Is he distracting himself from his fear by griping about things of no consequence? Lafier conjectured.
Suddenly, the patrol ship revved its attitude control engines to the maximum extent, and the clash shifted dramatically. The enemy’s bow was now zooming for their ship.
The Basrogrh’s EM cannons were pointed at it.
“I clear the Basrogrh to withdraw for now!” came Atosryua’s fretful voice.
“Split from their space-time!” Lafier shouted. “Hurry!”
“Roger.”
Even as Sobash looked to commence space-time severance, Lafier kept pulling the trigger without a second’s pause.
Four nuclear fusion shells were launched at the starpilots. One shell was impeded by an antiproton current and detonated prematurely. The other three, however, continued tearing straight toward them.
Ecryua intercepted with the mobile laser cannons, but they had no effect. Lafier had had her eyes closed the entire time in order to focus her frocragh, but now her eyes reeled open. Is this the end?
But they managed to scrape away from the patrol ship’s space-time by the skin of their teeth. Sweat drenched Lafier’s tan skin. Before she knew it, she was brushing the bluish-black bangs stuck to her forehead.
“That was close, wasn’t it?” said Sobash relaxedly.
“Yes,” Lafier nodded.
She looked at the planar space map; sure enough, the assault units previously behind them were now fusing with the enemy’s space-time one after the other.
I wonder whether we’ll get any other chances. Lafier was simultaneously relieved and disappointed.
“We’re fusing again,” she ordered, regardless. The Basrogrh had been advised to withdraw “for now.” They weren’t retreating.
“Roger that.” Sobash’s fingers danced on his console.
Samson’s expression screamed here we go again. His inner thoughts were virtually audible: Shouldn’t we just leave it to them?
Yet the Basrogrh returned to the grounds of battle.
The one shared space-time bubble was being churned by dozens of different ships’ space-time bubble generators. And at the center of this microcosm spluttered the enemy patrol ship, in its final throes. Its magnetic shield was down, and it couldn’t even shift attitude without difficulty. Despite all that, the EM cannons on its bow and stern were roaring unceasingly.
“It’s like we’re torturing it to death,” commented Jint to himself as he watched the scene outside through the video footage. “Can’t say I’m a huge fan of fighting like this.”
“You shouldn’t be so particular,” chided Ecryua.
“Assault ships are too weak,” Lafier remarked. “This is the only way we CAN fight against giant ships.”
“I know, Captain, I know.” Jint turned off the live feed and engrossed himself in surveilling the ship’s internals.
Lafier sensed this showdown was nearing its end, and she let up on the trigger.
I might as well make this next shot count. Aiming to deal the patrol ship the finishing blow, Lafier took them closer.
“I know you came back to help, Basrogrh” Atostryua’s voice broke in, “but all ships, fall back. I repeat, all ships. Evacuate this time-space posthaste.”
“But why!?” blurted Lafier. “We’ll be making it blow in next to no time.”
“I understand, but these are orders from Squadron Command. The battle-line warship squadron is in position, and they are to finish it off using mines,” the Hecto-Commander informed them, speaking rapidly.
Then there’s nothing for it. “Space-time severance,” ordered Lafier.
After all, Squadron Command’s decision was probably wise. No matter how close to the brink of complete destruction they had the enemy, they’d still need to sacrifice one or two allied ships before the patrol ship fell.
Given that fact, it made sense to secure the patrol ship’s demise through mobile space-time mines, which would keep starpilot lives out of the line of fire.
So the assault units only served to stop the enemy in its tracks, I take it. Lafier didn’t like the idea, but that was just the way things were.
Upon splitting off back into their own space-time bubble, she took another look at the planar space map. An innumerable swarm of lightweight space-time bubbles were splitting from the battle-line warship squadron, and racing toward the enemy bubble in neat lines.
“Talk about overkill,” moped Samson.
They watched as the swarm of mines merged with the enemy ship’s bubble, and the bubble burst before their eyes. They couldn’t help but feel as though everything they did up until that moment had gone to waste.
