"Karvok, the destroyer Gimoch is approaching. Tarvok Brock is requesting your response."
"Tell him to come alongside and board. You escort him up here."
"Very good, my Karvok." Gulin moved off the bridge quickly, eager to appease, content in his duties.
Tarvok Brock appeared on the bridge shortly after, carrying with him a small pouch. He handed it to Zorlog with a wide grin.
"We've got them, Karvok, right where we want them."
Zorlog was studying the pouch's contents. Brock’s last proclamation made him look up.
"You looked at this information?"
The Tarvok’s features changed like a cloud covering the sun.
"Yes... Yes, I did. I had to know..."
"HAD TO KNOW!" Zorlog screamed. He grabbed hold of the hapless Tarvok and threw him across the deck.
"Where are they positioned? What is the armament? How many ships? Tell me, did you have to know so you could leak that information over to the Zigot scum?"
"No, no, my Karvok. I am a loyal Purist. I'm loyal to you only." Brock glanced about quickly, snake eyes darting over the bridge. His forked tongue writhed out of a dry mouth.
Zorlog was literally shaking with rage. With the disrupter bar clenched tightly in his hand, he moved close to the fallen Xilozak. Brock cowered on the floor, silently, nervously.
All of a sudden, Zorlog laughed. It raked through the silent bridge like a roll of thunder from an approaching storm. And he continued to laugh. It was insane. Soon the whole bridge crew joined in. The room filled with growling howls. Brock's apprehension faded, his fangs sunk back to their relaxed state. The outrageous laughter, so contagious, forced howls from his gut.
Zorlog offered his hand and Brock took it.
Brock did not notice the twitching eyes of his Purist commander, did not see the raised disrupter bar, not until it was too late. It cut through his thick Xilozak arm, slicing through bone with a sharp crunch. Brock screamed in agony.
Zorlog's grip did not relent, not even when Brock's legs gave out from under him. He held up the heavy Xilozak with his one arm, every muscle intense with excitement. He glared into Brock's eyes.
The laughing had stopped, cut short by a blunt metal bar. The crew were frozen, shock pasted upon their faces. Realization fed traces of fear into the room. Disbelief was reinforced by the pungent smell of seared flesh. Zorlog tossed the severed arm onto the deck. It hit with a wet thud.
"You are alive now because I like you, but I will have to kill you if there is a next time."
Brock swayed dizzily, barely conscious.
"Gulin, see this Tarvok out."
Gulin approached, agile legs stepping carefully, quietly. He took hold of Brock, now fading in and out of consciousness, and hoisted him over his shoulder. He headed for the exit, stooped deftly to grab the severed arm.
The sound of the closing hatch carried throughout the room, penetrating the silence with a rude clang. The crew turned to their work, avoiding the eyes of their Karvok. None dared meet his heated gaze. Grunting in satisfaction, Zorlog retired to his quarters.
Gulin carried Brock back to his ship. The heavy Xilozak was an insignificant burden to Gulin's powerful muscles. Just the same, he expended extra effort to ensure he did not jostle the poor Tarvok too much. As he approached the airlock, he noticed Brock had opened his eyes.
"Let me down. I will walk."
Gulin eased him to the floor, carefully avoiding the severed stump. He wrapped his arm under the Tarvok's, steadying his weak legs.
"There are excellent surgeons that can reattach…”
Brock responded a hopeful look buried in pain.
“But you should not have reviewed that report, my Tarvok. He could have killed you."
"Hah!" Brock snorted weakly. "He will never get that chance. His element of surprise has now been forfeited. Listen to me, Gulin. Get away from that fanatic as soon as you can. He'll get you killed - and everyone else who follows him." Brock's voice was a mere whisper, drained by the stress of the walk. He staggered through the airlock. His Charvok met them on the other side and quickly jumped in to help them through. Brock waved off his questions, quietly cradling his severed arm.
Across the corridor, Gulin gave the Tarvok a sharp Xilozak salute. He gave a nod of thanks and called back a scratchy warning. "Remember what I told you."
