In the bright light of victory they hung like a cloud, souring the Érenni population and leaving the officers in the control room in stunned silence.
“Why?” Mairwen rose from the floor, her voice shivering. The white carpet of dust still lying heavy on everything. Tracks ran down her face, showing tears which she did not hide. “Why do they do this? Why do the Ashani want us dead!?”
“I don't know,” Gwythyr replied sincerely, sympathetically. “For territory, for power, who knows? Maybe just because they can.”
“They've poisoned our world,” she stumbled on her words, the grief trapping those sounds in her throat. “Why did they do it?!” she yelled through the tears. “Why should they care!?”
Gwythyr looked away. These were questions for which his combat-trained mind had no answers.
The Dominion was in retreat. The Republican Defense Force was restoring the planetary defenses. It had been a very close battle. Too close for his liking, but they had won. They had protected Akvô, at least for a little while longer. And yet the price weighed high on him. If they were lucky the missiles that had penetrated their defenses had killed a hundred million people. He knew it was the price of war, but it made it no easier to bear.
“Damn you!” Mairwen screamed. “Damn you and your kind! A curse on conquerors and warriors! Damn every last one of you! How many more have to die before the universe realizes war is not the way!?”
Again the Tuathaan officer did not answer. It was a question for which no answer existed. He felt like telling the hysterical leader that if not for the sacrifice of her own brave people, unlikely heroes that they were, Akvô would have fallen and all of them would have died. But he remained silent.
“What have they done,” she muttered, her long fingers shaking. “What have they done? What have they done?!”
He gently pulled her closer to him. She towered over him, a foot taller than he, lithe and willowy, but he shushed her like a small child. As she collapsed in his arms, sobbing, Gwythyr understood that the casualties of war were not just limited to those shot or burned on the battlefield, but were inflicted on those at home, too. Érenni society was already a casualty of this war, its pacifist ideals shattered under the grim reality of a fight against annihilation. He knew the effect on the psyche of its people would never be understood by a simple Tuathaan soldier like he, but right here and now he could do what was in his power to at least help one of them. Around him Érenni soldiers, a few months ago to his eyes almost indistinguishable from the woman he cradled in his arms, calmly began to restructure their defenses and readied the planet for the next attack as stoic as any Tuathaan could have been.
Dreadnought CLAWBLADE, 3rd Dominion Fleet
Corr'tane's walk through the corridors of his dreadnought was controlled, almost mechanical in nature, if a bit faster than normal. Still, crew members and officers he had worked with for long years gave him a very wide berth when they saw the cold fire in his green eyes. Many of them had seen him angry or discontent before, but what they saw this time was nothing like these past experiences. An aura of cold fury surrounded him as he made his way to the briefing room, and everyone who crossed his path, regardless of rank or familiarity, made certain they did not provide an outlet for his wrath.
Anger had taken hold of him ever since the offensive had been recalled and he had managed to get the fleets away from the Érenni defense grid. The feeling hadn't abated, but instead had festered in him. The unnecessary attack had cost the Ashani heavily and for little strategic gain, that in alone was enough to make him angry but the fact that the soul to blame for this was his own sister had driven him beyond rage.
The two shipboard Marine sentries stood at attention, their gray uniforms sharply contrasting with the crimson tunics of the Navy officers. Wordlessly they let him enter.
Three wide screens covered one side of the room's walls while a long table, slightly curved as if to follow the curvature of the dreadnought's hull, occupied most of it. Showcases made from transparent compound materials stood unshaken by the recent battle, displaying the models of ships as well as campaign insignia. The briefing room was empty except for his sister who sat at the table. She was in dress uniform and had a few cuts and bruises, but seemed well enough. Pyshana rose from her seat, an uncertain smile playing around her mouth as Corr'tane crossed the distance between the two of them.
“Brother, I...,” she began.
Corr'tane drew back his arm and hit her. He had never before raised a hand against his sister, never before raised a hand against any woman, but when his hand connected with Pyshana's face it was no slap but a punch bearing his full strength. Purely physical confrontations had never been his strength. He preferred the intellectual exercise of leading a ship or a fleet just as much as he preferred the controlled environment of a laboratory. But this time none of that mattered, and pure anger gave him raw strength.
The blow took her off her feet and sent her crashing into a display case. The material didn't break, making the impact even harder as she bounced back from it, staggering to stay on her feet. Aghast she stared at Corr'tane.
“What in all hells were you thinking?!” he roared. “I told you to fall back!”
“Ashani do not retreat,” she said coolly, her eyes still flickering as if she wasn't sure what to make of the situation. “I am a Strategos of the Dominion now. I have standards to uphold.”
“The only standard you had to uphold was the standard of our nation!” Corr'tane snapped. “You complete idiot! You stupid, stupid child. There was a time when I knew you as a hyper-intelligent astrophysicist, as the upcoming star in that field. Since when did you get so stupid?!”
“Since when did you become such a coward?” Pyshana shot back, wiping away a trickle of dark blood from the corner of her mouth.
