First Fleet’s 74 warships and 165 Talons had paired up against Second and Third Fleet’s combined 82 warships and 75 Talons. It was as even a fight as Caldwell could imagine, set against the blue backdrop of Capriana Prime. Both sides were losing warships and starfighters at an even rate as First Fleet attempted to keep the enemy from destroying any more of Prime’s surface.
As for the Labyrinth, Moldark’s flagship was retreating—still suffering damage from the battle of Oorajee. And if Caldwell had to guess, Moldark was going to try and jump away as soon as the Labyrinth got far enough from Prime’s gravity well. As chance would have it, the Spire was blocking its way, as were eighty fighters.
“Colonel, the support ships are targeting our fighters,” Azelon said. “It seems the feline is out of the satchel.”
Caldwell eyed her. “The cat is out of the bag?”
“Whatever gives buoyancy to your water-based vessel, yes.”
“Covering fire, Smarty Pants,” Caldwell snapped, trying to keep her on task.
“Right away, sir. Also, the Black Labyrinth’s shields have been diverted to their stern.”
“Then let’s give ’em a bloody nose,” Caldwell replied. “Brass Balls, tell your ships it’s now or never. Azie, fire what you can without hitting our pilots.”
“As you command, sir,” Azelon said. “De-cloaking and preparing to fire.”
Caldwell watched as a volley of blaster fire erupted from the Spire and slammed into the Labyrinth’s defenses. “Mystics, help us.”
“And why’s that, sir?” TO-96 asked.
“I just hope it’s enough to give our starfighters the time they need.”
“It appears the mystics have heard your prayers, Colonel,” Azelon replied. “Observe.”
Caldwell squinted at the conflict’s far side as anti-ship blaster fire began targeting every vessel around Fang Company’s path toward the Labyrinth. Flashes of light encircled the starfighters as they plunged headlong into the battle’s center. “Sweet mother of Ceradian whores, would you look at that.”
* * *
Rico led Red Squadron at the Labyrinth’s nose, dodging auto-turret fire as the AI helped anticipate the enemy’s attacks. Several rounds glanced off his Fang, but his shields absorbed most of the energy, minimizing the damage. He had been more worried about flanking fire from the surrounding support ships, but a sudden barrage of covering fire from First Fleet gave them the advantage they needed.
“This is Red Leader,” Ricio said to his squadron over comms. “We’re taking the topside run. Targets displayed on your HUD.” TO-96’s tasks for them included auto-turrets and a strike against the bridge. “No matter what happens, we put rounds downrange on that command center, copy?” Green icons went down his chat window.
“Red Leader,” Gill Quo said. “Enemy fighters.”
“I see ’em, Red One. Marking.” Ricio auto assigned the ten enemy fighters to his squadron and still had four ships left over for the bridge. “Red One through Ten, break off. The rest are with me.”
Ricio accelerated as he crossed the Labyrinth’s nose, weaving toward the first point defense turrets. He fired two salvos of secondary blaster fire at the first three turrets, blowing them off the deck. Red Twelve and Thirteen took out two more, while Red Eleven absorbed a critical hit, knocking out its weapons systems.
“Red Eleven, get back to the Spire,” Ricio said.
“Negative, sir. I’m—” The Fang took three direct hits, detonating the fuselage into a torrent of superheated projectiles.
“Splick,” Ricio said, flying past an auto-turret that he’d missed. “Twelve and Thirteen, stay low and tight.”
“Roger that,” they replied.
The three Fangs wove across the foredeck, raking it with secondary blaster fire. They took out six more turrets before lining up on the bridge amidships. “Hold this line,” Ricio ordered. “Target acquired.” But before Ricio could shoot, another Talon squadron rolled up from the Labyrinth’s port side and opened fire. Red Twelve was hit from three different Talons. The Fang rolled over and drove into the Labyrinth’s deck, carving a deep furrow in the plating.
“On me,” Ricio ordered Red Thirteen. “We’re pulling out to engage those Talons.”
“Aye-aye,” Dye Vallon said. “I’m on your tail.”
* * *
“Let’s give those Fangs some support,” Sootriman said, marking new targets for her Magistrates. “Looks like Second and Third Fleet’s carriers diverted their Talons from the front lines.”
