaughter spree through a city centre. Sure enough, a long, white metal cylinder silently and swiftly pushed its way through the field of death, leaving a white smoky streamer to allow even the naked eye to track its suicidal course. As it burst out of the domain of the dead, it penetrated the domain of the living – the perpetrators of the destruction. The Western Alliance’s First Fleet.
Over two dozen capital ships, including five strike carriers, loomed ominously over the small, rocky moon called Titan, like birds of prey readying themselves for the final swoop down towards their helpless, furry feast. Capable of obliterating Earth itself so many times over that even the most extreme madman would wet himself with joy, the fleet sat idle at the edge of the debris field, waiting patiently. Their weapons of awesome destructive power just a button press away from being deployed in all their bloody glory. The waiting was probably even more painful than their destructive capabilities.
The lone torpedo struck one of the largest ships in the fleet. The ANS Yamato took the blast on the chin with all the dignity of a prize-fighting boxer. The impact left a visible black scar on her forward armour, leaving the ship with a beaten look that the afore mentioned boxer would have been proud of. But the Yamato did not react. Proud as a monarch, she did not move an inch, nor retaliate in vengeance. She continued to wait. What she and her horde waited for was not easy to ascertain; the evidence of death and destruction that lay before them clearly showed that they had already endured more combat than any one man should endure in a lifetime. But she waited nonetheless.
Like a twisted mirror image gazing back with angered eyes, across the battlefield another fleet of ships awaited the dawn. Fewer in number but making up for it with pure determination, the Coalition Twelfth Fleet stood between the Alliance and Titan, guarding their objective like an ever-faithful guard dog, seemingly unaware of the fact that defeat was inevitable. They did not appear disheartened or discouraged by the insurmountable odds that lay before them, nor the stench of death that reminded them of the last Coalition Force that stood proud here. Only three old strike carriers, perhaps ten cruisers and several support craft stood in their lines, but they were more than willing to hold their ground against the superior fleet.
Fighter craft darted between the enormous ships in the Coalition line, weaving their way through the morass to reach their designated positions. They were preparing for an attack. To show their resolve, the leading strike carrier had already launched a single torpedo at the enemy leader, making a battle inevitable. Their orders were simple, if not so simple to carry out – hold off the Alliance fleet for as long as humanly possible, and destroy as many of their ships as they could in the process. Their intention was not to hold Titan, or even Saturn. After all, both could easily be retaken later on when the more powerful fleets finally arrived from Earth to join them. Their goals lay elsewhere. Hidden. As they had been since the start of the war, and as they would be until the last possible moment. And they needed only a few moments…
Whatever it was, the Alliance was very interested in finding out and eliminating it. Like hungry sharks following the scent of their wounded prey, they had searched the outer solar system having only rumour and innuendo to lead them to this final destination. They had expected it to be far more heavily guarded than the Coalition Twelfth Fleet, but perhaps a heavy guard would have drawn their attention much sooner. Compared to the Alliance First Fleet, the Coalition Twelfth was a puny foe. Their flagship, the CS Kuznetsov, was an ancient Class 3 strike carrier, ailing in terms of armour and weapons like a tired old cat that refused to die. Had the war not come along, the Kuznetsov would almost certainly have been decommissioned years ago. Instead, the Coalition Navy had refitted her with more powerful rail guns and extra armour plating, and put her back out to pasture.
Contrariwise, the Alliance First Fleet were the big guns, the hard-asses sent in to the most dangerous and important missions. The ANS Yamato was a brand new, 82,000 ton behemoth of a Class 1 Strike Carrier, sporting all the latest gizmos the Alliance had up their sleeve. She was born into war, commissioned less than a year before the surprise attack on Europa. While other fleets fell like bowling pins to the enormous Coalition bowling ball, the Yamato and her cohorts were the thorn in Admiral Kulov’s side, consistently thwarting every Coalition effort to destroy or capture her. The annoying pin that just wouldn’t go down. Perhaps even the reason why the Alliance still stood a chance of winning this war at all at the moment.
Coalition fighters suddenly ratcheted up to top speed and plunged into the decaying field of the dead. There was no warning shot or declaration of combat to alert the Alliance ships to any attack. This was war, not chess. Truly, the war to end all wars. When this war was over, for the first time in history the human race would be united under one banner – which banner that would be, however, depended on the outcome of this war. There would be no treaties. And so such pesky things as ‘honour’ and ‘rules of engagement’ were tossed out of the airlock to join the dead in the void. This was about survival, nothing more and nothing less. Pleasantries could wait until tomorrow, if tomorrow ever came. If anybody survived to see it.
Shortly after the sudden movement of Coalition forces, the Alliance fighter squadrons, superior in number, also dived into the debris, joining the Coalition pilots in a bizarre ballet of death as their nimble craft used various multi-vector manoeuvring jets to dodge and weave through the chunks of the dead. Explosions happened before any shots were even fired, as unfortunate pilots from both sides strayed into the path of moving debris. And when the two halves clashed in the middle of the field, all hell broke lose. Missiles streaked across the landscape, guided by computer intelligence past the obstacles to impact with their respective targets. Rapid-fire projectile weapons streamed across the black backdrop, slicing through any fighters unfortunate enough to fall into their torrent. Countermeasures flashed as they fell from dozens of fighters, like fireworks in the night sky. The dark field was illuminated almost instantly as the fighters began to kill each other. From a distance, to the unknowing eye, it might even have appeared to be beautiful. It wasn’t beautiful.
