Message for the Dead

by Jason Anspach

  A man who would rule the galaxy in the next few hours.

  Or be responsible for all their wayward deaths.

  Admiral Rommal checked the countdown clock near the combat information console.

  Twenty-six minutes to go.

  20

  Twenty-Fourth Republic Squadron, “War Ravens”

  Utopion System

  Gola Ontalay, commander of the Twenty-Fourth, got the Flash Traffic message in her HUD and also projected across the cockpit of her Raptor B.

  The B model of the Raptors came with an advanced power plant in both engines, a dynamic ECM warfare package, and a weapons officer riding shotgun. Gola’s weapons officer, call sign Boom Boom, looked up from his instruments and waved a hand at the message.

  “Got it,” Gola murmured over comm. She checked her squadron’s formation over her left and right shoulders. All ships were lined up and ready. As were the other squadrons and wings making up the massive strike force protecting the carrier.

  “All craft, this is Raven Leader,” she began. “Deep sensors are tracking three massive ships and eight smaller vessels dropping from hyperspace. This is it, boys and girls. Showtime. Follow me.”

  She heeled the craft over to pick up the intercept heading, and punched the burners. The needed to get out in front and reach the enemy battleships before the main fleet did. Being able to engage enemy fighters before they could be switched over to anti-SSM tactics was critical.

  “I saw the footage from Tarrago,” said Raven Three. “But looking at them now, the footage lied. Those things are massive!”

  “Stow that, Three,” ordered Gola. “Bigger they are, harder they fall.”

  “Fighters inbound,” murmured Boom Boom over the comm. “Here they come.”

  Seconds later Raven Squadron was swimming through a sea of wicked scalene-deflectored tri-fighters. Raptors fired pulsed shots at the oncoming enemy, while while other squadron ships either exploded from concentrated fire or crashed into incoming enemy fighters head on, the clash of forces was so thick.

  Gola broke from her run through the center of the press, increased power, and climbed over the elliptic of the field. She picked up a tri-fighter running back into the battle, rolled out on its six, and opened up with both blasters for a quick kill.

  “Splash one for commander,” said one of Raven Squad when they saw her kill. But Gola was already tracking three closing in another squadron’s wounded bird—a single Raptor, trailing vapor as it raced away from the battle. Gola’s fire disrupted the formation of pursuing tri-fighters. Two broke off.

  She stayed on the one still going in for the kill on the wounded Raptor.

  “Handle the other two, Boom.”

  “Roger. Solutions green… Hawkeyes away. Hawkeyes away.”

  Two micro SSMs, designated ATA-9s, streaked off and raced toward the two tri-fighters, which were now trying to pick up Gola’s six. Both missiles found their targets. One exploded into its target’s portside deflector, sending the tri-fighter spinning off, casting debris and vapor away like some runaway comet; the other optimized its chase-engagement solution and scored a center pod kill on the tri-fighter’s ion engine. That fighter vanished in a terrific starburst.

  Meanwhile Gola iced the chasing tri-fighter and ordered the Raptor out of the battle.

  “Negative, Raven Leader. I’m not sitting this one out,” replied the pilot. And then he cut comm with her, returning to his own squadron.

  Gola sighed, dialed in her squadron tactical display, saw that she’d lost three ships, and dove into the fray to help clear out the tri-fighters preventing the main attack from reaching the battleships.

  “Everyone wants to be a hero today,” muttered Boom Boom, not looking up from his instruments.

  “Same as it ever was,” sighed Gola as she smoked another tri-fighter. Four kills, and the sky was still swimming with the things. It was going to be that kind of day.

  ***

  Combat Information Center

  Imperial Dreadnought Terror

  Utopion System

  Kat Haladis watched the fighter engagement through her digital sandbox. She saw the maneuvers and solutions. Watched the kill and casualty counts coming in. And she burned.

  “Scorpion Leader,” she called into the ether of the comm. “Your wingmen need to stay with the leader. You’re getting picked off. Form up! Work together!”