In any case, she’d emerged from her first battle unscathed.
“Anybody want something to drink?” asked Jint.
Chapter 5: Gycec Loborhotr (Dinner of Condolences)
Byrec Bina (Fleet 3), which formed the core of the Phantom Flame Fleet, was displaying its majestic formation to the Demehter Star System. Meanwhile, Dusanh, King of Barkeh, Imperial Crown Prince, and Imperial Fleet Commander-in-Chief, was currently enjoying a fun floating sensation; the flagship of the Phantom Fleet, the Sancaü, contained a microgravity-garten specifically for the Commander-in-Chief. In the case of this particular microgravity-garten, it wasn’t much of a “garden,” as it couldn’t comfortably house ten people, but he was the only one with a personalized microgravity room in the limited space the ship’s interior provided. It was one of the small perks afforded the heir to an enormous interstellar empire.
Incidentally, this floaty feeling, unshackled by gravity, was an irreplaceable pastime among the Abh. Dusanh was not, however, solely partaking in a brief recess, for he had before him a planar space map. The Aptic Portal wasn’t the only one to come across enemy ships. In fact, the star systems that had seen incursions from the enemy conducting reconnaissance-in-force numbered five so far. They hadn’t been able to crush all of the ships; around half of the total they’d engaged with slipped away. He could only assume they’d brought a wealth of information back with them.
However, their reconnaissance-in-force was a double-edged sword. There was no denying the enemy had lain grasp to some important intelligence, but the Empire, too, had been able to make very accurate estimations of the might of the enemy’s present forces by extrapolating from the numbers of ships spotted. Or so claimed the Communications Staff Officer.
According to the calculations, the enemy was in possession of at least 180 sub-fleets. As for the upper bound of the estimations, it was deemed possible that the enemy was investing 200 sub-fleets’ worth of ships.
We might have made quite the slip up, thought Dusanh, smiling a wry little smile.
The ships that had been either training or standing watch by the border of their sphere of influence were extracted from the totality of the army’s troops. And going by that sample, Headquarters had figured the number of ships the UH and the Empire were sending for both attack and defense to be roughly equal. Moreover, while attack corps could be concentrated anywhere, defense corps didn’t have it so lucky. They had to form after taking an enemy attack, and then counterattack with all the force they could muster. Even if they were to, for argument’s sake, form a defense corps beforehand, it would still take significant amounts of time.
Of course, if they were to intercept attacks sporadically, they could act more quickly, but that would just expose them to getting defeated one by one. And that meant that striking first was the best defense. Even if this tack ultimately resulted in, say, launching an ambush only after the enemy completed their preparations, or committing the error of deploying ships a little at a time, they would have nevertheless seized the initiative.
That was the rationale behind steaming full force ahead. And yet...
Did they read us like a book? Or perhaps, they were just banking on us using that strategy.
The speed with which the enemy rose up could only mean they had predicted where the Star Forces would be attacking. And then, t
hey had positioned maneuverable vessels in advance to lie in ambush. It was either that, or the unthinkable: the Three Nations Alliance had in fact amassed far more power than Headquarters had surmised.
No matter the case, there’s but one thing I can do. With an Abh’s carriage and poise, Dusanh drifted feet-first toward the ground. Slowly approaching the floor, he restored the artificial gravity the moment his feet made contact, his military-issue boots clanking softly. Both his dark blue locks and the purple-colored long robe reserved for the Imperial Admiral swished as he headed for the Commander’s Bridge, where the command personnel saluted him in greeting.
“Your decision, sir?” asked the Chief of Staff, Star Forces Admiral Kenesh.
“The enemy is not to be taken lightly,” he replied, not answering the query straight away. “They’ve chosen the worst possible time.”
“They sure have,” nodded Kenesh.
Dusanh was forced to choose between advancing as planned, and temporarily suspending their aggressive forward march in favor of focusing all their might on annihilating the enemy in the area. Had the enemy chosen any other time, he wouldn’t have this dilemma at his lap.