The capital ships did not need to engage in such acts of gymnastics. On either side of the field, the dark machines of war began to turn their substantial weapons turrets, and unleashed their destructive force at each other. Rail guns began to slice paths through the debris as they relentlessly spat large metal rods towards their opponents. Torpedoes emerged from every single capital ship, which began to slowly make their way through the debris field. Enormous flak turrets burst to life, lobbing chunks of depleted uranium surrounded by glowing blue plasma into the fray. Fighters from both sides were careful not to stray into these enormous, veritable rivers of unbridled destruction.
Coalition Kurgens, small support vessels, began to move strategically around the debris field, hoping to flank the Alliance fleet and launch their torpedo salvos before retreating to safety once more. Joining them, several more wings of fighters and bombers emerged from their base carriers, determined to give the Alliance ships as much pain as they could. Only a few Alliance Prowlers, ships similar in many ways to Kurgens, noticed these movements and moved to engage.
And all of this violence happened in total silence. It was like looking at something which wasn’t happening, which shouldn’t be happening. But it was there, plain as the light of day. Silent but deadly.
“Twelve minutes Admiral,” an officer yelled. People bustled around the command deck of the Kuznetsov as though their lives had meaning, as though there was any way of winning this battle. As though they had hope. Admiral Ruminov stood with regal composure as usual next to a large tactical desk on the upper tier, which displayed the progress of the battle on its surface. The desk was probably the brightest thing in the dark, grey room. Aside from red lights which were permanently on during battle alert, there were no other sources of illumination. Supposedly the red lighting allowed officers to concentrate on their work. All it did was make it a cold, dark place. They should probably get used to that. Where they were going wasn’t going to be any better, after all.
“Tornado Cruiser Wing is moving out of position,” Rominov growled. “Lieutenant; order Captain Wang to hold his position until the Saracens reinforce them!”
“Yes Admiral!”
“Kurgens 4, 5 and 6 need to stagger their formations,” Rominov thought out loud. “One stray flak shot and they are all in flames. Move them further apart, and have them alter their heading by six degrees down the y axis...”
“Yes, Admiral!”
The CS Kuznetsov vibrated quite a lot. It was sustaining some degree of fire, probably from enemy rail guns. The armour would hold for now, but this battle would end quite abruptly if any of the enemy torpedoes made it through. They all seemed dismally aware of that possibility. The weapons she fired at the enemy were actually too powerful for a ship of her age, and she shook and groaned from their recoil, ignoring her age so that she could perform one last, noble deed.
“Inform the 8th Saracen wing to intercept some of those Alliance torps,” Rominov shouted. “If they want a carrier to come home to they had better be quick about it!”
“Port torps away, Admiral,” a tactical officer said. He sat in front of an enormous console, with monitors all around him like a prison cell, which he shared with two other officers. His black uniform was torn across his chest and had dust all over it, though he kept working in spite of the trickle of blood which had appeared. There was plenty more blood where that came from, after all; a little cut could wait. Besides, the antiquated and small infirmary would be overflowing by now anyway. Nobody ever said war was healthy.
“Reload all tubes and prepare a third volley!” the Admiral snapped. “And I want a full torpedo inventory of the Cyclone cruisers – I need to know how many we can throw at those Alliance scumbags.”
“Yes Admiral, I shall request inventories from the fleet momentarily,” the officer nodded. “Port torpedo room, please check systems and reload tubes…”
“Admiral!” another officer shouted from the lower tier, over the din of all the boots stamping on cold metal surfaces and all the whirring consoles, excited about something. “The ship is launching now!”
The thick atmosphere of Titan obscured anything going on beneath it as though it were hiding some kind of sinister secret. What pushed its way out of the atmosphere was not particularly sinister at first glance, however. Nor did it seem able to help the Coalition in this battle. An enormous vessel, at least three times larger than the ANS Yamato a few thousand kilometres away, emerged from the atmosphere like a great whale leaping from the murky depths of the ocean, visibly parting the atmosphere in its wake. The flying whale had no apparent armaments, though it did have an enormous array of sensory and communicatory equipment on the front, and the engines seemed to take up the entire rear quarter of the vessel. Aside from that its hull was fairly streamlined and featureless, arching from a semi-point at the front to a wide rectangle at the rear, almost like a wedge.
It slowly and violently broke free of the atmosphere, desperately trying to rip its substantial mass from the hold of the moon’s gravity well. Once it had freed itself from Titan’s substantial grasp, it slowly turned in space and moved to join the Coalition fleet, which had lost at least five capital ships since the engagement began. Could this be what the Alliance was trying to destroy? An unarmed chunk of powered metal? The purpose of the vessel was wholly unclear, though if the engines were anything to go by it was intended to be rather fast at carrying out that unknown purpose. A few Alliance fighters immediately emerged from the ever-growing debris field and sped towards this new ship, pushing their engines well over the limit to try and reach it. But Coalition fighters saw them and moved to take them on.
After successfully manoeuvring its significant frame into position behind the line of remaining Coalition capital ships, it slowly came to a halt. Its engines were glowing blue slightly, and they grew ever-brighter by the second. Several Yakob-class shuttles emerged from the CS Kuznetsov, quickly taking evasive courses towards the massive vessel and landing inside small hangars. A few stray shots from the increasingly heated battle smashed against the ship’s armour, seemingly only causing minor damage to its substantial shell. A couple of shuttles weren’t so lucky; they were cracked open like bugs, spilling out their unfortunate passengers.