“They really like their nasty looking leader, don’t they,” Chloe said from inside her blue and black Sypeurlion Jackal-class fighter.
“I hate to disappoint them, but I say we put an end to their fetish,” Diddelwolf said—the oldest of Sootriman’s pilots. He flew a yellow Lawrence-class heavy freighter that he’d won in a lucky hand of Antaran backdraw.
“Sounds good to me,” Chloe replied.
“I want everyone staying clear of those point defense turrets,” Sootriman said. “We can do plenty of damage from here.”
“But, my Queen,” Phineas Barlow said. “We’ll manage better if we get closer.”
“Not all of us are flying a black-market Mk. I Talon like you, Barlow,” Diddelwolf said.
“You wanna go down there and risk your hide?” Sootriman added. “That’s on you. My job is to help the Gladio Umbra where we can, but it’s also to keep you alive.”
Barlow sighed. “As you wish, my queen.”
“Good. Then let’s do this.”
* * *
Caldwell watched as Sootriman’s Magistrates took on the newly arrived Talon squadrons. She provided invaluable cover for the Fangs, allowing TO-96’s squadrons to disengage from dogfighting and continue with their strafing runs against the Labyrinth. But despite First Fleet’s covering fire, more than one enemy Destroyer put rounds on target. Several of Sootriman’s starships took direct hits, casting the scene in radiant light. The bright spots burst to life for a few seconds and then collapsed into darkness—pilots and ships erased from the roster.
“Tell me you have something to shoot at, Smarty Pants,” Caldwell said.
“Yes, Colonel. Now that the fighters are congregating toward the Labyrinth’s aft, a target window has opened which satisfies the statistical likelihood that—”
“Hit that ship, dammit!”
“Yes, sir.” Azelon dipped her head, and her eyes shifted color from blue to red. Then the Spire shot out a barrage of large-caliber blaster rounds and several groupings of torpedoes.
Caldwell squinted as the ordnance streaked across space and closed on target. “Come on, baby.” He pulled his cigar from his lips. “Come on.”
Multiple light flashes emitted from the Labyrinth’s bow as the blasters took out the minimal shielding. Any unspent bolts slammed into the nose and destroyed the ship’s first few sections, blowing apart compartments and tearing through critical systems. The torpedoes arrived seconds later, boring into the holes the blaster rounds made. Without point defense turrets to thin their numbers, the torpedoes burrowed deep into the hull before exploding in a concussive force that blew the Labyrinth’s nose apart.
Caldwell let out a shout that seemed to startle Azelon and TO-96 alike. “That’s how it’s done!” He slapped the Novian bot on the back as her eyes changed back to a soft blue glow.
“This is a strange reaction,” Azelon said, looking at Caldwell and then TO-96.
“It is,” TO-96 replied. “But fitting for the elevated adrenaline and dopamine levels most humans experience in such high-intensity moments.”
“Ah,” Azelon replied. She looked back at Caldwell and then produced a loud noise, which seemed to be an exact duplication of the colonel’s voice.
“What the hell?” Caldwell said.
“I am attempting to empathize, sir.” Then she struck him between the shoulder blades, which made him gasp and drop his cigar.
* * *
“Disengage those Talons,” Rico said. “All sq
uadrons, on me! We’re hitting that bridge.”
Sootriman’s starships had given Fang Company the relief they needed to refocus their efforts on the Labyrinth’s bridge. It wasn’t a lot of support, but it was enough—and costly too, as far as Ricio could tell. He saw several of Sootriman’s ships blink out as the Talons and gunships targeted them.
“Mystics bless you,” Ricio said under his breath. Then he double-checked Fang Company’s whereabouts and verified the target coordinates. “Open fire as soon as you’re in range!”
From Ricio’s HUD, it looked as though a swarm of mad fire wasps converged on a paralyzed ground squirrel. Now free of the Talons, the Fangs streaked in from almost every angle, each gunning for the command tower. Ricio dropped back to the deck, skimming along its length toward the stern. Above him, the bridge’s wide windowplex wall looked out across the Super Dreadnaught. Perfect view for your end, Ricio thought. His targeting reticles blinked in conjunction with all-weapons lock, and he fed the AI one word.
