by Yakov Merkin
There were ten minutes remaining to the deadline when a very brief, coded message arrived from Felinar. The expected attack had come, but it had been far smaller in size than the fleet that had attacked Sneva—most likely in part due to the losses sustained at Sneva, as well as the warning sent to Felinar, which had surely been intercepted by the Alliance. The attack force had been successfully intercepted before it reached the planet, and wiped out. It was unfortunate, in a way, that he could not have prevented the grand admiral from sending the warning; more of the Alliance’s standing forces could have been destroyed, though it would have meant more Felinaris deaths.
Five minutes before the deadline, the Hudecar was contacted again.
“My superiors on the ground have agreed to accept your demands,” Admiral Nilash said. “The defensive batteries have been powered down, and our forces will surrender.” One of his tendrils twitched.
Darkclaw glanced at the sensor operator. “The batteries are offline,” the officer confirmed.
Darkclaw turned back to the display screen. “It appears that you are telling me the truth, Admiral,” he said. “You have done your people a great service, Admiral. It would have been much worse for you had you remained stubborn.”
“I do what I must,” the admiral said, his face still a very pale shade of gray and tendrils twitching, before ending the transmission.
“Inform General Razorpath that he may begin landing ground forces,” Darkclaw ordered, then returned his attention to the tactical display. The remains of the Irhani fleet—what was present at the planet, at any rate—floated silently in space, either powered down or completely scuttled, and dozens of small escape craft were making their way down toward the planet.
A few minutes later, the Tyrannodon landing craft appeared on the display, approaching the planet in small formations, breaking off into smaller groups as they made their final approaches to the atmosphere.
The first ships were just entering the atmosphere when they began to take fire. Two of the landing craft were destroyed immediately, and the others began taking evasive action while still attempting to land.
“Order all landing craft to fall back!” Darkclaw ordered sharply. Darkclaw wanted to rip the Irhani admiral’s shriveled head from his body. He had given the worthless people a chance to end the conflict with minimal bloodshed, and they had spat in his face! He should never have expected the Irhani to hold true to their word. They would have to pay for their deception. He should raze their cities to the ground, render the world unfit for life! He should… Darkclaw stopped himself, breaking the chain of angry thoughts, and his mind slowly returned to normal. One of his bridge crew informed him that the landing craft were retreating as ordered, and Darkclaw realized that he had nearly thrown out the entire mission plan. The High Lord wanted the planet intact, and so he would have it. All that was needed was to adapt the plan. He had already begun to work out a new plan of action when he realized what had just happened. He had felt a strong emotion. Anger. Darkclaw forced himself to remain still for a few moments, to maintain his composure. Now was not the time to deal with the emotion flashes. The battle would have to be concluded as quickly as possible; if a flash occurred at so crucial a moment again, it could be truly disastrous.
He turned to the console attached to his arm and input new commands: Fighter squadrons would take out the defensive batteries, attempting to limit damage to major urban centers—he would not let the actions of the Irhani change his objective. However, he could not let their actions go unanswered. Segments of the fleet he ordered to take positions above a number of less valuable cities and raze them to the ground, in addition to destroying the remnants of the Irhani fleet. That would work to his advantage in more than one way: Once concealing his location was no longer practical, footage of the destruction would be sent to the rest of the Alliance. A warning against any who still thought to oppose the Tyrannodons.
Darkclaw watched on the main display screen as the fleet began to carry out his orders. It did not take long to destroy both the defensive batteries and the cities. The Irhani would think twice about attempting to ambush his forces again. Once the last battery was confirmed destroyed, the landing craft were dispatched to the planet once more. This time, they disappeared from the visual display screen, entering the planet’s atmosphere without incident.
Only a short time after they first craft landed, the Hudecar’s communications officer spoke.
“The planet’s leadership wishes to speak with you, Executor, regarding terms of surrender.”
“Inform them that the terms are whatever I deem best. There will be no dialogue,” Darkclaw said evenly.