Inside the ship there were already several thousand people, the last-minute extras had arrived at Titan on the CS Kuznetsov separately. The ship’s corridors were lined with strange glass tubes mounted against the walls. Every available spare wall was covered in these pods. A particularly incredible sight was the ‘main’ room; spanning dozens of decks, the open area was enormous, and lined with thousands of the pods. People looked like ants as they walked on the small gangways that criss-crossed the dimly-lit chasm.
Counter-Admiral Ruslan Boklov was the highest ranking officer aboard this record-breaking vessel. He was appointed by the Admiral of the Fleet of the Eastern Coalition, Vladimir Kulov himself, for this immensely important, indescribably significant mission. He had been the previous commander of the CS Krasnaya, the most successful Coalition Strike Carrier in history, as well as several other lesser carriers and cruisers, and had even briefly served in the Coalition Overwatch as a colonel in his early years. He was supremely qualified for pretty much anything, and that was why he had been assigned to this mission. Whether he considered himself fortunate or not was another matter. It was like being thankful for being instated as a kamikaze pilot.
This ship was called, rather unimaginatively, ‘Sleep Cruiser 1’. Its construction had started before the war, and had been accelerated after war broke out, and utilised a revolutionary new form of propulsion – the cruise drive. Unlike normal jump drives the cruise drive could provide sustained speeds without needing to stop to recharge and cool down. Of course, as with everything good in life it came with a catch. It was far too massive to use on existing Strike Carriers and cruisers, thanks to the large engines necessary for it to work, and the enormously complicated networks of superconductors and coolant systems. And it required so much power that multiple generators had to be installed, along with the generators required for powering the cryogenic systems that littered the ship.
Originally the ship had been intended to carry the flag of the Coalition to new lands to expand the empire to whole new systems. When war broke out, it became insurance. The Coalition would continue to exist no matter what the outcome. Peace of mind for the upper echelons of the government more than anything else. It had taken the most elite astronomers almost three years and dozens of the latest super-quantum computer mainframes to find a suitable destination, and then to chart its movement through the galaxy in relation to the movement to Sol, to account for the so-called ‘lightspeed lag’ that all long range telescopes suffered from, to incorporate the speed of the ship into those calculations to try and plot an intercept course, to account for potential time relativity differences in the great interstellar void, and to figure out how the ship would then get to the right planet once it arrived. Several contingency courses were also plotted in the event of virtually any problems in the middle of the journey. Crammed with some of the best scientists, mathematicians, survival experts, domestic professionals in varying fields from plumbing to shoe repairing, manual workers and enough soldiers to conquer a small country, it was supposedly ready for any eventuality.
Except for actually leaving the Sol system intact, at least, thought Boklov. The boffins hadn’t thought of that, had they? Even the most elaborate plan could be brought down by a simple oversight. He stood motionless in doorway of the rather small command area of the ship. Given that most of its functions were to be automated, the command area wasn’t adequate in size or equipment to coordinate any kind of combat. Five people already rendered it cramped and inefficient. Any more and somebody might end up getting themselves crushed to death.
“Another Strike Carrier destroyed,” one of the techs yelled anxiously. He was a civilian; he had no concept of military rank or procedure. He was only there for pre-flight checks, and yet he had been thrust into the middle of a heated battle. Boklov decided to cut him some slack – even though the civilians had been placed under his command for this mission, there was little point in disciplining him for something as simple as forgetting to say ‘sir’. Especially under these circumstances.
“How many are left?” Boklov asked the civilian as calmly as he could. The tech seemed rather wired, trying to perform his tasks and coordinate a battlefield.
“Just the Kuznetsov, I think,” the tech said. “A couple of cruisers, mostly Kurgens and fighters though.”
“Any sign of the First Fleet?”
“Not from what I can tell,” the tech shrugged, ducking back down beneath the console with a screwdriver. “These sensors see quite a long way, and I don’t see anything approaching Titan, Coalition or Alliance.”
“Then we had better be leaving sooner rather than later,” Boklov grumbled. “This battle will not last much longer.” He stepped into the command area, pushing past a tech that was trying to exit, and grabbed a microphone from a hook on a console. A button was on the side like a trigger. When he pressed it, a soft bleeping tone sounded across the entire behemoth, and speakers over his head crackled slightly. Everybody could hear his voice as he spoke, no matter where they were.
“All hands, we must accelerate departure,” Boklov said. “Proceed to your designated cryogenic stasis cylinders and prepare for deep sleep mode. Officers of the Navy, ensure all are in stasis as soon as possible with a minimal of fuss. This is not a drill. Boklov out.”
He released the button and the crackling from the overhead speakers ended. The microphone hooked back on the console with ease. If only their task now was so easy. Trying to get several thousand people into several thousand glass tubes in a matter of minutes was going to be difficult. Fortunately, they had already been loading a few small groups into their glass coffins, so they had a head start.
“Is this ship ready to follow its primary course, civilian?” Boklov demanded of the tech. Why learn names? They probably wouldn’t be alive in a few minutes anyway. Even if they survived this and got into the pods, there was no guarantee they would ever emerge. The technology had never been tested on a long-term basis before.
“I would feel better if we had an extra week to triple-check all the systems,” the tech said. Boklov suddenly realised that this simple tech was one of the construction experts who had built the ship, and he felt a little better because of it. Better to have an expert in charge of your death, as your life might last just a few minutes longer. “But we don’t have an extra week, do we? So yeah, she’s as ready as she’ll ever be. Unless there’s some problem with the cruise drive, the primary course should work fine.”
