“No need. The dead rest in the dead of space.”
“As you like. Enjoy your dally with death. Over.”
The line dropped.
“Why did you turn it down?” asked Jint.
“Because I want to be alone with you,” said Ecryua, looking him in the eyes. “If I said that, would you be happy?”
“I suppose,” he said, not taking it at face value for a second. “But why, actually?”
“Because it’s not fair.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our weight will hamper the ship’s mobility.”
“Our weight? Have we been putting on the pounds?”
Ecryua looked at him scoffingly. “The conveyance ship,” she grumbled.
“Ohh.”
Just as she’d brought to his attention, the mass of the conveyance ship was non-negligible even for huge raid ships. Of course, the crew aboard the raid ships knew that, too. Jint didn’t quite buy that logic.
“By the way,” said Jint, “can we communicate with the landworld?”
“No, of course not.”
“No?”
Ecryua nodded. “We can only place a call during an emergency.”
It appeared they could only send a message after the exercise was lifted. In point of fact, it was probably loopy to expect to communicate with the landworld using a conveyance ship. In any case, it wasn’t exactly an atmosphere conducive to calmly resolving the challenge facing them.
The image of a zoomed-in Martinh was still visible on the wall in front. Jint leaned forward. “Could you enlarge the picture a little more?” he asked, pointing at a place on the screen. “Just make that bit bigger.”
Something was rising up from the blanket of green. It was very low-orbit, and looked as though it might stop at the tropopause. “Could you enlarge it more?”
Ecryua did so without complaint, perhaps because of the urgency in Jint’s voice. Due to the thin-but-extant atmosphere, the object was distorted as though viewed through a shimmering haze. Still, it was clearly a raid ship. What was it doing near a landworld?
“Message that ship!” shouted Jint.
“I already told you why I can’t.”
“This is an emergency!”
“Why?”
“Because it might be striking the surface!”
“No, it’s not.”
“Based on what!?”
“It’s leaving.”
It was as she said. The raid ship was about to break away from planetary orbit. Had it already launched anti-surface strikes?
“Let’s get closer to the landw—...” But he thought better of it. He yearned to see what had become of the surface, but so long as he was in the dark regarding whether the Forr Da Antohbeeta were fully operational, it was just too dangerous. For a small vessel like a conveyance ship, it would be one-hit-and-lights-out.
“Second thoughts?”
“Yeah. It’s too risky,” said Jint, though his anxiety hadn’t gone anywhere. “When’s the exercise gonna end, if I may ask?”
“Dunno. Hungry?”
“Who, me? Oh, are you in for a meal break? Sounds good, actually,” he replied. He wasn’t that hungry, but some food would help turn his mood.
“Kay.” Ecryua got up, and it wasn’t long before she was back with combat rations.
Jint thanked her, took his portion, and stuffed his cheeks. After all, “eat” was about the extent of what he could do at the moment.
“The only one that’s yet to return is the Flicaubh’s conveyance ship,” said Atosryua. “We sustained less ‘damage’ than I was psyching myself up for. Of course, in an actual battle, we want that percent to be zero.”
Why did the damage, however small, have to be in the form of my subordinates? Did I pick the wrong people? Sobash felt slightly attacked, but naturally, he was overthinking it. Atosryua was not the type to mince words.
At any rate, the Flicaubh was now forced to fight without its navigator. That being said, the navigator didn’t usually have much to do while in 3-space. Assisting a busy Deca-Commander Idlia and the Communications Officer was the name of the game. And he had ordered her to serve as the conveyance ship’s Skipper.
The Blue Team of Trample-Blitz Squadron 1 had fused space-times right before passing through the portal, and conducted the necessary information link. So far, they’d released several waves of conveyance ships to scout out the other side of the Hyde Portal. According to the first recon trek, the six “enemy” ships were spread out, but no sooner did they receive the report than the ships began to gather, already assuming the formation to intercept them.
“It seems the enemy’s decided to intercept us in 3-space.”
“Then should we plunge in without splitting space-times?” said Vice Hecto-Commander Direrh, Ship Commander of the Batcaubh.
“No, let’s split for the time being,” said Atosryua, shaking her head. “Hecto-Commander Roiryua isn’t about to wait.”