“You want an answer to that?” He grinned mirthlessly. “I stopped being a reckless idiot the day I was given command over the fate of others. I stopped blindly charging my enemies the moment I was given the responsibility over thousands of warships and the lives of millions. Only a fool would consider protecting our ships from gross stupidity cowardice.”
“The Ashani will either live as conquerors or die fighting, we have no other fate,” Pyshana said calmly. “It is no shame to die in battle.”
Corr'tane crossed the few meters between her and him in a heartbeat. He grabbed his sister by her tunic collar and slammed her against the nearby wall.
The sudden explosion of violence drove all air out of her lungs. Her eyes bulged and she struggled against him. Then his right hand closed around her neck just enough to let her breathe. She stared into her brother's eyes, and for the first time ever in his presence she felt fear.
When Corr'tane spoke his voice was cold and level and quiet.
“The only reason you're still alive is that you're my sister,” he said flatly. “Your reckless stupidity, no, your disobedience has cost us more than two million casualties. Close to a thousand ships have been lost for good; and of the five hundred or so that have been salvaged, many have sustained such heavy damage they'll never become operational again. You're personally responsible for all these losses, for leading the pride of our navy to their doom. And for what?!” His face drew nearer to hers and he stared directly into her eyes. “We've lost. We had a plan, a good plan, until you decided to throw it all away for some stupid notion of glory. If you want to throw away your own life, fine, but your actions today might just have cost us the war.”
He loosened his grip on her throat, then looked away and withdrew his hand.
“You don't know what it's like, being your sister, the sister of the great Corr'tane,” she rubbed her throat, eying Corr'tane wearily. I have to prove I can do this;” Pyshana emphasized.
“Well, the only thing you've shown so far is your complete inexperience. It was a mistake to give you a fleet so soon. You're barely fit to command a single vessel,” he shook his head, suddenly sounding more sad than angry.
“You're saying I'm not as good as you?” she narrowed her eyes.
“Yes, Pyshana. That is exactly what I'm saying,” he calmly told her.
Anger flared up in her eyes and Pyshana opened her mouth, but her brother's icy glare stopped her in her tracks.
“Your decisions are based on emotion, not rational thought. You want to make a name for yourself and take your place among the great leaders of our people, and that is your problem. You're thinking of yourself, your future, your potential reputation, and you constantly make these the focus of your actions. I never thought I'd have to say this, but you're not fit for the rank you hold.” He faced her stare unflinchingly. “You're a glory hound, Pyshana, and as long as you remain that way, you are unfit to lead fleets into battle.”
“I just want to make everyone proud of me,” his sister lowered her eyes. “You included.”
“It's too late for that,” he answered her coolly, though his anger had begun to subside. “Has it never occurred to you that fleetnet logs all communications, all actions? How do you think we arrive at the after action reports we so diligently study all the time?”
Pyshana blinked. “I don't understand what...”
He silenced her with a guttural growl. “Because you never think things through, you idiot! Everybody knows who led the fleet into that bottleneck. Everybody knows it was you and your rash decisions that turned a perfectly valid – and working! – plan into the greatest catastrophe the Dominion's armed forces have had to suffer in hundreds of years. Everybody knows it was you who disobeyed direct orders! Making me proud, my hairy ass,” he muttered.
“I thought I was doing the right thing;” she protested. “An example to follow, you know.”
Corr'tane leaned back against the table and buried his face in his hands. He slowly shook his head. “Sister, you don't understand. This isn't about you. It never was. It was always about the fleet, about our people. And your senseless abandonment of the battle plan has cost us probably a sixth or so of our active warships. And worse, it's put the one planet we had hoped to resettle within the next six months or so out of reach, maybe forever. And everybody knows it's your fault.” He looked up again. “Don't you understand what that means, Pyshana? You disobeyed a direct order. That alone would've been grounds enough for a court martial. But your disobedience got millions killed.”
He sighed, then nodded as understanding began to dawn on his sister's bruised face.
“I've spent the past two hours talking directly to High Command and the Council of Strategoi back home,” he told her. “I had to call in every chip I had and it still took me all my persuasion skills, but I got them off the idea of having you charged and then summarily executed.”
Pyshana gasped, but Corr'tane only chuckled wearily.
“What did you expect their reaction would be, damn it!? Praise and a bucket of flowers because you tried?”
Pyshana grimaced. “Thank you, I...”
“Don't thank me,” he cut her off sharply. “I've saved your life, though given your sustained desire to get yourself killed 'for honor' I really don't know why I still bother. For what it's worth, I managed to salvage a bit of your career, too, but there'll still be an investigation and an official hearing. You've been demoted to the rank of captain, and you're on half-pay, indefinitely.” His eyes warned Pyshana against interrupting him. “I doubt the Council will ever let you rise above that rank again. You've also been pulled from frontline duty for the time being. I suppose they'll put you behind a desk somewhere, but with some luck I'll get you the command of a destroyer or cruiser. I know you're not made for desk duty.” He gave her a tired, thin smile. “A courier leaves in about an hour. The ship will take you back home for reassignment.”