  “Negative, negative. It’s too close out here, Terror Six. Engaging…”

  A moment later the comm went dead, and Kat saw the squadron leader’s tag added to the casualty count.

  She swore. She should be out there. Not here stuck in battle management.

  “Assign the new leader and inform the squadron,” she ordered the operations tech. “Order him to form up regardless of how thick it is out there.”

  And she knew what they were thinking. They were thinking why was she, some console jockey, telling them, actual fighter pilots, how to fly and fight at the same time.

  Her smashed hip and legs were hurting. Some re-growing nerve ending screamed in sudden fiery pain.

  “Heal!” she hissed through gritted teeth. And then forced herself to be of what assistance she could be during the battle. Even if it was from here, in the rear. She reminded herself that every part was important.

  She just had to believe that.

  ***

  Republic Super Carrier Freedom

  Utopion System

  The Seventh’s Armada consisted of over seventy-eight ships, not including the massive super carrier Freedom. The flagship of the Republic’s Navy.

  Admiral Landoo turned toward the captain of the Freedom and nodded.

  The captain turned to his bridge crew.

  “All ahead… attack speed. Signal the fleet we’re beginning our run. Hold formation all the way through.”

  Then he turned toward the group fire control officer.

  The man was slashing his fingers across his datapad, opening up order menus and weapons release schedules for every ship.

  Besides the Freedom, there were fifteen destroyers, nine of the new Champion-class light production cruisers, thirty-three destroyer escorts, and twenty-two corvettes and frigates. The fleet could field five fighter wings collectively, but those were being held back to guard the ships.

  “Thirty seconds to alpha launch…” announced the group fire control officer.

  “Solutions all targeting lead Black Fleet battleship identified as Imperator,” cried the sensor targeting OIC from the near darkness surrounding the CIC’s massive digital sand table.

  “All vessels underway and at speed. Holding formation, defensive fire engagement rings reporting up and ready,” said the group coordinator.

  The silence wasn’t a pure silence. There was still the ceaseless and incessant electronic insectile murmur of the comm traffic coming from hundreds of sections and dozens of ships across the fleet. But there was a kind of silence in the absence of direct orders and general announcements. A silence that waited on Admiral Landoo to give the final order. The one that would commit them to the action they’d planned. Instead of a running fight… they would charge directly into the flank of the enemy. For some, and maybe for all of them, it would be a kind of suicide. The most optimistic of assessments had guaranteed them casualties at well above fifty percent.

  It reached the point of not being comprehensible anymore.

  The average destroyer carried a crew of eight thousand. A corvette, two hundred and fifty. The carrier, ten thousand. Any lost ship meant catastrophic loss of life.

  Landoo pushed that thought away. But she was glad that she’d had it. She’d seen far too many of her betters in the Admiralty order ships into harm’s way for their own personal glory. Never minding the cost paid when the hull breached or the magazines went up. Or the reactor imploded and ruined the ship in an instant.

  Every leader has to weigh the cost of her decisions, she thought. Because nothing was for free, and today… today someone, ma
ny someones … would have to pay the ultimate price of having a Republic. Of preventing the galaxy, as it was known, from descending into tyranny and madness at the hands of the unknown.

  “Fire when ready,” she said, giving the order that would light the fuse. Simple. Calm. Knowing the full weight of what was about to happen.

  She studied the digital table.

  Her forward elements had engaged the Interceptor screen and were inflicting as many as casualties as they were taking. That was good. If the first wave of SSMs could get past the Interceptors the Black Fleet had sent out against the Republic, then there was a good chance they’d overwhelm the targeted battleships’ defensive systems early on.

  “Attack speed plus one,” called out the officer in charge of the helm.

  Now every engine in the fleet was pushing hard, racing to get in close for the next phase of the assault.