Gulin stepped back and closed the airlock door. Peering out the closest porthole, he watched as the ship departed.
He stood there for a long time, contemplating his true situation.
* * *
The Purist fleet was twenty thousand ships strong now. Most of them were military warships, the others were refitted slavers, cargo ships, and the odd converted pleasure yacht.
Zorlog stood on deck, his most trusted Zuvoks surrounding him. The time to move was almost here. One last battle, one more key base and they would be ready to begin their move on Xilo. But this would be the most difficult battle yet. The Zigot League was desperate. They had assembled every ship they could spare to this fleet. It was larger than the Purists’ but not by much.
Once they take out this force, it will then be a systematic seizure and purge of every Empire controlled planet until they reach Xilo itself. This would be the beginning of the end of the League.
Their move on Meghellan would take every bit of strategy, every trick Zorlog could muster. He laid out the plan to his Tarvoks carefully, ensuring to cover every detail, everyone’s roles, and responsibilities. They would have to move with stealth and position themselves outside of scanning range. This would take time, and leave his main force weakened and vulnerable. His most recent intelligence revealed the fleet was to mobilize and depart from Meghellan within a zanii. Leaving him little time to position the arms of his fleet.
He would let the League fleet get some distance from the base before he would attack. Once they destroyed the base, they would have control of the last remaining deep space communications relay to Xilo.
The fleet would no doubt turn back around as soon as they received news of the attack. But a turnaround takes precious time, enough in fact, that they would be ready by their return. He would leave them surprises along the way using a few strategically positioned ships to wreak havoc upon them, just enough to keep them on edge. They would return into a trap. There would be four separate divisions involved, one hidden in the nearby nebulous cloud, another in close orbit of the sun, one adrift in a dense asteroid belt just inside the system, and the last one – simply the bait. The League Karvok would see their destroyed base, catch the small Purist fleet on their tracings and move in to crush them. As they passed the asteroid belt, the first division would launch, then the rest would fall in. If all went to plan, the League fleet would be decimated before they knew what hit them.
Zorlog left the planning room, confident his officers and Tarvoks would be ready. He waited on the bridge impatiently, often glancing at the tactical.
The divisions moved out to position themselves for the battle.
Soon. They would move soon.
* * *
"I'm worried. It's getting worse. He's sitting up nights. He’s always rubbing his arm, although he rarely complains, I can tell he’s in pain. Always his left side. When I ask him what’s wrong and he says nothing, but I know it's bothering him.”
Tsaurau nodded. "The organ's condition is degenerating."
"What can you do?"
"We need tissue samples to grow a new organ. He must submit to a medical procedure. It is very doubtful he will. Aviore, you must put this in perspective. He is about to lead a campaign of war."
"I know this is war, damn it! But it is going to kill him!"
She exploded, pounding her fist against the corridor wall, followed it with a savage kick, and then she sank to her knees, burying her face in her hands.
Tsaurau stood dumbfounded. He did not have the facilities to know how to react to such violent reactions. He waited for another display, but none came. He final
ly approached her and laid his hand on her shoulder.
She looked up, the anger and frustration drained from her. Her face was pale, and she carried the signs of too many sleepless nights. Tsaurau helped her up.
"Tell me there is another way," she pleaded.
"We could build an artificial organ."
"Will it work?"
"Yes, however, you are departing within one hour. That is simply not enough time."
"I will build it," came a new voice - Gem's.
"Are you sure you can do this?" Aviore asked, trying to contain her hope.
"Yes, most definitely. Ziggy will manufacture the unit and I will aid him. I have many designs to draw upon. However, I would appreciate some pre-manufactured components that the Xeronian medical team has inventoried."
Aviore conveyed the news to Tsaurau.
"I will see to it that you get everything you need, Gem,” he offered.
"Very well. Consider this done."
"Is this what Ryan means when he states that you are obstinate?" asked Tsaurau.