“What sort of problem?” Boklov growled.
“Well this journey is going to take the better part of four decades,” the engineer said. “We haven’t had four decades to test the engines – hell, we haven’t even had one decade. We can run all the computer simulations and stress tests imaginable but that can never compare to the reality of practical field testing. Theoretically, the engines should run constantly, without incident, for forty years at least. Practically… pfft, well we’ll find out won’t we?”
“Your confidence inspires me, civilian,” Boklov snorted. “Begin to secure all control stations, give control of the ship to the computer. I want the cruise drive to come online the moment that the bulk of the crew are in stasis.”
They couldn’t suddenly activate thousands of cryogenic stasis systems while already using the cruise engines. Computer simulations suggest that things became… unpleasant, and the cruise engines would suffer brown outs. A few cylinders wouldn’t be a problem, but they would need to have most of the ship’s population secure in their cylinders before they set off. From Boklov’s position near the top of the main ‘chasm’, he could see that it seemed to be progressing surprisingly smoothly. A well-oiled machine. It almost gave him hope for the future. Not quite, though.
The battle outside was beginning to be lost. A final torpedo dealt a lethal blow to a ship which had come to this battle expecting to die. An enormous explosion from within the Kuznetsov made it swell like a blowfish for a second, blasting armour panels into the oblivion like giant pieces of shrapnel, looking for heads to remove. Balls of fire burst out through hull breaches all over the crippled old ship, yet even so her rail guns continued to fire until their magazines were exhausted, valiant to the end. Enormous chunks of the ship broke away completely, slowly drifting away from their home like rats leaving a sinking ship. Coalition fighters could only look on in horror as the bulk of their home slowly began to be drawn down towards Titan, which would become her final resting place. Hardly a soldier’s burial, but it would have to do.
The blast wave shook even the enormous colony ship, though it caused no damage to the sleek craft. It was now defenceless, with only a handful of Coalition fighters and Kurgens flocking around to protect their mark in the absence of the big guns. The Alliance fleet, contrariwise, had lost only a few cruisers and a single carrier. The ANS Yamato and the other major ships were still alive and kicking, having only taken cosmetic damage. And they now moved in for the kill.
They slowly entered the debris field, using some kind of magnetic fields to push the debris aside as they moved through it, creating a wake of corpses and scrap metal as they slowly accelerated. All of their weapons were trained on the colony ship. They ignored the few Coalition fighters who tried desperately to draw their attention away. Alliance fighters mopped them up quickly. They didn’t stand a chance against such superior numbers.
Torpedoes began to emerge from the various ports on the various capital ships. Dozens of harbingers of death began the trek towards their target, the colony ship, their white streamers foretellers of the defenceless vessel’s doom. As the Strike Carriers got into flak range, they unleashed their slow-moving projectiles, glowing with super-heated plasma energy. It would take them nearly as long as the torpedoes to clear the distance, but the show would be well worth the wait.
The remaining Coalition fighters valiantly swerved into the path of several torpedoes, committing suicide in a vain attempt to save the beached whale they were tasked with protecting. Kurgens launched the last of their torpedoes at the capital ships and then joined their smaller cousins in the kamikaze missions. It was no good. Too many torpedoes, not enough suicidal pilots. And to add insult to injury, their large opponents launched even more torpedoes.
“There are enough cryogenic cylinders online to safely begin departure Admiral!” the engineer said. He jumped up from his place beneath a console, hitting his head on the bare metal and emitting a yelp of pain.
“Then go, now – go!” Boklov shouted.
“We just need a few more seconds for the cruise engines to fully charge,” the engineer said, getting to his feet at last and looking at another console. A display appeared on the LCD screen showing two progress bars. They were both green, at 97%. So close to surviving, and yet, so far away.
“Can you not you speed it up? We are going to be hit hard in a few seconds!” the Admiral roared in frustration. The number of alert sirens wailing in the small room was enough to drive anybody to frustration, especially when one’s life was about to end.
“Sorry, but it’s hard enough trying to compensate for inertia,” the engineer grunted. “I’m not going to have many spare hands…”
The torpedoes caught sight of their target as they emerged from the debris field ahead of the capital ships, and immediately they seemed to ignite all of their fuel at once, propelling themselves towards the colony ship at an impressive speed. They were little more than a few metres away from impact, when the colony ship all of a sudden accelerated forwards, hurtling off into the distance. Its blue engines glowed so brightly they appeared to be new stars on the horizon, a beacon of hope to the Coalition and a symbol of failure to the Alliance. It vanished as quickly as it had accelerated. The timing couldn’t have been better.
The torpedoes passed through the ghost of their target, loyally detonating themselves where the ship should have been. Harmlessly. Uselessly.
The colony ship had escaped.
Now it began a four-decade journey across the unknown. The interstellar void. What lay at the end of its journey, some 16 light years away, was a mystery.
Twisted shards of armour plating, chunks of metal chassis, frozen and mutilated corpses floating between them all, conspired together to fill the otherwise empty void of space. The scene was horrifying enough to make a grown man check beneath his bed before he went to sleep, as though Hell itself had opened up and released an untold evil upon mankind. For the souls that now floated into oblivion it may as well have done, if the horrified looks frozen onto their pale, bloodied faces were anything to go by. Despite the horror, it was a strangely relaxing scene. Of all the places to rest in peace, space was the best seat in the house. If only their last living moments hadn’t been full of violence and agony then perhaps their tortured souls could be comforted by that thought.
