by M. R. Forbes
The fleet advanced, their larger force moving in, closing on the enemy. The Shrikes broke off their original engagement, tightening their formations and vectoring back their way. Their starfighters moved to intercept, and they put up a valiant effort, even managing to take a few of the enemy down. But Shrikes were Shrikes, and they started to get the better of their inferior starfighter designs, leaving Sylvan to watch his soldiers start to die.
He felt the clench in his gut every time one of his went dark. They had to end this quickly, take out the battleships and leave the Shrikes with nowhere to run. Captain Davlyn was thinking the same thing, charging headlong into the fray, taking the hits from the enemy in order to press the attack harder than might be wise. A torpedo slammed into the shields close to Sylvan’s position, the flash of the energy that absorbed it nearly blinding him. He turned his head away until the light faded, looking back to see the battleship that launched it eject debris from a fresh wound, a counterstrike that had broken through the shields.
It was obvious. They were winning.
Sylvan smiled, though the emotion was rough in his chest. He should have been up on the bridge directing this. He should have been leading them to victory. He had fragged up, and now he was on the sidelines of history. Damn it.
At least they were succeeding. At least they were going to capture Earth’s orbit. They had the ships. They had the firepower. The remaining Republic defenses were moving in an updated vector, joining the fleet maneuvers and trapping Thraven’s forces in a crossfire, leaving them with only one way out: back the way they had come.
“Come on, you fraggers,” he said, watching the scene unfold. “That’s right you bastards. Earth belongs to the Republic. Now and forever.”
Another enemy ship went dark, three torpedoes slamming it in the same spot at once, blasting through the shields. It rolled slightly as its vectoring thrusters died unevenly, and then began to float away.
“Only a few left,” Sylvan said. “Go get them.”
He turned his head, finding the Seedship again. It was still positioned at the rear of the action. Still positioned out of harm’s way.
He squinted his eyes. Something was wrong. There were no stars behind it. Instead, he caught the silhouette of a ship, a newcomer to the battle.
“No,” he said softly, finding the edge of it and tracing its lines.
Its mouth opened up and spewed hell, a half-dozen torpedoes arcing away from it, zipping past the Seedship and into their ranks. He couldn’t see the explosions or the detonations, but he didn’t need to.
Thraven was here.
They were all going to die.
38
“No, no, no, no, no,” Sylvan said, knowing their fleet was suddenly being torn to shreds.
Thraven had come to fight this battle himself? Why? It didn’t make any sense. Earth was important, but not that important. There were plenty of other planets for him to worry about, not to mention the Elysium Gate.
The other ships in Thraven’s fleet spread out, vectoring into position to decimate their forces. They were going to be destroyed. All of them, and there was nothing he could do but stand there and watch.
He clenched his teeth, shaking his head, his heart thumping even harder. He could feel the fear of the moment, the certainty of his death and the death of his friends and allies. He wanted to lay against the wall, close his eyes, and wait for it to be over. He wanted to hide while death reached out for him, to let himself sink into the abyss of nothing without so much as a whimper.
He couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. He was General Sylvan Kett, damn it, and his soldiers needed him. He knew Thraven would want him alive, just like he would want the Seedship unharmed. He could use that to their advantage, and buy them some time.
Time to do what? He wasn’t sure. Olus was supposed to rendezvous with them. Could he possibly make it back before this fight was done? What would happen if he arrived after, even if he had a number of Crescent Haulers with him?
They had to damage Thraven’s fleet as best they could, even if it meant every one of them died. There were billions of individuals on Earth, and Thraven’s intentions toward them were anything but innocent.
He had failed once, but he didn’t have to fail again. The Nephilim ships had no true weaknesses, but he did know a few tricks from Charmeine that might help them stay alive just a little bit longer.
Sylvan tightened his hands into fists, steeling himself before darting across the room to the door. It slid open when he reached it, revealing the expected guard.
“General,” the surprised guard said. “You need to stay in your quarters. Captain’s orders.”
“Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?” Sylvan said. “You don’t take orders from the Captain over me.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the guard said, turning his rifle to point it at the General.
“So am I,” Sylvan replied.
He slipped to the side and forward, his footwork quick and precise, bringing him to the left of the guard. The guard moved to react, too late, finding the gun batted aside and a fist hitting him hard on the side of the face. The guard stumbled a step, and Sylvan grabbed the rifle and wrenched it from his grip, turning it back and swinging it into the soldier’s side. It knocked him out of the way, and Sylvan ran past, jumping just in time to avoid the desperate guard’s grip.
It was a short sprint to the bridge, and Davlyn hadn’t stationed any other guards, not expecting Sylvan to try to get out and certainly not expecting him to succeed. The doors to the bridge opened, immediately revealing the projection of Gloritant Thraven to him at the front of the space.
“I’d rather die than surrender my forces or my planet to you, Gloritant,” Captain Davlyn said.
Thraven was stoic and calm, his posture confident and assured. He gave the slightest hint of a shrug at the response.
“I respect your decision, Captain,” the Gloritant said. “It will be arranged.”