If the alliance had counterattacked sooner, then it would be a matter of course to make wiping out those ships their objective, for cutting enemy ships in the Aptic Portal zone from their base nations would render them sitting ducks. On the other hand, if the alliance had instead staged it sometime in the future, then the Star Forces would’ve prioritized pushing through, since, once the corridor between the Sïurgzedéc and Rasisec Monarchies was completed, they wouldn’t be left stranded in the event that their main supply line was severed. It could even, depending on how the war progressed, lead to a chance to storm the enemy fleets with a pincer attack. But at this point in time, it wasn’t all that clear which course of action they should prioritize. Phantom Flame Fleet 1, led by Commodore Sporr, would reach imperial territory after passing through three inhabited star systems. If they were called back, and fortune was their foe, they might not make it to the battle in time.
Dusanh took his seat, the Commander-in-Chief’s Seat. “We will destroy their ships. That is the reason we came here.”
“Then shall we switch to Phantom Flame Strategy 18?” asked Kenesh. Their ships were currently operating under Phantom Flame Strategy 1, which assumed the enemy would never once punch back.
“Strategy 18 has the Aptic Portal as the main field of battle, correct?”
“That is correct.”
A planar space map floated up for Dusanh to examine. On it were displayed each sub-fleet’s positions and scheduled paths of motion. “Very good. I have nothing to add. Kindly issue commands in accordance with this strategy.”
“There’s something else you must decide,” said Kenesh. “Who will be commanding the defense of Miskehrr and Aptic?”
Below Dusanh stood twelve Roïglaharérh (Vice Commanders-in-Chief), each accompanied by command personnel of Chief of Staff rank or below, and each the head of a saubh glar (command squadron) composed of vessels such as patrol ships and carrycrafts. In case Dusanh’s command center got rocked by some unforeseen shift, the Vice Commanders-in-Chief comprised a line of succession, taking up the command role in the order of their ranks. More importantly, they had a duty to command any and all fleets that were formed ad interim; those fleets were perfectly capable of functioning as command centers, too, as all it took was a few sub-fleets and/or independent squadrons.
The question now was who among these Vice Commanders-in-Chief would be assigned to Miskehrr and Aptic. In addition, they had to organize the ship corps already there.
“I’m aware,” said Dusanh, who nodded lightly for her to see. “Miskehrr will go to Commodore Mrusfac, and Aptic to Commodore Biboth.”
“Commodore Mrusfac, I understand,” said Kenesh, making no effort to conceal her scowl, “but the brothers Biboth?”
“Oh, do you dislike them?”
“This isn’t about some personal qualm,” she retorted, squaring her shoulders. “I am questioning their competence.”
“It is because I think they are competent that I made Biboth Vice Commander-in-Chief. It’ll be fine.”
“Well, if it’s NOT fine, then the war front will be ripped from our forces’ grasp.”
“What exactly are you so worried about?” he replied, looking at her with his eyes upturned.
“Commodore Biboth has no actual battle experience.”
“And this is the perfect opportunity to acquire some. He must eventually anyway.”
“This is not a drill,” she shot back, all the more chagrined. “We need as many competent and experienced commanders as possible.”
Dusanh could only chuckle, saying: “I do hope you can place some faith in me. We Abliars like to think we have steered the Empire well over the years, and I am the heir elected by my clan members.”
“That is true,” Kenesh conceded. “And it’s a thing of wonder how easy it is to forget that fact when working by your side, Your Highness.”
The Biboths were one of the 29 Founding Clans of the Abh. A Biboth clan ancestor contributed greatly to the establishment of planar space technology, with many other outstanding scientists and engineers in their line as well. And at the same time, they were a clan whose history was tinged by a florid madness that even the Abliars doffed their proverbial caps to.
Commodore Biboth Aronn Nérémr Ïarlucec Nélaith belonged to a branch of the Biboth clan, but that had not freed him from their flamboyant derangement, or so those around him saw it.