The battle all but won, his mind was focusing more on how to deal with these emerging emotions, which threatened to impair his leadership capabilities. The High Lord would not want to be contacted directly until this phase of the invasion was completed; he would have to work through this disability on his own.
Not necessarily on his own, he realized a moment later. The Felinaris dealt with this regularly—they felt it natural. Perhaps he could learn from them how to deal with unwanted emotions. He would not tell them his condition, of course; he did not want them to feel him unfit, nor did he want to grant the grand admiral any satisfaction—she would doubtless attribute his emotion flashes to her actions. And Darkclaw could not declare that untrue. He would have to go about it a different way. He would feign an interest in their society, their culture, and request that they explain things to him. The Felinaris would jump at the chance, he was sure—any excuse to talk at length would excite them. Yes, that would be the best option. He would have to endure more time with them, but that was preferable to making a mistake in combat. Also, Admiral Kharitzon seemed more able to remain level-headed and understand Darkclaw. His presence—and he would be present if the grand admiral was—would keep things manageable.
Even as he made his decision, a heavily encrypted message reached the Hudecar from the Felinaris and Snevan forces that had attacked the Kanor system. They had taken the system, and wiped out a sizeable Galactic Alliance fleet sent to reinforce the system’s defenses. That explained the lack of ships over Irhan.
Before he transmitted a reply, Darkclaw glanced over the continuing reports from the planet’s surface. Most of the major cities had fallen easily, though there were several significant pockets of resistance.
Darkclaw opened a channel to First Flight Commander Senkar, who was in command of the Snevan fleet here while the supreme warlord, who had insisted on participating personally in the fighting, commanded the Snevan forces with the Felinaris. Darkclaw ordered the Snevan to position his warships over several more minor cities on the planet’s surface. If he had to destroy half the cities on the planet, Darkclaw would do so.
Fortunately, the Snevans were proving easy to work with, willing to do as ordered and without asking many questions, so long as they received what was promised to them.
Darkclaw ordered the Tyrannodon commander on the ground, General Razorpath, to deliver an ultimatum to the Irhani: For every attack on Tyrannodon forces, a city would be destroyed. Additionally, if they did not surrender within two hours, one city would be destroyed each hour until they did. The message sent, Darkclaw stood silently in the fleet command hub. All there was to do now was wait, and see what the enemy decided to do.
When there was no contact from General Razorpath for over an hour, Darkclaw began to wonder if the ultimatum and warning had truly cowed the Irhani. However, minutes later, the notification arrived, as expected, though it had taken longer than he had thought it would. It was a good hour before any report came, and the report itself was brief. The remaining organized Irhani forces had launched a single large counterattack; likely in the hope that only one city would pay the price in return for a victory. Unfortunately for them, there would be no victory.
Darkclaw immediately ordered the Snevans to annihilate the first two cities on the targeted list, and then reopened the audio feed to the di
splay stations on the surface, which the general had set up to deliver the initial message. The Irhani had not kept their word; why should he keep his?
“Irhani defense forces,” he began, “your tenacity is undeniable; it must be admitted. But your cause is lost; there is no chance of victory. Your resistance is only bringing further harm to the world your clearly care to fight for. In response to your latest act of aggression, I, as promised, ordered the destruction of another two of your cities. I have no desire to destroy every last city on this world. But you are leaving me no choice. For every hour this resistance continues, another city will be destroyed. If it ceases and no further action is taken against my forces, there will be no more destruction. I await your decision.”
Barely half an hour later, Darkclaw received confirmation that the fighting had ceased, and the remaining enemy combatants had given themselves up. Darkclaw left orders for General Razorpath, who would remain in command of the forces left behind in the Irhan system, then ordered the rest of the fleet to depart for their rendezvous with the Felinaris and the rest of the Snevan fleet, on the outskirts of the Algen system.