Aviore smiled tautly. The words provided a strange translation, but she had remembered it from her studies. Obstinate: stubbornly refusing to change one's opinion or chosen course of action, despite attempts to persuade one to do so.
"Well, I guess I am. I just want him to survive this war."
* * *
The Galactic Alliance fleet was on the move. A grueling month had passed since their arrival. One hundred and twenty thousand citizens had worked around the clock at their assigned duties. Generals and captains alike studied under Taldig: three-dimensional strategies, historic battles, mistakes of the past.
They said they were ready although Ryan was not as confident.
Their first target was a small desolate planet of G00015-A. The Commander picked that particular target because of a past sighting of fleet movements in that area, and because it was a key spaceport, and a ship manufacturing and repair facility – which they could use to their own benefit.
Ryan particularly enjoyed the fact that it was under the control of the Purists.
The Nubok spy network was proving invaluable. Whatever they saw via their sensors they passed on directly to the Freedom. The small ships moved out well ahead of the fleet, acting as scouts, invisible but deadly to the enemy.
Long-range tracings caught the glimpses of a battle on the fringes of the Zegnite quadrant. As the Nubok relays continued their tracings, it soon became evident that it was none other than the main Purist fleet with ships too numerous to count. They had just made quick work of a small League patrol fleet.
"Kanook, how close are we? Can they see us?"
"Possibly, but our image may not be discernable. We see them so well due to our scanning relays placed by our intelligence network."
"Yes, and if they have their own relays, they can also see us."
"Yes, they could."
Ryan watched the tactical. The Purist fleet was barely a stone's throw away. If they were seen, they were as good as dead. His stomach felt like it was tied in knots. He rubbed his left shoulder.
Listen to your instincts. Too close - they were too close.
"Full stop!"
His order carried throughout the convoy. Ships ground to a halt in veritable unison. The Freedom's bridge turned quiet as apprehensions soared. Questioning eyes looked were passed to their Commander.
"What now?" asked Kanook.
"We wait."
The Galactic Alliance fleet remained stationary for over a day waiting for the Purists to move deeper into the quadrant. Ryan had ordered the Nubok ships to move in as close as they dared. The navigation officers soon deciphered jumbled tracing data into clear trajectories. The Purists were moving toward a League-controlled base called Meghellan. Ryan knew from previous intelligence reports that the Zigot League ships affiliated with that base were significant - outnumbering the Purist fleet. He also knew Meghellan was the last stronghold before Xilo.
If they managed to take this base, it would be the Purists that would be winning.
A long 27 hours later, Ryan issued the command to resume. There was nothing holding them back from attacking G00015-A now. It would be an easy target as it was literally abandoned. But he felt compelled to change the plan. It was not good enough to just stand by and watch. He slammed down on the ship's intercom. "Patch me a link to all ships."
"Established, Sir."
"All ships, this is your Commander. We are modifying our destination. All personnel to battle stations. Standby for new vectors."
"Kanook, we're going to Meghellan, what's the ETA at maximum acroluc?"
"It is 38 hours, 17 minutes, Commander. You sure you want to do this?"
“The League’s numbers are superior. We need to even out the odds if we are to keep this Purist fleet cutting the way ahead for us.”
“Navigations, plan an interception course at full acroluc 10. Download vectors to the rest of the fleet. Helm, engage on T-minus 10."
The Galactic Alliance fleet awoke from its brief rest, reoriented and headed on a new course into the Zegnite quadrant. Aboard every ship there was a flurry of activity. Last minute weapons system checks, combat gear checks, emergency repair drills, medical team preparation. Technicians hovered protectively over their drive systems, coddling them as a mother does her newborn. Everyone kept as busy as possible, trying not to think of the impending battle.
* * *
"You fence well."
"Not as well as you, old man. You’ve surprised me more than once."
"Aye, many years of constant drilling at home, bless’r soul. I can say with certainty too many hours I've sweated through this bellicose dance. "
Ryan wiped the drops from his brow with his towel. McClary had barely broken a sweat.