Corr'tane pushed himself up and turned to leave. Not looking at his sister, close to tears as she was, was about the hardest thing he had ever had to do. But he did it. Before the bulkhead opened he stopped one last time. Behind him Pyshana sobbed silently.
“I'll always be there to help you,” he told her quietly. “But you've got to let me help you, sister. You've got to let me. I can't give you anymore advice if you never listen to it. I'm sorry. Sorry that I can't do more than this. But you always wanted to stand on your own feet. And now you'll have to. Good bye.”
The bulkhead slid open, and Corr'tane stepped out again, his face a mask, his mind racing to concentrate on something else. The Dominion couldn't take Akvô, at least not now. He had convinced High Command to seal the planet off and keep it under siege by a permanent force large enough to keep it subjugated, yet small enough not to be a drain on the rest of their operations. The rest of the fleets – what was left of it – would transition to the fold and return to Toklamakun to regroup for the next phase of the war. There they would probably be able to salvage two combat worthy fleets from the debris of Akvô. They had lost a battle. But they were still winning the war.
“One would have thought the futility of the valiant frontal charge had become obvious after the invention of gun powder. Apparently not.”
- Lieutenant Poh'xaren, Junior Dominion Intelligence Analyst, upon reviewing data from the Battle of Akvô
C H A P T E R 1 5
U.V.S. JOHNSTON, North American Union Navy Cruiser
Foldspace, near the Coalsack Nebula.
August, 2797 C.E.
Nobody had ever given the pale red sun a name, and chances were that nobody ever would, unremarkable as it was. The deep red glow of the red dwarf star swirled through JOHNSTON's bridge, emanating from the cruiser's central holotank. The system was only locked in the cruiser's navigational databanks as an alphanumeric code, and the reason for that was readily apparent for everybody who even glimpsed at its holographic representation: it had no planets. Its only companion was a wide asteroid belt comprised largely of carbon-heavy gravel pits and ice, making it uninteresting even as a mining prospect.
Still, there had been some reports of pirate activity in the region, and the system's obscurity made it precisely the reason why Captain Beaufort had decided to pay it a visit. After the first slump in interstellar commerce, due to the opening of the war between the Dominion on the one side and the Érenni Republics and the Clanholds on the other, the great cartels and conglomerates of Earth's great nations had come back to exploit the situation with a vengeance. Commercial traffic through Van Halen's Star and the periphery of human settled space had risen by nearly twenty percent in the past months as nations wary of a spread of the hostilities hurried to acquire on the interstellar markets what their own industries couldn't provide.
Out on patrol, ships like the JOHNSTON were a bit out of the loop regarding the news cycle, but Beaufort had registered with an appreciation for the irony of the situation that none of the EMC or PRA registered merchantmen that crossed their paths seemed unhappy about their presence, no matter what the politicians at home said.
“Sweeps show no signs of activity, Captain,” Commander Ranaissa intoned from her post at the front of the bridge. “If pirates are indeed using some of the bigger rocks for hideouts they're lying pretty low right now. No thermal or radio activity, no metallic or mass anomalies we can detect. Scopes are clear.”
“Alors, it was worth a try, non?” he nodded cheerily. “Helm, get us on an outbound course and prepare the warpfield generators.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Changing course to new heading. Approximately seventy minutes to the edge of the grav well.”
“Excellent. Ah, a quiet day in the service, c'est bon. All that's needed to perfect it now would be a good cup of coffee and a croissant.”
Ranaissa smiled to herself and kept focused on her console. Captain Beaufort hated coffee and had never eaten a croissant in his whole life, as he had once confessed to her, but the man loved to play up the French stereotype.
A low vibration ran through the ship as its engines accelerated it towards the transition limit, and on towards the next waypoint in their patrol pattern. Normalcy reigned on JONHNSTON's bridge for the nex
t few minutes until an alert from the comm officer's station in the form of three sharp buzzes in three intervals broke the usual subdued cacophony.
“Receiving priority message from OFCOM. Running it through decryption now.”
Orion Fleet Command or OFCOM was responsible for all Union military operations in a two hundred light-year vicinity of Van Halen's star. A priority message usually meant something unexpected had happened, and in a military context 'unexpected' translated all too easily into 'bad'. JOHNSTON could receive messages sent via tachyon boosters even when she was hundreds of light-years away from the next base, but she had no means to respond directly to them. Only dreadnought-sized vessels carried the necessary space and generated the needed power to communicate over interstellar distances.
“There's a second encryption level here,” the comm officer frowned and looked back at Beaufort. “It's a command level message, sir. Text-based, your eyes only.”
“Understood, comm. Relay it to my quarters.”
Beaufort slipped out of his command chair and left the bridge, his usually jovial face all business. The lower gravity aboard the warship helped to speed up his steps as he made his way to his personal quarters not far away. A captain should always be close to his ship's bridge.
He was barely gone more than five minutes when his voice reached Ranaissa over the bridge's intercom. “Commander, please meet me in my quarters. Beaufort out.”
She felt all eyes on her as she rose to leave the bridge, the question plain on every face: just what had they gotten themselves into this time?
Opening Moves Page 42