He planned for it: set up reserves, had threatened units ready to fall back under covering fire. The Battle of Báine Corridor was like a beautiful game of strategy he had enjoyed in childhood, a contest of minds and wills rather than technology and vigor. It was the smart people who would win this war: not the most violent or the best equipped, but those with the mind for war and the will to carry it out. These Tuathaan were already dead. They just didn't know it, yet.
Once again the missile batteries added their fire to the engagement. By this time the Tuathaan had a harder time avoiding them as the range between them and Corr'tane's fleet shrank with every passing second. The edges of the formation were able to spread out to avoid the worst of the barrage, and gradually the Tuathaan attack began to spread out and thin, though its center remained heavily concentrated. It was a valiant charge, and it was costing 3rd Fleet dearly. Able to bring all their offensive weaponry to bear the Tóraí-class attack ships demanded a heavy toll from the first echelons of Dominion fleet. Each of the small attack ships punched way above its league, and wherever its lasers hit, hull plating and the innards of ships gave way.
“Our right flank has almost finished its movement. They're engaging the enemy's left flank, sir!”
Corr'tane followed Pryatan's announcement in the bridge's holotank. Ordered into the corridor's main current, the two hundred vessels of 3rd Fleet's right flank had finished their turning maneuver and now turned their main batteries' full attention to the attacking Tuathaan fleet.
“And yet, they're still coming,” the strategos mused as the icons of a pair of heavy cruisers flickered for a second, then went out like the flames of a dying candle. Even outnumbered four to one and faced with the full brunt of Corr'tane's offensive firepower, the Tuathaan pressed forward, crashing through his outer screen. He punched the key enabling fleetnet on his command chair. “This is Corr'tane: frontal echelons, break contact with the enemy and engage in evasive maneuvers!” He hammered several columns of numbers into his console, noting locations 'above' and 'below' 3rd Fleet's bearing. “Move to these coordinates and fire at will.”
Through the opening the Tuathaan raced, a four-tiered formation of mad firing attack ships, hulks pulling debris clouds after them, and plasma clouds swept forward by the inertia of the ship they had once been.
“They're redlining their drives, sir!” Pryatan inhaled sharply, her grip tight on her chair's armrests.
The Tuathaan were putting every remaining ounce of energy into their drives in a mad dash to close the range between them and the core of Corr'tane's fleet. They were going for his dreadnoughts and battle cruiser divisions, hoping to use their maneuverability to inflict the maximum amount of damage on the heavier vessels before the fates of war finally turned against them.
CLAWBLADE shuddered and Corr'tane was thrown into his shockframe as the enemy's fire struck home. A second later another hit followed, and damage alarms howled through the ship. Outside, the Tuathaan raced closer into the maws of his dreadnoughts while their numbers withered away under the fire of eighty centimeter plasma lasers and countless secondary batteries. But the flickering icons around him showed that the squat, fur-less warriors scored hits of their own.
“We've lost radar two and LIDARs one and seven. Alpha battery has lost lasers two and six, and the forward auxiliary sensors are fried,” Pryatan rattled down the damage report. “Damage control teams are on their way.”
Corr'tane nodded, but his eyes were fixed on the tactical display. A grim smile crept onto his face.
Pryatan looked at him, then at the funnel-shaped structure forming around the Tuathaan force. On the outer edges the ships' icons changed their bearings, turning their bows towards the enemy, still closing in on and firing at the eight million ton vessels ahead of them.
“Now.”
* * * * * * *
“Enemy fleet has been neutralized,” Captain Pryatan reported.
Corr'tane opened his shock frame walked over to CLAWBLADE's main holotank. The Tuathaan commander had led his force deep into the system before transitioning back to normspace, right to the edge of the gravity well. The 3rd Fleet had been hot on his heels, but the Tuathaans' relative advantage in speed had meant the Dominion's forces were more than forty minutes behind Clan Dunnan's relief force. It had been a quick and prudent decision by the clanhold's commander. He must have suspected that Corr'tane had left a covering force behind and had decided to take the bull by the horns. If he could enter the system fast enough and quickly force an encounter with the Dominion's forces there, he still had a chance to play his cards right and win the day. He had gambled – and lost. It had taken his force too long to reach the planet, and the more than a hundred and fifty Ashani vessels in the system had evaded his force, fleeing farther system-inwards. When Corr'tane's ships had entered realspace the Tuathaan force had found itself trapped in the planet's and star's gravity well right between two enemy fleets. The rest had been a rather simple matter of timing. Stuck between two forces and swarmed by close to two-thousand star fighters, the battle had turned into a desperate struggle for survival, then into a panicked rout, then into silence. None of the more than four hundred Tuathaan ships that had made it into the system had made it out again.
“Our own losses are running at fifteen percent.”
“Excellent, truly excellent,” Corr'tane beamed. The 8th Fleet at Senfina had lost nearly sixty percent of its ships, either destroyed or damaged and in need of substantial yard time. Tear'al's ineffective advance on Báine had cost 12th Fleet about a third of his ships for no gain at all. Under these circumstances, fifteen percent spoke of a superb victory. “Send out search and rescue teams and make sure the battlefield's surveyed. We may still be able to repair some of these vessels, even the Tuathaan ones. We don't need their crews, though,” he added conversationally.