“Thraven,” Sylvan shouted, rushing up to Davlyn’s side. The Captain cast a sideways glance at him but didn’t react otherwise in front of the enemy.
“Ah,” Thraven said, a tiny smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “There you are, Sylvan. The Captain told me you were wounded in the earlier fighting.” He paused. “You look hale and healthy to me.”
“You killed Charlie, you son of a bitch,” Sylvan said. “I’m going to kill you for that.”
“You and what army, Sylvan?” Thraven asked. “This rabble? I’d like to see you try.”
“You seem confident,” Sylvan said, a new plan coming together in his mind.
“Why shouldn’t I be? My ships are far, far superior to yours. I don’t even need to use my Gift to kill you.”
“You can’t kill me,” Sylvan said. “If you do, you’ll never learn the location of the Covenant. I’d like to bargain. Surely the Covenant is more valuable than Earth.”
Thraven’s smile grew, the act unnerving Sylvan. Why was the Gloritant so amused by his offer?
“I might have taken you up on that offer earlier,” Thraven said. “I don’t need your help with the ship now. Gehenna has risen, General. The Father leads us to the Great Return. You can’t stop us. You can’t stop me. I have orders from the highest power there is.”
Sylvan felt himself begin to shake, the fear threatening to reduce him to nothing. Lucifer was alive? Had he captured the Covenant? Did that mean Abbey was dead?
There was no hope.
None.
It was over.
He fought against his emotions. “You want me dead then, Selvig?” he asked.
Thraven nodded.
“My ship against yours, whatever you call it,” Sylvan said. “If you win, Earth is yours. If I win -”
Thraven waved his hand, dismissing him. “As you wish, General. I’ll enjoy being the one to destroy you personally.”
The link was dropped, the projection vanishing. Captain Davlyn turned to him.
“What the hell did
you just do? There’s no way the High Noon can outclass that ship.”
“I bought the Republic some time,” Sylvan replied. “I don’t know if it will help in the end, but it’s the best we can do. We’re going to die, Captain, but let’s die with whatever dignity we can salvage.”
Dalvyn nodded somberly. “Aye, General. What are your orders?”
39
Gloritant Thraven stared out at the Republic battleship four thousand kilometers away. What was General Kett up to that he had challenged him to a fight he had to know he couldn’t win? Not only was the Promise faster and more powerful, but he was also more powerful, and the fool hadn’t even bothered to make not using the Gift one of the conditions.
It was senseless and confusing and was causing him to hesitate to consider. Was that what the General was after? To throw him off guard with his misplaced confidence? And what was the meaning behind the story the High Noon’s Captain had given him? The man had said Kett was injured, and then he had appeared whole and healthy. Was that part of the ruse as well?
He didn’t trust it, but he was also worried that by not trusting it he was playing right into Kett’s hands. The man was known for his tactical mind, and that went beyond putting an asset here or a resource there. It meant getting in the head of his opponents, working to make them beat themselves.
It didn’t matter how much Kett tried to get into his head. He still had no chance at beating them.
“Gloritant?” Honorant Bane said, waiting for instructions.
“Move the Promise away from the fleet. Order a ceasefire across our lines. I will deal with Sylvan Kett, and then we can continue with our conquest of Earth.”
“Their General said if you defeat him Earth will be ours.”
“The General has no authority to make a deal like that. He isn’t even a member of the Republic anymore. No, his death won’t stop the fighting.” Thraven paused, the realization crossing his thoughts. “Only delay it.”
He looked back out of the viewport. What was he up to? And who was he hoping would show up while he sacrificed himself to stall?
Cage, perhaps? The Father had said he allowed her to escape, to make her way back to Shardspace in a Harvester. For what purpose? To what end? That wasn’t for him to concern himself with. The Father had his reasons. Besides, if she showed up here, he would deal with her.
He was hoping for the chance.
“The High Noon is accelerating away from us, Gloritant,” Bane said.
Thraven could see the battleship’s thrusters flare, the vectoring jets pushing it onto a new course. Kett wanted him to chase them?
“Fire a single torpedo,” Thraven said. He wanted to see what Kett would do with it.
“Yes, your Eminence.”
Bane passed the order, and a moment later a torpedo launched from the bow of the Promise, a flash of light that zipped toward the High Noon so quickly it was difficult to follow.
Somehow, the ship avoided it, skipping to the port side, the projectile cutting past. How far from the hull? A meter or less? It was impossible.
No, not impossible. Not with the great Sylvan Kett directing the battleship’s crew.
“Well done, General,” he said softly. “Get us ahead of the High Noon.”
“Yes, Gloritant.”
The Promise burst ahead, its engines and dampeners carrying them from their current position to a place ahead of the High Noon in less than a minute. By the time they arrived the battleship had adjusted its vectors again, General Kett guessing where they would move to and preparing for the occasion. Torpedoes were already headed toward them as the warship turned to get into firing position, taking a few hits off the shields in what Thraven knew would be a moral victory for the Lessers.
“The High Noon is launching starfighters, Gloritant,” Bane said.
Thraven could see it for himself. Dozens of small craft emerging from the two hangars of the battleship and racing back toward them. What was the point of the maneuver?