That was nothing but prejudice, he assured himself. He was the only one who saw things the clearest. Maybe even too clear. His common sense, too robust.
While loitering at the break room with nothing to do, he spotted the Chief of Staff coming his way. He had violet ringlets, silvery eyes, milky white skin, and places of shadowed texture on his face. The spitting image of Kilo-Commander Biboth Aronn Nérémr Ïarlucec Néféc. And as their names would certainly clue one in on, this was no coincidence. They were born with the very same genetic makeup.
As the Abh exerted control over every step of procreation, monozygotic twins were a rare occurrence. After all, few parents believed raising two or more children with the same genes to be a good idea. The biggest reason Nefeh and Neleth’s mother decided to go with monozygotic twins, then, was probably because it was rare.
Despite how they were almost exactly the same age — indeed, their times of birth were nary a moment apart — Neleth was of higher rank. And that was due to Nefeh’s penchant for love affairs. Though to hear Neleth tell of it, Nefeh wasn’t so much a man of many affairs, as he was a man of the one crush winding endlessly.
“Neleth,” Nefeh grinned enigmatically. “Orders from above!”
“Honorable orders?”
“Likely so,” said Nefeh, taking a nearby seat and planting his elbows on the table before joining his hands at the fingers and leaning his dainty chin. “You are hereby commanded to head up the defense of Aptic.”
“That is an important mission.” The rumors of the main battlefield being either Aptic or Miskehrr had already made their way to his ears.
“It’ll be all right. I know you can do it. ’Cause if you’re on the verge of going batty, I’ll be there to bring you back.”
“You have that backwards,” said Neleth, annoyed. “Please don’t embarrass me with your less-than-sane counsel.”
“You think yourself a man of common sense, don’t you, Neleth?”
“You think otherwise, Nefeh?”
“Your lack of self-awareness is your greatest fault.”
“No, it’s yours.” It baffled Neleth so, that in spite of how blindingly obvious it was that he alone among the Biboths was graced with sharp wits, that every individual Biboth thought themselves to be the bearer of common sense!
“How long will it take before you finally come to realize?” Nefeh pouted. “Who in their right mind would do that kind of thing?”
&
nbsp; “‘That kind of thing’?”
At that, Nefeh turned pensive.
“Come now,” said Neleth, “don’t go spouting off about ‘that kind of thing’ when you clearly haven’t decided what ‘that kind of thing’ even is yet.”
“That’s not it. I’m trying to decide which ‘thing’ would be the most effective to bring up.” Then Nefeh raised his head slowly. “Oh, I know just the one.”
Neleth averted his face in a huff. “There’s no need to work your brain digging up old memories, Nefeh.”
“I’m not ‘working my brain,’ Neleth. In fact, it’s impossible to forget.”
“All right, for my own reference, I’ll bite. What is it you’ve recalled, Nefeh?” Neleth frequently addressed his brother by name, for if he didn’t, he feared he would be assailed by a jarring lack of confidence as to whether he himself was Neleth or Nefeh. And in all likelihood, Nefeh addressed him by name for the same reason.
Albeit, in Nefeh’s case, the sensation of “being” Neleth would no doubt feel like an upgrade.
“Remember how, during the tactical exercise strategy meeting, you waxed on and on about how, quote, ‘affection is indispensable in war’? Do you remember the faces the attendees made?”
“I said nothing wrong, Nefeh. I have no patience for the idea that winning is everything in war. Even battle needs a little heart.”
“And that is a harebrained opinion. War is a duel, and the arena demands victory.”
“And I’m saying that our victory needs an artist’s touch. Do you disagree, Nefeh?”
The pair glared at each other.
At last, Neleth broke the silence: “Never mind, just go and prepare for the march. I can’t be stuck here with you and your incoherent prattle.”
“You’re finally speaking sense, Neleth. How rare,” said Nefeh, rising from his chair. “You should make haste for the Commander’s Bridge, too. Our Commander-in-Chief not showing up for the long-awaited liftoff would be quite the affront.”
“I know that.”
The Ties that Bind Page 8