But the horror was not over. Not by a long shot. This was a battlefield that would be used over and over again, for the next decade or more at the very least, like the chess board of Satan himself, only using mortal souls in place of wooden pieces. This patch of space was destined to witness more violence than a psychotic killer on a slaughter spree through a city centre. Sure enough, a long, white metal cylinder silently and swiftly pushed its way through the field of death, leaving a white smoky streamer to allow even the naked eye to track its suicidal course. As it burst out of the domain of the dead, it penetrated the domain of the living – the perpetrators of the destruction. The Western Alliance’s First Fleet.
Over two dozen capital ships, including five strike carriers, loomed ominously over the small, rocky moon called Titan, like birds of prey readying themselves for the final swoop down towards their helpless, furry feast. Capable of obliterating Earth itself so many times over that even the most extreme madman would wet himself with joy, the fleet sat idle at the edge of the debris field, waiting patiently. Their weapons of awesome destructive power just a button press away from being deployed in all their bloody glory. The waiting was probably even more painful than their destructive capabilities.
The lone torpedo struck one of the largest ships in the fleet. The ANS Yamato took the blast on the chin with all the dignity of a prize-fighting boxer. The impact left a visible black scar on her forward armour, leaving the ship with a beaten look that the afore mentioned boxer would have been proud of. But the Yamato did not react. Proud as a monarch, she did not move an inch, nor retaliate in vengeance. She continued to wait. What she and her horde waited for was not easy to ascertain; the evidence of death and destruction that lay before them clearly showed that they had already endured more combat than any one man should endure in a lifetime. But she waited nonetheless.
Like a twisted mirror image gazing back with angered eyes, across the battlefield another fleet of ships awaited the dawn. Fewer in number but making up for it with pure determination, the Coalition Twelfth Fleet stood between the Alliance and Titan, guarding their objective like an ever-faithful guard dog, seemingly unaware of the fact that defeat was inevitable. They did not appear disheartened or discouraged by the insurmountable odds that lay before them, nor the stench of death that reminded them of the last Coalition Force that stood proud here. Only three old strike carriers, perhaps ten cruisers and several support craft stood in their lines, but they were more than willing to hold their ground against the superior fleet.
Fighter craft darted between the enormous ships in the Coalition line, weaving their way through the morass to reach their designated positions. They were preparing for an attack. To show their resolve, the leading strike carrier had already launched a single torpedo at the enemy leader, making a battle inevitable. Their orders were simple, if not so simple to carry out – hold off the Alliance fleet for as long as humanly possible, and destroy as many of their ships as they could in the process. Their intention was not to hold Titan, or even Saturn. After all, both could easily be retaken later on when the more powerful fleets finally arrived from Earth to join them. Their goals lay elsewhere. Hidden. As they had been since the start of the war, and as they would be until the last possible moment. And they needed only a few moments…
Whatever it was, the Alliance was very interested in finding out and eliminating it. Like hungry sharks following the scent of their wounded prey, they had searched the outer solar system having only rumour and innuendo to lead them to this final destination. They had expected it to be far more heavily guarded than the Coalition Twelfth Fleet, but perhaps a heavy guard would have drawn their attention much sooner. Compared to the Alliance First Fleet, the Coalition Twelfth was a puny foe. Their flagship, the CS Kuznetsov, was an ancient Class 3 strike carrier, ailing in terms of armour and weapons like a tired old cat that refused to die. Had the war not come along, the Kuznetsov would almost certainly have been decommissioned years ago. Instead, the Coalition Navy had refitted her with more powerful rail guns and extra armour plating, and put her back out to pasture.
Contrariwise, the Alliance First Fleet were the big guns, the hard-asses sent in to the most dangerous and important missions. The ANS Yamato was a brand new, 82,000 ton behemoth of a Class 1 Strike Carrier, sporting all the latest gizmos the Alliance had up their sleeve. She was born into war, commissioned less than a year before the surprise attack on Europa. While other fleets fell like bowling pins to the enormous Coalition bowling ball, the Yamato and her cohorts were the thorn in Admiral Kulov’s side, consistently thwarting every Coalition effort to destroy or capture her. The annoying pin that just wouldn’t go down. Perhaps even the reason why the Alliance still stood a chance of winning this war at all at the moment.
Coalition fighters suddenly ratcheted up to top speed and plunged into the decaying field of the dead. There was no warning shot or declaration of combat to alert the Alliance ships to any attack. This was war, not chess. Truly, the war to end all wars. When this war was over, for the first time in history the human race would be united under one banner – which banner that would be, however, depended on the outcome of this war. There would be no treaties. And so such pesky things as ‘honour’ and ‘rules of engagement’ were tossed out of the airlock to join the dead in the void. This was about survival, nothing more and nothing less. Pleasantries could wait until tomorrow, if tomorrow ever came. If anybody survived to see it.