“Fire,” Thraven said.
A second torpedo flashed away, caught a moment later by one of the starfighters, detonating away from the High Noon.
Thraven leaned forward slightly. How could that be possible? It was as though Kett knew where every strike would be before it happened.
A plume of disterium began to form around the battleship.
“He’s running, Gloritant,” Bane said.
Thraven shook his head. “No. He won’t run. Fire all batteries.”
The space around the Promise brightened as heavy beams of plasma arced away from the ship, reaching out for the High Noon. The warship rotated as the energy crossed over, taking glancing blows from them, most of the power deflected by their shields.
Most, not all. Beams struck the hull, pouring into the heavy armor and burning it to gas, creating small fissures in three places near the stern.
A moment later, the High Noon vanished, leaving a raft of starfighters closing on the Promise, small lasers opening fire on the ship, biting at it like a swarm of insects.
“Shall we call for reinforcements, Gloritant?” Bane asked.
Thraven reached out, grabbing the Honorant with the Gift and lifting him from the floor. “Do you care nothing for honor?” he hissed, throwing Bane across the bridge. “I agreed to single combat.” He released his servant without killing him. “Besides, I’m enjoying this. Now get up.”
Honorant Bane stood quickly, limping back to his position near Thraven. They both watched the sensors. The High Noon reappeared a moment later, coming at them from the starboard flank. It unleashed everything it had then, at the same time Kett’s starfighters broke away.
Torpedoes and lasers struck the side of the Promise, shields flaring while the battleship attacked with everything it had. The ship quivered slightly beneath the assault, forcing Bane to put a hand on one of the stations for balance.
“Shields at sixty percent,” one of the Agitants announced.
“I’m finished with this game,” Thraven said.
He breathed in, feeling the Gift rise to him, eager to do his will. He spread his hands, turning them and then slashing them in front of his body.
Outside the Promise’s hull, dozens of starfighters began to crumple, an invisible force punching into their fuselage’s and crushing them, the force tearing open cockpits and leaving the pilots inside exposed.
“What do you think of that, Sylvan?” Thraven said, satisfied with the silent carnage.
The High Noon replied, a fresh barrage of firepower stretching out to slam the Promise.
“Get us back into position and fire at will. We will not miss again.”
“Yes, Gloritant,” Bane said.
“Shields at fifty percent,” the Agitant announced.
The Promise started to turn, while Thraven reached out with the Gift, taking hold of the High Noon with it, not to damage it himself, but to hold it in place. Vectoring thrusters tried to fire, the force countered by the naniates, keeping the warship still.
Kett must have sensed their impending doom. The High Noon began to add velocity from the rear, thrusting right toward them.
Thraven knew what the General intended.
“Cancel the order to fire. Move us away.”
“Yes, your Eminence,” Bane said.
The Promise jumped, thrusters firing and positioning them over the High Noon.
Seconds later, the Republic battleship exploded.
Debris rushed toward the ship, peppering the shields, forcing them to work hard to block the large pieces of metal and slag that rushed toward them, a mess created by the self-destructed ship. The remains of the High Noon coursed out in every direction, heading toward both fleets, forcing all of the nearby vessels to raise shields and start taking evasive action to conserve energy.
Gloritant Thraven stared out at the expanding field. “You died well, Sylvan Kett,” he said. “A shame you died for nothing.” He turned to Bane. “Order the fleet to re-engage the enemy. Capture the See
dship. Leave nothing else intact.”
“Yes, Gloritant.”
40
“Colonel, we’re about to drop,” Gibli said, his voice shaking.
“Oh, grow a pair already, will you, Shitbrains?” Quark replied, getting to his feet and looking over at Olus. “It’s not like we’re about to land in a fragging shitstorm, right Captain?”
Olus smiled. “Right. Shitstorm would be an understatement.”
“I trust you won’t leave us fragged?” Quark said, looking over at Governess Ott.
“I’ll do what I can,” she replied. Having a Goreshin try to claw her head off had brought her over to their side in a hurry. “But I don’t know how many of the commanders will listen to me. The blood between the Outworlds and the Republic has been bad for a long time, and a lot of them won’t want to sacrifice their chance to spill it without orders from the full Governance.”
“Those assholes,” Quark said. “Selfish bastards, every last one of them.”
“Not all of them,” Olus said. “Governor Pike was reasonable.”
“Two out of seven,” Quark said. “Your word meant shit to them, Sandy. I thought they respected you.”
“It’s late in the game, Q,” Ott replied. “They smell victory over the Republic.”
Quark huffed. “Some fragging victory it’ll be. Yay, we beat the Republic. Oh, now we’re fragging monster food. Shit. I hope Cage gets your message, Captain, or this is going to be a short war.”
Olus didn’t say anything. What was there to say? Lucifer had entered the picture, emboldening the Nephilim to the point they no longer cared if the Outworlds were with them or not. Worse, the Outworlds had remained on the offensive, the Governance refusing to take Governess Ott’s experience into strong consideration. The vote had been swift and decisive, with only one other sitting member taking their side. He had gone to the Governess hoping he could get the two sides to work together to stop the threat, a plan that had failed miserably.