Fire.
At once, his Fang bucked from the violent release of missiles and energy weapons. His ship was like a viper spewing poison at its victim. The munitions crossed the short distance to the bridge as Ricio pulled perpendicular to the hull, flying straight up the tower’s face. A cloud of fire and debris exploded from the bridge. Ricio charged through it and emerged above the Labyrinth as more Fang fire decimated the bridge. He veered to one side and glanced over his shoulder just in time to witness a chain reaction of explosions work their way through the command tower. He also noticed another Dreadnaught charge the Labyrinth’s stern with a hail of torpedo fire.
* * *
The Labyrinth retreated from the front lines, but it was to be expected. Between the damage the ship had taken during the closing moments of the Battle of Oorajee, and the blows it had suffered today, Moldark’s Super Dreadnaught could not take too much more. Seaman wanted to go after it, but they were too far away. That, and it was a suicide mission. The best thing they could do was continue to provide covering fire for the brave souls who assaulted from the far side.
“Sir,” Teloni said. “The Terra Rosa. She’s charging!”
“What?” Seaman spun toward the battle map and eyed the Dreadnaught in question. Sure enough, the warship was accelerating at full burn, headed into the center of the conflict. Seaman glanced at the Captain’s name. Smalley. She was either crazy or had more courage than anyone Seaman had ever met. Perhaps a little of both.
“Visuals,” Seaman said, snapping his fingers. “On screen.” The main holo displayed a zoomed-in view that tracked the Rosa as it surged after the Labyrinth. “Mystics, she’s going for it.” How Smalley had convinced her bridge crew to go along with her spoke to her leadership capabilities—as well as the desperation that all of First Fleet presumably felt.
The Rosa released a salvo of torpedoes through the vacuum, crossing the short distance to the Labyrinth’s stern. At first, the enemy ship retaliated with a staggering volley of anti-torpedo blaster fire. Seaman wondered if there would be any torpedoes left as explosions filled the space between the two vessels. But the Rosa wasn’t done.
Most likely sensing the prize that awaited her, Captain Smalley sent every torpedo she had at the Labyrinth, exhausting the ship’s forward bays. The Rosa’s aft bay capacity indicators drained as the ship threw more torpedoes at the retreating Super Dreadnaught. Three Frigates and two Battlecruisers helped the Labyrinth target the incoming ordnance—they would not let the most notorious ship in the Paragon Navy go down without a fight. Their blaster rounds coalesced just behind the flagship’s stern in a chaotic mass of near-constant explosions.
Seaman wrote the Rosa’s assault off as noble but unsuccessful effort. Even though he could not see through the brilliant flashes of light, he knew Smalley’s attempt—though valiant—was not enough.
Then a light brighter than blaster fire and exploding torpedoes erupted on the holo screen. Seaman winced as his crew gasped. When the light diminished enough for him to see shapes again, the Labyrinth’s engines were gone—blown apart. The remnants shot away, striking other ships in the immediate vicinity. Divested of all propulsion—and also its bridge—the Labyrinth started a lazy roll to starboard.
“She’s done it,” DiAntora said, arriving at Seaman’s side. “I can’t believe—she’s done it.”
Secondary explosions started moving toward the bow. Plumes of fire blew armored plates off the top decks, shot out the landing bays along the sides, and ripped holes in the belly. Energy cells beneath cannon emplacements ruptured, popping the weapons from the hull, while air pockets filled with flammable gases burst up and down the hull.
“We’ve done it,” Seaman said, turning to face DiAntora. He grabbed her by the shoulders and—and what? He was elated, and terrified, and euphoric. And Lani was as marvelous a creature as he’d ever seen. If they survived the final exchange in the wake of the Labyrinth’s loss, he would find a patch of peace somewhere in the galaxy, and he’d ask her to marry him.
“Commodore?” she said, eyeing his hands.
“Right.” Seaman let go and smoothed her sleeves. “Forgive me. Target all remaining ships. Let’s end this.”
“Aye-aye, sir.” Then DiAntora leaned in to his ear. “Then let’s pick up where you left off.”