  ***

  Legion Super Destroyer Mercutio

  Utopion System

  “Captain, sensors are detecting the planetary shield is active on Utopion. House of Reason has ordered a planet-wide comms block.”

  The captain nodded, then cast a sideways glance at Admiral Ubesk and the commander of the Legion.

  Keller reached down to deliver a comms-wide message that had already been composed. All assault craft were to break off and head back toward the Legion’s fleet. As though to re-board and prepare to jump from the system. But that wouldn’t happen.

  “Hopefully their deep scan sensors will fall for the ruse,” murmured Ubesk to Commander Keller.

  Keller muttered agreement.

  “Reverse engines,” said Ubesk. “Let’s back away slowly as though we’re withdrawing from planetary gun range.”

  Signals and Sensors passed on the message to the fleet.

  Out there, beyond the massive bridge windows of the destroyer Mercutio, assault transports and dropships full of legionnaires were turning back from their landing assault on Utopion. Their bright white engines burning hot, they picked up a reverse heading—aimed straight back toward the Legion’s fleet.

  ***

  Imperial Flagship Imperator

  Utopion System

  “Detecting multiple launches from across the enemy carrier group. Fifty launches… fifty-five… sixty…”

  The OIC in charge of deep sensors continued to reel off the number of launched SSMs until the final tally stood at one hundred and thirty-eight inbound ship-to-ship missiles.

  No admiral, Imperial or Repub, had ever faced such a significant strike. Most commanders had never faced anything worse than some rogue MCR missile carrier barely capable of putting up five at once. Which was generally an easy thing for any Republican ship of the line to handle.

  But a hundred and thirty-eight…

  Admiral Rommal inhaled through his nose, hands clasped behind his slender back, and watched his team work.

  “One minute forty-five seconds to first impact.”

  “Electronic warfare destabilizing their tracking signals. Confirmed tracking hack on at least six… now eight…”

  “Fleet PDC up and engaging…”

  Across the massive battleships the point defense cannons opened up, spending hundreds of thousands of dumb rounds into the vastness of space. Hoping to put a wall of lead between the hyper-velocity inbound missiles and the lumbering capital ships.

  Before Rommal, PDC engagement “clouds” revealed themselves on the digital display. The Imperial escort group composed of the eight corvettes moved forward, their captains spooling up the main engines to speed in order to get out and ahead of the majestic battleships. They would be the second line of defense.

  “Shall we get the groups up, Admiral?” asked the Interceptor wing control officer. His expression was calm, but he was betrayed by the desperation in his eyes. At this moment of pure calculation and theoretical engagement, it seemed that a battle was actually being fought. But there had yet to be fire exchanged between the fleets directly.

  Rommal checked the clock that had been started to track the first wave of SSMs.

  Less than a minute.

  “Damage to any of the launch bays could delay things… significantly,” prompted the wing coordinator.

  Rommal waited. Losing any of his three wings now against the charging Republic would complicate matters when he wanted to move swiftly against the Legion’s fleet, which was busy attempting to deal with Utopion. He wanted to have his fighters available to sweep in among the defenseless and slow-moving legionnaire-filled transports. That would put an end to the Legion without much of a ground war. Catching them where they were their most vulnerable would be… a prize.

  “Negative,” Rommal instructed the wing coordinator. “Let’s hold them back. Our defensive screens should do the job.”

  Moments later, on the digital screen beneath his gaze, the first wave of SSMs streaked into the PDC engagement clouds.

  Rommal waited as the officer turned away. He could sense, in everyone, the overwhelming fear that came with battle. Stand still when you want to run. Wait when you want to act. Follow orders whether they make sense or not. For so long, the Empire, this brilliant bold new plan to change the operating code of the galaxy, had been on the attack. And now, at this crucial moment, facing what looked like a fairly even fight… it felt as though they’d somehow been forced onto the defensive side.

  There was something uncomfortable about that.

  “Instruct the ion gun battery commanders to select their targets. Stand by to fire at my order.”