Pryatan nodded and relayed the order in the same tone.
There were no binding interstellar conventions on the treatment of prisoners of war. The Dominion's approach was blunt and straightforward: it was standard policy not to leave enemies alive after a battle. The Dominion had no need for prisoners and felt no need to devote resources to looking after them. Their slave labor needs were met by the Makani, and any intelligence they needed could be gathered through other means. It was also a message, a warning that any that faced the Ashani would be doomed to total destruction. Fear was as much a part of this campaign as other more tangible concerns.
The CLAWBLADE moved forward through the ruined battlefield, gliding majestically past the broken hulks of the Tuathaan ships, its escorts blasting any wrecks which impeded its path. Clan Dunnan's warriors had fought fanatically, but not too skillfully. Corr'tane had read they were a warrior race, but not soldiers. Too often they were said to fight for honor and personal glory. That made them ferocious enemies and dangerous in small numbers where experienced crews could work best with one another. But it also made them comparatively uncoordinated, and in these circumstances, the highly disciplined Ashani ships had exploited their lack of planning and lured them into a killing zone, a cauldron of warships and fire from which there was no escape.
Corr'tane suspected that even a disciplined fleet surrounded like that would have had a hard time escaping. Not that it mattered now. Tuathaan resistance in this sector was gone. Today's victory had cost them probably twenty-five percent of their active fleet, perhaps even more. And soon his moment of revenge would be at hand. He would make sure to savor it.
The central plot noted smaller ships darting back and forth to rescue disabled Swiftpaw pilots and offer aid to damaged vessels. Well trained pilots and crew members were a valuable commodity to be preserved at great cost – if possible – and to be expended when necessary. It was a balancing act between ruthlessness and sentimentality. Leaning too much towards one or the other would make him a poor leader. However, his aim, and the thing which set him above most other strategoi of the Dominion, was to look after his forces but not be so attached that he
wouldn't risk them if the goal was worth it.
“Our sensors show the Tuathaan used nuclear munitions against our landing zones,” Pryatan reported. “It's unlikely that 8th Corps survived as a fighting unit.”
“Any communication?” Corr'tane asked.
“None, Strategos. Given the weapons that have been used and the resistance the unit faced on the ground...”
He nodded, not showing any sign of emotions. He had known there would be sacrifices to be made if his plan was to succeed. This one, while painful, had not been in vain. He had thrown a hundred thousand soldiers to the wolves, but their persistence and later loss had enabled him to annihilate a thousand enemy warships and close to a million enemy sailors and officers and technicians, all of whom were valuable assets now denied to the enemy. The Ashani people had been hurt, but not nearly so much as the Tuathaan. And with no friendly signals from the surface, there was no call for a rescue operation. He would proceed straight on with the attack.
“Order the bombardment wings to commence the standard attack pattern: neutron charges against the population centers first, then we drop the bioagents. Let's wipe this planet clean of the Tuathaan taint.”
For long years Corr'tane had been tasked with developing biological weapons of mass destruction. It was a solitary, clinical experience during which he had invented weapons of nightmarish potential: adaptive genetic creations and bio-mechanical nanomachines which proved utterly deadly; compounds designed to melt through and dissolve clothing before releasing toxins to defeat respirators and chemical warfare suits; plagues which remained undetected unless exposed to certain radiation, allowing them to be spread widely before activation; and an array of other creations, each more lethal than the last.
CLAWBLADE and her escorts began the bombardment, a constant rain of strategic missiles falling on major population centers and food and water supplies. It was a tactic he had formulated himself, born from his clinical tests and simulations. Anyone not directly infected in the first strikes would be infected by eating contaminated food or drinking tainted water. It was a way to wipe out entire planets of life –- and given the sophistication of his creations, specific forms of life – quickly and cleanly.
Given the Dominion's predicament, that was only one half of the Ashani strategy. For every plague he invented he also created a cure, an immunization through artificial antibodies that could be given to the Ashani colonists and soldiers who would be expected to land and settle on these worlds after the conquest. Distant as he was from the full-scale impacts of his decisions and creations, to him it was an intellectual challenge and a perfectly acceptable way to help his people.
Half an hour later it was all over.
“Bombardment pattern complete,” Pryatan said.
“Understood, Captain. Good, very good. That was faster than expected,” Corr'tane complimented her. “Order the fleet to refuel and restock their magazines. War Captain Tallthresher's units will remain as a covering force. We'll leave the recovery ships here, too, to continue the rescue and repair missions and to monitor the progress of the planetary cleansing. The remainder of 3rd Fleet will immediately deploy to the Báine system before Strategos Tear'al can gather his forces and go back there himself,” he smiled mischievously. “And then we welcome him with open arms, making sure the galaxy knows which fleet earned the victory.”
“And which commander,” Pryatan said earnestly. “This day will make your name.”