Shortly after the sudden movement of Coalition forces, the Alliance fighter squadrons, superior in number, also dived into the debris, joining the Coalition pilots in a bizarre ballet of death as their nimble craft used various multi-vector manoeuvring jets to dodge and weave through the chunks of the dead. Explosions happened before any shots were even fired, as unfortunate pilots from both sides strayed into the path of moving debris. And when the two halves clashed in the middle of the field, all hell broke lose. Missiles streaked across the landscape, guided by computer intelligence past the obstacles to impact with their respective targets. Rapid-fire projectile weapons streamed across the black backdrop, slicing through any fighters unfortunate enough to fall into their torrent. Countermeasures flashed as they fell from dozens of fighters, like fireworks in the night sky. The dark field was illuminated almost instantly as the fighters began to kill each other. From a distance, to the unknowing eye, it might even have appeared to be beautiful. It wasn’t beautiful.
The capital ships did not need to engage in such acts of gymnastics. On either side of the field, the dark machines of war began to turn their substantial weapons turrets, and unleashed their destructive force at each other. Rail guns began to slice paths through the debris as they relentlessly spat large metal rods towards their opponents. Torpedoes emerged from every single capital ship, which began to slowly make their way through the debris field. Enormous flak turrets burst to life, lobbing chunks of depleted uranium surrounded by glowing blue plasma into the fray. Fighters from both sides were careful not to stray into these enormous, veritable rivers of unbridled destruction.
Coalition Kurgens, small support vessels, began to move strategically around the debris field, hoping to flank the Alliance fleet and launch their torpedo salvos before retreating to safety once more. Joining them, several more wings of fighters and bombers emerged from their base carriers, determined to give the Alliance ships as much pain as they could. Only a few Alliance Prowlers, ships similar in many ways to Kurgens, noticed these movements and moved to engage.
And all of this violence happened in total silence. It was like looking at something which wasn’t happening, which shouldn’t be happening. But it was there, plain as the light of day. Silent but deadly.
“Twelve minutes Admiral,” an officer yelled. People bustled around the command deck of the Kuznetsov as though their lives had meaning, as though there was any way of winning this battle. As though they had hope. Admiral Ruminov stood with regal composure as usual next to a large tactical desk on the upper tier, which displayed the progress of the battle on its surface. The desk was probably the brightest thing in the dark, grey room. Aside from red lights which were permanently on during battle alert, there were no other sources of illumination. Supposedly the red lighting allowed officers to concentrate on their work. All it did was make it a cold, dark place. They should probably get used to that. Where they were going wasn’t going to be any better, after all.
“Tornado Cruiser Wing is moving out of position,” Rominov growled. “Lieutenant; order Captain Wang to hold his position until the Saracens reinforce them!”
“Yes Admiral!”
“Kurgens 4, 5 and 6 need to stagger their formations,” Rominov thought out loud. “One stray flak shot and they are all in flames. Move them further apart, and have them alter their heading by six degrees down the y axis...”
“Yes, Admiral!”
The CS Kuznetsov vibrated quite a lot. It was sustaining some degree of fire, probably from enemy rail guns. The armour would hold for now, but this battle would end quite abruptly if any of the enemy torpedoes made it through. They all seemed dismally aware of that possibility. The weapons she fired at the enemy were actually too powerful for a ship of her age, and she shook and groaned from their recoil, ignoring her age so that she could perform one last, noble deed.
“Inform the 8th Saracen wing to intercept some of those Alliance torps,” Rominov shouted. “If they want a carrier to come home to they had better be quick about it!”
“Port torps away, Admiral,” a tactical officer said. He sat in front of an enormous console, with monitors all around him like a prison cell, which he shared with two other officers. His black uniform was torn across his chest and had dust all over it, though he kept working in spite of the trickle of blood which had appeared. There was plenty more blood where that came from, after all; a little cut could wait. Besides, the antiquated and small infirmary would be overflowing by now anyway. Nobody ever said war was healthy.
“Reload all tubes and prepare a third volley!” the Admiral snapped. “And I want a full torpedo inventory of the Cyclone cruisers – I need to know how many we can throw at those Alliance scumbags.”
“Yes Admiral, I shall request inventories from the fleet momentarily,” the officer nodded. “Port torpedo room, please check systems and reload tubes…”
“Admiral!” another officer shouted from the lower tier, over the din of all the boots stamping on cold metal surfaces and all the whirring consoles, excited about something. “The ship is launching now!”
The thick atmosphere of Titan obscured anything going on beneath it as though it were hiding some kind of sinister secret. What pushed its way out of the atmosphere was not particularly sinister at first glance, however. Nor did it seem able to help the Coalition in this battle. An enormous vessel, at least three times larger than the ANS Yamato a few thousand kilometres away, emerged from the atmosphere like a great whale leaping from the murky depths of the ocean, visibly parting the atmosphere in its wake. The flying whale had no apparent armaments, though it did have an enormous array of sensory and communicatory equipment on the front, and the engines seemed to take up the entire rear quarter of the vessel. Aside from that its hull was fairly streamlined and featureless, arching from a semi-point at the front to a wide rectangle at the rear, almost like a wedge.
It slowly and violently broke free of the atmosphere, desperately trying to rip its substantial mass from the hold of the moon’s gravity well. Once it had freed itself from Titan’s substantial grasp, it slowly turned in space and moved to join the Coalition fleet, which had lost at least five capital ships since the engagement began. Could this be what the Alliance was trying to destroy? An unarmed chunk of powered metal? The purpose of the vessel was wholly unclear, though if the engines were anything to go by it was intended to be rather fast at carrying out that unknown purpose. A few Alliance fighters immediately emerged from the ever-growing debris field and sped towards this new ship, pushing their engines well over the limit to try and reach it. But Coalition fighters saw them and moved to take them on.