* * *
Caldwell stepped toward the main holo display as the Labyrinth’s stern exploded into a thousand fragments—give or take several hundred bits and pieces. “Well, I’ll be a speckled dick’s dinner,” he said with his cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth.
“A touch derogatory, isn’t it, Colonel?” Azelon said.
“I believe he’s referring to the songbird, native to Albatron Three,” TO-96 supplied.
Caldwell ignored the bots’ exchange and continued to marvel at the catastrophic display unfolding before him. It wasn’t just that a Goliath-class Super Dreadnaught was suffering a bitter death, nor that it took the Gladio Umbra, Ki Nar Four’s Magistrates, and the Galactic Republic to bring it down, but that it was Moldark’s flagship.
That sniveling bastard. He deserved this, and a thousand deaths more for the destruction he’d reigned down upon Capriana Prime. Then the Super Dreadnaught exploded, temporarily turning the holo display bright white. Caldwell raised a hand and squinted against the burst. Then, as the light faded, thousands of fragments flew off in every direction and left a gaping hole in the Paragon’s fleet formation. The Black Labyrinth was gone.
Caldwell blew out a thick cloud of smoke and then returned to the captain’s chair. “Target the next closest Dreadnaught,” he said to Azelon. “And if you can work your fancy-ass magic on commandeering any of those Talons to lend us a hand, do it.”
“It will mean less computational power in protecting our Fangs and Sootriman’s Magistrates, sir,” she replied.
“That’s fine. I don’t think they’ll need as much cover moving forward. Watch for any enemy ships looking to jump away from the system. Make those our highest priority.”
“Understood, Smoking Hot Man.”
As one, Caldwell and TO-96 turned to stare at Azelon.
“You fry a circuit or something?” Caldwell asked.
“I must concur with the Colonel’s line of questioning,” TO-96 said. “Though in slightly less antiquated terms.”
Azelon jerked back in a very human expression of genuine surprise. “He smokes, his body temperature remains above average, and he is a human male. I fail to extrapolate your negative assumptions of my new nickname for the Colonel.”
“Son of a bitch,” Caldwell said, removing his cigar. “I like it.”
“But, sir,” TO-96 said, raising his hands in protest. “The inference is that she thinks you are attractive?”
“It is?” Azelon replied.
“That settles it then,” Caldwell replied. He pointed the stump of his cigar at the Novian bot. “From now on, I’m Smoking Hot Man. Or Hottie, whichever suits you at the moment.”
TO-96
turned to Azelon. “What have you done?”
* * *
Ezo chased a Repub Talon around the topside of the Battleship, attained weapons lock, and fired his primary blasters. It took two direct hits to penetrate the shields and one more to pierce the armor plating that housed the starfighter’s drive core. The cylinder went nova and split the fuselage like an egg, propelling the pilot forward before vaporizing him.
A second Talon crossed Ezo’s path near the Battleship’s conning tower, so he rolled left and came in close. But just when Ezo was about to fire, a third Talon dropped in behind him. The first few blaster rounds from the Talons T-100s peppered Ezo’s stern, but his shields held.
Then the fire stopped.
Ezo glanced at the battle map and saw the starfighter accelerating toward him—it had the shot, yet the Talon’s guns remained silent.
“Ezo’s got one right on top of me,” he said over comms, his voice frantic. But it was a pointless request. By the time anyone got close enough to help Ezo, the enemy would toast him. The Map showed the Talon’s icon overlapping with his own. “What the hell?”
Ezo looked to port and saw the Talon pull up alongside him. The pilot pounded on his dashboard and seemed to be throwing an overall fit inside the cockpit. Without warning, the enemy fighter pulled ahead and came in behind Ezo’s latest target, and then fired a missile. The locked-on Talon attempted to avoid the shot, but the proximity didn’t allow enough time. Ezo’s ship flew through the fiery debris field before rolling over the nose, and headed back along the belly.
“What the hell was that?” Ezo said to no one in particular.
“Did my assistance startle you, Commander Ezo?” Azelon said through his neural link.
“That—that was you, Azelon?”
“Indirectly, yes. We’ll see you back aboard the Spire soon,” she said.
Ruins of the Galaxy Box Set: Books 1-6 Page 196