It was a name written in blood.
STRATEGOS, [strætigɑs]
A military rank within the Ashani Dominion. Often mistaken as a mere equivalent for an admiral within human navies, an individual bearing the title of Strategos is in fact endowed with vast military and –- de facto – political powers. In peacetime the Council of Strategoi is both High Command and shadow cabinet. During times of war their decisions effectively supersede those of civilian authorities. Prototypically, a strategos is in equal parts field marshal, admiral of the fleet, and politician. In reality, Ashani strategoi largely concentrate on one of the first two tasks while leaving the latter one to the High Strategos who chairs the Dominion's high command and directly interacts with the Dominion's civilian government.
In their war fighting capabilities Ashani strategoi commonly command theaters of a front, following broad objectives at their own discretion. This approach has led some to draw parallels to the approach of Auftragstaktik (mission command) spearheaded in the 20th century on Earth by the nation of Germany.
Auftragstaktik can be seen as a doctrine within which formal rules can be selectively suspended in order to overcome 'friction'. Carl von Clausewitz stated that “Everything in war is very simple but the simplest thing is difficult”. Problems will occur with misplaced communications, troops going to the wrong location, delays caused by weather, etc., and it is the duty of the commander to do his best to overcome them. Auftragstaktik encourages commanders to exhibit initiative, flexibility and improvisation while in command. In what may be seen as surprising to some, Auftragstaktik empowers commanders to disobey orders and revise their effect as long as the intent of the commander is maintained.
Unlike their historical counterpart on Earth, Ashani strategoi from the start of the war have displayed a vastly differing range of capabilities, ranging from dangerously incompetent to frightening competence, and ruthlessness. As of the time of this report no data regarding the efficiency of Dominion ground operations exist.
- Intelligence Report for the Pacific Rim Alliance's Inner Council, September 2796 C.E.
C H A P T E R 1 0
Tanith, Independent Star System, Pact of Ten Suns.
July, 2797 C.E.
The mild weather was heralding the coming of summer on Tanith as a dawn mist slowly dissipated in the rising morning sun, revealing a lush scenery of rolling hills covered in lilac grass, trees with long, greenish leaves, and winding rivers stretching far into the distance. Large, two-tailed birds drew their circles in the sky above, and the soft buzz of insects hovered over the grasslands as flowers showed colors that would have looked garish in any other place but amidst the purple grass. The hall itself stood alone, a dome accompanied only by a landing platform for shuttles and air cars and a communication tower. No city, town or village was to be seen for kilometers. It was an idyllic location, alien but beautiful, and whoever had chosen to put the meeting hall of the fractured league of star nations on this world had made an inspired choice.
Tanith itself was a minor power. Its elders were content to control only their own star system and otherwise tacitly accepted the military and economic dominance of their direct larger neighbors, the Komerco Timocracy.
The main advantage it had was its central location at a nexus between the major Pact races. As such it was a natural hub of trade and transport, making it rather wealthy and precluding any needs to expand and search for resources. Tanith simply bought what it needed and kept an otherwise low profile. This aura of political neutrality and its central location had been the reasons that made it a perfect meeting place. Its natural beauty was merely a grand bonus.
Ambassador Serrok Setiawan was the senior Komerco representative to the Pact, a fact he loathed more than his two ex-wives combined which, in and by itself, was quite the accomplishment as he never tired of reminding them. He was a victim of his own success. Back home, voting power and the chance to hold political office were coupled with the possession of property. The more you had, the more say you had. That was the nice flipside of the Komerco's stance of 'With great wealth comes great responsibility' and saved them all from the accusation of being nothing but predatory capitalists. In fact, having your political influence bound directly to your net worth was probably the single most important reason why more or less every renowned economic institute across known space had admitted that tax discipline was nowhere as high as in the Timocracy. You wanted the state to know what you earned and had!
And Serrok Setiawan had had it all. He was, as confirmed by every Kom
erco accounting firm worth its title, the richest man alive in the Timocracy, maybe even the known universe. Shipping firms, consumer appliances, and mining cartels: he had his hands in everything. He even owned good old-fashioned tracts of farmland, though naturally in the colonies and not on Kom itself with its blasted environment. All that had evaded him was the leadership of his people. But years at the top had made him a bit too brash and greedy, and when the day had come to vote for a new head of government what had been supposed to become his greatest triumph had turned into a fiasco. None of the other members of the First Echelon had cast their vote in his favor and, as if this hadn't been bad enough, most of those in the Second Echelon whom he had believed to be in his camp had abstained. Worse, the new government's first act had been to 'honor' him by making him the permanent representative to the Pact. It was an exile in everything but the name.
The move had been meant to make him angry enough to throw it all down, to make him resign his post. But as much as he hated being here he wouldn't give his opponents the satisfaction of having him leave the halls of power in dishonor. He had usually ignored most Pact meetings, either sending a minor clerk to at least take note of what was being discussed or outright ignoring it. However, even he had to admit that things had changed so much during the past three weeks that for once his attendance was necessary.
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