After successfully manoeuvring its significant frame into position behind the line of remaining Coalition capital ships, it slowly came to a halt. Its engines were glowing blue slightly, and they grew ever-brighter by the second. Several Yakob-class shuttles emerged from the CS Kuznetsov, quickly taking evasive courses towards the massive vessel and landing inside small hangars. A few stray shots from the increasingly heated battle smashed against the ship’s armour, seemingly only causing minor damage to its substantial shell. A couple of shuttles weren’t so lucky; they were cracked open like bugs, spilling out their unfortunate passengers.
Inside the ship there were already several thousand people, the last-minute extras had arrived at Titan on the CS Kuznetsov separately. The ship’s corridors were lined with strange glass tubes mounted against the walls. Every available spare wall was covered in these pods. A particularly incredible sight was the ‘main’ room; spanning dozens of decks, the open area was enormous, and lined with thousands of the pods. People looked like ants as they walked on the small gangways that criss-crossed the dimly-lit chasm.
Counter-Admiral Ruslan Boklov was the highest ranking officer aboard this record-breaking vessel. He was appointed by the Admiral of the Fleet of the Eastern Coalition, Vladimir Kulov himself, for this immensely important, indescribably significant mission. He had been the previous commander of the CS Krasnaya, the most successful Coalition Strike Carrier in history, as well as several other lesser carriers and cruisers, and had even briefly served in the Coalition Overwatch as a colonel in his early years. He was supremely qualified for pretty much anything, and that was why he had been assigned to this mission. Whether he considered himself fortunate or not was another matter. It was like being thankful for being instated as a kamikaze pilot.
This ship was called, rather unimaginatively, ‘Sleep Cruiser 1’. Its construction had started before the war, and had been accelerated after war broke out, and utilised a revolutionary new form of propulsion – the cruise drive. Unlike normal jump drives the cruise drive could provide sustained speeds without needing to stop to recharge and cool down. Of course, as with everything good in life it came with a catch. It was far too massive to use on existing Strike Carriers and cruisers, thanks to the large engines necessary for it to work, and the enormously complicated networks of superconductors and coolant systems. And it required so much power that multiple generators had to be installed, along with the generators required for powering the cryogenic systems that littered the ship.
Originally the ship had been intended to carry the flag of the Coalition to new lands to expand the empire to whole new systems. When war broke out, it became insurance. The Coalition would continue to exist no matter what the outcome. Peace of mind for the upper echelons of the government more than anything else. It had taken the most elite astronomers almost three years and dozens of the latest super-quantum computer mainframes to find a suitable destination, and then to chart its movement through the galaxy in relation to the movement to Sol, to account for the so-called ‘lightspeed lag’ that all long range telescopes suffered from, to incorporate the speed of the ship into those calculations to try and plot an intercept course, to account for potential time relativity differences in the great interstellar void, and to figure out how the ship would then get to the right planet once it arrived. Several contingency courses were also plotted in the event of virtually any problems in the middle of the journey. Crammed with some of the best scientists, mathematicians, survival experts, domestic professionals in varying fields from plumbing to shoe repairing, manual workers and enough soldiers to conquer a small country, it was supposedly ready for any eventuality.
Except for actually leaving the Sol system intact, at least, thought Boklov. The boffins hadn’t thought of that, had they? Even the most elaborate plan could be brought down by a simple oversight. He stood motionless in doorway of the rather small command area of the ship. Given that most of its functions were to be automated, the command area wasn’t adequate in size or equipment to coordinate any kind of combat. Five people already rendered it cramped and inefficient. Any more and somebody might end up getting themselves crushed to death.
“Another Strike Carrier destroyed,” one of the techs yelled anxiously. He was a civilian; he had no concept of military rank or procedure. He was only there for pre-flight checks, and yet he had been thrust into the middle of a heated battle. Boklov decided to cut him some slack – even though the civilians had been placed under his command for this mission, there was little point in disciplining him for something as simple as forgetting to say ‘sir’. Especially under these circumstances.
“How many are left?” Boklov asked the civilian as calmly as he could. The tech seemed rather wired, trying to perform his tasks and coordinate a battlefield.
“Just the Kuznetsov, I think,” the tech said. “A couple of cruisers, mostly Kurgens and fighters though.”
“Any sign of the First Fleet?”
“Not from what I can tell,” the tech shrugged, ducking back down beneath the console with a screwdriver. “These sensors see quite a long way, and I don’t see anything approaching Titan, Coalition or Alliance.”
“Then we had better be leaving sooner rather than later,” Boklov grumbled. “This battle will not last much longer.” He stepped into the command area, pushing past a tech that was trying to exit, and grabbed a microphone from a hook on a console. A button was on the side like a trigger. When he pressed it, a soft bleeping tone sounded across the entire behemoth, and speakers over his head crackled slightly. Everybody could hear his voice as he spoke, no matter where they were.
“All hands, we must accelerate departure,” Boklov said. “Proceed to your designated cryogenic stasis cylinders and prepare for deep sleep mode. Officers of the Navy, ensure all are in stasis as soon as possible with a minimal of fuss. This is not a drill. Boklov out.”
He released the button and the crackling from the overhead speakers ended. The microphone hooked back on the console with ease. If only their task now was so easy. Trying to get several thousand people into several thousand glass tubes in a matter of minutes was going to be difficult. Fortunately, they had already been loading a few small groups into their glass coffins, so they had a head start.