CHAPTER 6
Second Scion Dalcon stormed through the hallways of the Assembly building, hoping that he did not get stopped by anyone. In his current state, he would not have been surprised if he reacted by striking them. He was better than he had been earlier that morning, however, when he had seriously considered not leaving his quarters, but after two hours of pacing his dwelling’s roof and a liberal use of imicry, his rage had reduced to the point where he would—hopefully—not yell at both the First Scion and Chairman Gasno, head of the Assembly and the highest ranking official in the Alliance.
How could they ever have approved of sending so many ships—most of the non-Legion ships currently able to defend Alliance systems—to launch an attack on the Snevans and Felinaris? If the attacks succeeded in wiping out the Felinaris and Snevans’ abilities to wage war, it would have been at best a small victory, at worst a simple mistake, spreading their forces too thin. But they had failed miserably. The force sent to Sneva had been soundly defeated and had withdrawn. Then, even after intercepting a warning sent to Felinar, the second attack had gone ahead. No ships had returned.
Dalcon kept his hands balled into fists as he walked, as if he were physically containing his anger within them. Why had they wasted so many ships when an unknown enemy was invading? How sure had they been that the Felinaris and Snevans would ally themselves with the invaders and not assist the Alliance against a common enemy? It was a moot point now; after the unprovoked assault both the Felinaris and Snevans would be sure to take up arms against the Alliance.
When he finally reached the chairman’s office, Dalcon leaned against the wall for a few moments before entering, not caring if his horns scratched the pristine white stone. He felt overly warm. Had someone in the building raised the heat in the past few minutes? It was winter, but it was not all that cold outside. Dalcon took a long drink from his canteen and closed his eyes as the refreshing coolness spread throughout his body, the ever-calming power pulsing. Thank the Ashmouth for that.
Once he was sure he would be able to maintain his composure, Dalcon rang the buzzer on the door to the office. He would make his feelings and opinions known, but in a calm manner.
The door buzzed, unlocking. Dalcon grabbed the imitation wood handle and twisted it, so that it would not relock, then took a deep breath in and out.
No yelling, he reminded himself, then opened the door and entered the office.
The office was composed of three primary rooms: The reception area, where a young, gray-skinned Irhani sat at her desk, staring intently at her computer, likely not for work-related purposes. The chairman’s private office, its calm, rustic wooden door concealing a far less friendly, felinite alloy one behind it, and the conference room, from where Dalcon could already hear the other attendees making idle chatter, waiting for him.
“Ah, Second Scion, so glad that you could make it,” said Chairman Gasno, a Tehlman well past his prime, and despite his cheery tone, looking as haggard as Dalcon had ever seen him. None of the room’s occupants stood as Dalcon entered—he was the lowest ranking official present. He had only merited invitation because he, as Second Scion, served as their field commander. By the chairman’s tone, Dalcon could not tell if the man was truly welcoming him or being sarcastic. After all, Alliance command had conveniently found Dalcon assignments that had kept him occupied after he returned warning of the coming danger. To put it simply, they had wanted him quiet. And so he had had no chance to tell them how stupid this attack was.
The chairman sat at the head of a simple, old-fashioned oval table, its shiny black finish contrasting with the lighter blue walls. To the sides of the chairman sat First Scion Gendae and Chief Strategic Advisor Rotam ren Parstin, the latter being the one, if Dalcon’s estimate was right, who had been the driving force behind the disastrous attacks on Felinar and Sneva. The tough-skinned, shaggy-headed Darvian had never been capable of keeping his personal prejudices separate from his job. Dalcon had always thought that having someone with such a fire to start with others in so crucial a position was a poor choice on the chairman’s part, but then the Darvians had a great deal of political influence.
The last person at the table was Supreme Commander Ronner. The supreme commander looked markedly older than he had only a few weeks ago, on the mission to investigate the Atheneum. The old Tehlman nodded to Dalcon as he made his way to his seat, next to the First Scion.
“Now that we are all present,” the chairman began once Dalcon was seated, “we can begin to work out a reaction plan. By now, I’m sure you’ve all heard the bad news: The Kanor and Irhani systems have fallen.”