  ***

  Of the one hundred and thirty-eight missiles that entered the point defense engagement clouds, only sixty heavy SSMs survived. Streaking into their targets and spending their remaining fuel to execute a series of high-speed evasive maneuvers designed to confuse automated and non-automated defensive gunnery systems, the weapons were on track to hit their targets.

  Meanwhile the ring of defensive corvettes, using captured Aegis technology hastily installed and linked, created a second defensive ring forward of the battleships. In moments their fire transformed many of the incoming SSMs into sudden explosions in the maelstrom of battle between the engaged fighter groups and the approaching Imperial battleship group.

  One SSM collided with an aging Lancer smoking from engine damage on her port nacelle. It went up in an apocalyptic bloom that took out over twenty enemy and friendly Interceptors engaged in the battle between the fleets.

  Twenty seconds out from the first strikes that would hit and cripple the Imperator, the main ion guns from all three battleships opened up on the charging fleet. Six shots in total.

  One missed.

  Three scored direct hits on corvettes. Of those, two exploded outright, disintegrating into expanding debris fields within the charging Seventh. Another cracked in half along the spine.

  The two remaining shots smashed into the destroyer Marathon, collapsing her forward deflector and knocking out her reactor, and causing the ship to lose power to all systems. Emergency power was quickly brought online from the backup reactors despite a core meltdown in progress within the central power plant.

  Within two minutes the captain of the Marathon was requesting permission to abandon ship. Landoo denied the request and ordered the ship to continue fighting on.

  By that time, both sides were at volley range and closing for broadsides.

  ***

  Republic Corvette Simpkin

  The next volley of ion gun fire would be the last in the coordinated effort. The captain of the Simpkin watched a shot from the ion gun of Terror smash through the starboard decks of an escort frigate running targeting jamming attacks on the Imperial rangefinders. The shot continued aft into engineering, gutting much of the ship and sending debris flying away from her gouged hull. At that point the sturdy Voyager-class frigate’s engines erupted, exploding outward across the racing ships of the Seventh.

  “Captain,” cried the Simpkin’s comm. “Fleet message to continue sweep past—”


  “Evasive port!” shouted the captain. Either the helm hadn’t been paying attention, or they too were as stunned as he almost was watching the mesmerizing destruction of the frigate. A huge section of the frigate broke away, sending a chunk of tumbling debris right into the maneuver path of the rushing corvette.

  The message from the comm officer was redundant. Of course they were continuing their pass, attempting to rake the rear deflectors of the massive Black Fleet capital ships. That had been the plan all along.

  “She’s gonna hit us!” cried the Simpkin’s co-pilot.

  Now the frigate went up in a secondary explosion as her main reactor went super-critical. Sensors and helm were blind from the proximity to EMP effects.

  Ten seconds later the flaming chunk of debris that was a portion of the frigate smashed into the corvette, annihilating the bridge crew.

  ***

  Imperial Flagship Imperator

  Fifteen missiles made it through the Imperial fleet’s defenses. All fifteen struck the massive warship Imperator.

  Hits were recorded all along the beam of the portside hull of the twin-hulled vessel. Streaking in like smoking sidewinders, the mighty SSMs savaged the powerful deflectors. Following strikes hit the forward batteries and auxiliary reactor, killing hundreds instantly. And the final wave seemingly walked themselves up the bridge stack, ending with a final direct hit on the comms dome.

  Imperator lurched away from her course track.

  Her captain had ordered that maneuver in the seconds after he watched the main deflector go down.

  “Hard a-starboard. Reverse to port now!”

  Maneuver klaxons bellowed their dire elephantine warnings for all crew to secure themselves. The explosions rocking the superstructure had sent many on the bridge stumbling or outright spinning along the tilting deck. Unsecured equipment had turned into a debris tornado. On the flight deck, a tri-fighter tore away from its docking cradle and tumbled into another group. Munitions exploded, killing most of the personnel in that hangar.