“Is this ship ready to follow its primary course, civilian?” Boklov demanded of the tech. Why learn names? They probably wouldn’t be alive in a few minutes anyway. Even if they survived this and got into the pods, there was no guarantee they would ever emerge. The technology had never been tested on a long-term basis before.
“I would feel better if we had an extra week to triple-check all the systems,” the tech said. Boklov suddenly realised that this simple tech was one of the construction experts who had built the ship, and he felt a little better because of it. Better to have an expert in charge of your death, as your life might last just a few minutes longer. “But we don’t have an extra week, do we? So yeah, she’s as ready as she’ll ever be. Unless there’s some problem with the cruise drive, the primary course should work fine.”
“What sort of problem?” Boklov growled.
“Well this journey is going to take the better part of four decades,” the engineer said. “We haven’t had four decades to test the engines – hell, we haven’t even had one decade. We can run all the computer simulations and stress tests imaginable but that can never compare to the reality of practical field testing. Theoretically, the engines should run constantly, without incident, for forty years at least. Practically… pfft, well we’ll find out won’t we?”
“Your confidence inspires me, civilian,” Boklov snorted. “Begin to secure all control stations, give control of the ship to the computer. I want the cruise drive to come online the moment that the bulk of the crew are in stasis.”
They couldn’t suddenly activate thousands of cryogenic stasis systems while already using the cruise engines. Computer simulations suggest that things became… unpleasant, and the cruise engines would suffer brown outs. A few cylinders wouldn’t be a problem, but they would need to have most of the ship’s population secure in their cylinders before they set off. From Boklov’s position near the top of the main ‘chasm’, he could see that it seemed to be progressing surprisingly smoothly. A well-oiled machine. It almost gave him hope for the future. Not quite, though.
The battle outside was beginning to be lost. A final torpedo dealt a lethal blow to a ship which had come to this battle expecting to die. An enormous explosion from within the Kuznetsov made it swell like a blowfish for a second, blasting armour panels into the oblivion like giant pieces of shrapnel, looking for heads to remove. Balls of fire burst out through hull breaches all over the crippled old ship, yet even so her rail guns continued to fire until their magazines were exhausted, valiant to the end. Enormous chunks of the ship broke away completely, slowly drifting away from their home like rats leaving a sinking ship. Coalition fighters could only look on in horror as the bulk of their home slowly began to be drawn down towards Titan, which would become her final resting place. Hardly a soldier’s burial, but it would have to do.
The blast wave shook even the enormous colony ship, though it caused no damage to the sleek craft. It was now defenceless, with only a handful of Coalition fighters and Kurgens flocking around to protect their mark in the absence of the big guns. The Alliance fleet, contrariwise, had lost only a few cruisers and a single carrier. The ANS Yamato and the other major ships were still alive and kicking, having only taken cosmetic damage. And they now moved in for the kill.
They slowly entered the debris field, using some kind of magnetic fields to push the debris aside as they moved through it, creating a wake of corpses and scrap metal as they slowly accelerated. All of their weapons were trained on the colony ship. They ignored the few Coalition fighters who tried desperately to draw their attention away. Alliance fighters mopped them up quickly. They didn’t stand a chance against such superior numbers.
Torpedoes began to emerge from the various ports on the various capital ships. Dozens of harbingers of death began the trek towards their target, the colony ship, their white streamers foretellers of the defenceless vessel’s doom. As the Strike Carriers got into flak range, they unleashed their slow-moving projectiles, glowing with super-heated plasma energy. It would take them nearly as long as the torpedoes to clear the distance, but the show would be well worth the wait.
The remaining Coalition fighters valiantly swerved into the path of several torpedoes, committing suicide in a vain attempt to save the beached whale they were tasked with protecting. Kurgens launched the last of their torpedoes at the capital ships and then joined their smaller cousins in the kamikaze missions. It was no good. Too many torpedoes, not enough suicidal pilots. And to add insult to injury, their large opponents launched even more torpedoes.
“There are enough cryogenic cylinders online to safely begin departure Admiral!” the engineer said. He jumped up from his place beneath a console, hitting his head on the bare metal and emitting a yelp of pain.
“Then go, now – go!” Boklov shouted.
“We just need a few more seconds for the cruise engines to fully charge,” the engineer said, getting to his feet at last and looking at another console. A display appeared on the LCD screen showing two progress bars. They were both green, at 97%. So close to surviving, and yet, so far away.
“Can you not you speed it up? We are going to be hit hard in a few seconds!” the Admiral roared in frustration. The number of alert sirens wailing in the small room was enough to drive anybody to frustration, especially when one’s life was about to end.
“Sorry, but it’s hard enough trying to compensate for inertia,” the engineer grunted. “I’m not going to have many spare hands…”
The torpedoes caught sight of their target as they emerged from the debris field ahead of the capital ships, and immediately they seemed to ignite all of their fuel at once, propelling themselves towards the colony ship at an impressive speed. They were little more than a few metres away from impact, when the colony ship all of a sudden accelerated forwards, hurtling off into the distance. Its blue engines glowed so brightly they appeared to be new stars on the horizon, a beacon of hope to the Coalition and a symbol of failure to the Alliance. It vanished as quickly as it had accelerated. The timing couldn’t have been better.
The torpedoes passed through the ghost of their target, loyally detonating themselves where the ship should have been. Harmlessly. Uselessly.
The colony ship had escaped.
Now it began a four-decade journey across the unknown. The interstellar void. What lay at the end of its journey, some 16 light years away, was a mystery.