"Bellicose dance?” exclaimed Ryan with a chuckle. "That is one way to put it for this insanity we call war. But instead of true physical contact, with our swords meeting metal on metal, we exchange hot plasma and nuclear incendiaries in the cold vacuum of space. To tell you the truth, I prefer this type of battle. But we don’t have a choice now do we?”
"Aye. Conflict is unavoidable even in the sweetest of times. 'Tis many a time I did have a bit've a tizzy with the Missus. She had a way 'bout her. Up one side, down 'nother."
McClary paused a moment, as if he was conjuring up a vision of her in the air in front him.
"She was a good woman, a lovely creature. This hell was not for the likes of her. I guess it is better this way. She had neither the strength nor the desire to live as we have managed. She was a high strung one, she was. Broke down in hysterics in trying times. I tried to calm her, I did, but as usual, she paid me no mind. It was over before I realized what had happened. They cut her down in front of me." He eyed the length of his blade. "It was a weapon similar to this one, you see."
Ryan sat down on a bench, took a slug of carbonated water. Yes, he did see. Like many times before, he heard the stories of others. He could only wonder how the human spirit survived such anguish. He said nothing, for there was no reply. There were no words to heal such wounds. Silence was respect.
McClary abandoned his vision, decided to change the topic. "You know, my dear Commander. I do prefer the finer subtle edge of a sword to these blasted things."
"You don’t like these disrupter weapons? Do not discount the amount of damage you can inflict upon the enemy. Activate the disrupter, and this weapon will cut through almost anything, all you need is enough power in the swing."
"Atomic vibrations or something like that ya say? Yes, I understand all of that but this sword I have here just lacks the charisma of a finely crafted weapon. Now yours..." He eyed Ryan's blade with its richly decorated hilt. "You seem to have an exception - a fine tool of debauchery."
"Here," Ryan tossed it to him. McClary caught it by the hilt and swung in one fluid motion. "Aye, she cuts through the air with a perfect balance."
"Present from the Xeronians, but they didn't make it. Appare
ntly, there's a long story behind it."
"I'm all ears, Commander."
"OK, I'll tell you what I know. An Xeronian scoutship found a Showmish ship adrift. They boarded it, found survivors, helped them get the ship's systems repaired and back on their way. The Showmish Captain, out of gratitude, presented the Xeronian Captain with this sword. Naturally, they had not a clue what to do with it, but they received it in good faith."
"I’ve heard those Showmish blades are worth their salt."
"Yes, and so was this Showmish Captain. Apparently, a Xi-patrol discovered the Xeronians shortly after they had separated from the Showmish. The Xeronian vessel took some hits. Critical systems went down. As the Xi-bastards moved in for the kill, the Showmish appeared and intercepted them. Since their weapons systems were not yet functional, they did the only thing they could - they rammed the sonofabitch. Both ships blew to smithereens. The Xeronians survived though, and they tend to remember things – especially this act of bravery. I've heard them tell this story to their children, I think it’s a lesson about faith in other races."
“Aye, ‘tis a learnin’ that has made all this possible, I’d say.”
“Yeah, we can thank the Showmish for that.”
“So you say, these Xeronians remember all the details?”
"Like elephants, they never forget. Never. Count on it. Don't cheat a Xeronian. Your children's children will be paying for it."
They both laughed heartily. It really hadn't been that funny, but it was all in the timing.
"By the way, been meaning to introduce you to this - there's something else the Xeronians seemed to have mastered, under my tutelage of course. But I'm sure you can be the judge of that yourself. Would you care for a shot of Xeronian brandy? She burns going down, but it does tend to sharpen the mind. God knows we’ll need it tomorrow.”
"Don't mind if I do, Commander."
* * *
They were drawing closer to Meghellan with every hour. Ryan spotted a Krelp navigation officer attending his post and beckoned him up. The creature's bulk filled the walkway as he approached. His vibration-translator was blinking merrily, signifying it was engaged.
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