It was all Dalcon could do to keep his mouth from hanging open. When had this happened? Why had he not been told that two significant Alliance systems, both deep within Alliance space, had fallen? And so quickly? “Do we have any detailed reports?” was all he could ask while keeping his cool. “Any new information on the invaders?” At least now they’ll know I was right, he noted mirthfully.
“Unfortunately, we don’t,” the chairman said with a sigh. “The invaders have been very meticulous about concealing their presence. Communications were down before there was any indication of a problem, and no ships have escaped.”
“None?” Dalcon asked. The Irhani fleet, while not the largest in the Alliance, was still sizeable. How could not one ship have escaped?
“There is no definite explanation as of yet,” said Supreme Commander Ronner, “but I believe that they are making use of Snevan interdictor vessels, trapping the defense fleets within the systems.”
The chairman nodded. “That makes the most sense, given what else we know. We did get one transmission from Kanor before it was attacked, a distress signal. A combined Felinaris and Snevan fleet one thousand strong was heading directly for the planet. Two hundred Legion vessels and two thirds of the Irhani fleet were dispatched to provide assistance. There has been no contact since their departure, and the ships sent to scout the system have not returned.”
“I knew the both of them would turn against us at the first opportunity!” shouted Strategic Advisor Rotam, the long, shaggy brown hair that covered his entire head flying as he turned to stare at the assembled officials. “We should have used the Legion to destroy the traitors back when we had the chance!”
There was only so much of the Darvian’s ranting that Dalcon could tolerate, and he crumpled a blank paper that had been sitting in front of him as he responded. “Do you have any idea how many ships the Legion would have lost had we launched a full-scale attack on Felinar and Sneva? We would barely have anything left to fight the invaders! And of course they would fight us. The Alliance forced the Felinaris out, and we made no attempts to win either them or the Snevans back. Instead, behind the back of the government you coordinated a genocidal attack on Felinaris civilians, Advisor! And with what end goal in mind? To provoke a war?
Well, now we have a war on our hands, and we are losing!” Dalcon had to pause for breath, and the others leaped into the gap in conversation. The attack had perhaps been too sharp, but Dalcon had no sympathy for one who could condone and partake in such horrible acts.
“The Second Scion is right,” the supreme commander said, nodding his head, brow furrowed as though making a calculation. “At least sixty percent of the Legion Navy would be out of service now had such an attack been launched.”
“This is no time to point fingers at each other!” thundered First Scion Gendae, the loud, deep voice sounding odd coming from a man just over a meter and a half tall. The First Scion was a Kareben, a Tehlmanlike race that possessed a limited empathic ability, well known for their ability to detect lies. While the First Scion could potentially have passed for a short Tehlman, his slightly pointed ears and the three small, knoblike protrusions on his forehead made his true species clear. Gendae himself was old, even for a Kareben—and taking modern medicine into account—at one hundred ninety four standard years of age. For much of his long life he had been a legend for both his combat prowess and diplomatic abilities. “We cannot afford to fight one another with three enemies on our doorstep!” Gendae continued, his wrinkled face contorting as he shouted, and his eyes flared with the righteous anger of a young man. He was a perfect counterpart to the very partisan Rotam.
“The First Scion is right,” said Chairman Gasno. “Second Scion, I ask you to reserve your personal disagreement for after the meeting.”
“I will not, if it is relevant to the matter at hand!” Dalcon replied sharply before he could stop himself, further crumpling the paper into a pointy ball, though he at least managed to keep himself seated. “Am I right in thinking that the chief strategic advisor organized the failed pre-emptive attacks?” he continued, fighting to keep his voice level. “For all we know, the Felinaris and Snevans would have joined with us against what may have been a common enemy, or at least remain uninvolved, giving us a better chance. Because of personal prejudices, we ensured that we have three enemies to fight,” Dalcon finished, catching his breath as he glared at the strategic advisor, who had remained suspiciously calm throughout Dalcon’s outburst.