In 3-space, a portal looked like a big phosphorescent orb. In planar space, it existed as a curve in the cosmic fabric. There was no connection between any given point on the sphere and a specific point on the curve. Practically speaking, that meant that one could have no inkling which specific point on the planar space side they’d emerge through when entering a portal from 3-space, and vice versa. Even if they entered the portal in an orderly line, the formation would inevitably be broken up on the other side. This wasn’t much of an issue in times of peace, but it was a huge liability in a space battle — it could make for easy pickings for the enemy.
However, this did not apply to groups of ships within single space-time bubbles. It was the bubbles that got scattered, not the ships inside them. A corps that shared a bubble could maintain formation while passing through a portal. However, space-time bubbles had mass limits. It was impossible to encompass a large fleet in a single bubble... but six raid ships could be managed. The problem was that bubbles that were that close to capacity were sluggish things. In order to speed things up, they would need to split space-times and advance toward the vicinity of the portal before re-merging.
“The reassembly point is here,” said Atosryua, a blue blip lighting up on the window-screen showing the map of planar space. It was a point right by the Hyde Portal. “After that, we just fight. No specific strategy — we fuse space-times, we run the info link right after, and I’ll give you your alignments then. That is all. I’ll see you at the rendezvous. All ships, split space-times.”
The six raid ships fused once again.
“Information link completed,” reported the Communications Officer.
That moment, something came flying from out of the portal. It could only be an enemy raid ship.
“Judging by its mass, it’s a single-ship bubble.”
“What are they playing at!?” Atosryua placed a hand on her forehead. “Oh, I get it. Wonder if they’re planning to use the same tactic in actual war? Oh well, for now we need to deal with what’s in front of us. Flicaubh, split away.”
“Do we intercept?”
“No need. Unless, that is, the enemy picks a fight with you. If that happens, we won’t be able to swoop in to rescue, so please beat them.”
“Roger that,” said Sobash. He looked at the unoccupied Navigator’s Seat, before turning his gaze to Rearguard Yatesh, who was filling in for the role. The way Sobash had shifted his glance was smooth enough to obfuscate the fact that Ecryua’s absence had temporarily slipped his mind. “Split us off, if you would.”
And so the Flicaubh left its comrades’ side.
He understood both the enemy ship’s intentions, and the point of Atosryua’s orders. A seventh raid ship would exceed the mass limit of the bubble they were in, spurring the physical laws of planar space to rupture the space-time bubble without mercy. The raid ships did each have their own space-time bubble generator engines, so it wouldn’t spell their doom, but it would serve to throw off their formation if they transitioned through the portal indivi
dually like that. Which must be what the enemy was plotting.
There was a number of measures they ought to take. The first was to split off and intercept. For example, they could split into groups of three — that way, they could fight in an advantageous position even if the enemy ship were to merge with one of the bubbles. Yet three-ship bubbles were slower than single-ship bubbles. The enemy had stolen away the initiative as to whether or not to split space-times. Moreover, the enemy ship had only to predict whether they’d be in an inferior position if they fused with its potential target; there was nothing forcing it to do so. If the Red Team passed through the portal in the form of three-ship bubbles, they could just wage battle here in 3-space and have the advantage. And if the Blue Team set about recombining, then the Red Team would poise themselves to follow suit.
Ultimately, the Blue Team had two options: pass through in groups of three, or surrender. Splitting into single-ship bubbles was a recipe for defeat. They would gain speed, but whether they fled into the portal or had a scrape with Red Team ships was, again, in the enemy’s hands. The Red Team was running the show now.
There was one other option — forcing space-time fusion. With this method, no one knew what would happen after the bubble ruptured. How many lesser-mass bubbles would it divide into? How many raid ships would be in which bubbles? They could only guess in terms of probabilities. The enemy wouldn’t seize the initiative, but neither would the Blue Team. Control of the battlefield would fly off like a ball glancing off athletes’ grasping hands.
Taking into account various factors, having just one ship split off could just have been the best maneuver. If the enemy fused into five bubbles, they could easily pick off one such bubble’s worth of enemy firepower. If they fused into a single bubble, they could fight on equal terms.
Sobash had also surmised the reason his ship was chosen to break ranks — because the Flicaubh was down its conveyance ship, it was lighter than its fellows. This made it faster, which more than made up for the absence of the Navigator.
The Flicaubh split space-times from the Blue Team bubble.
“Ship Commander Sobash,” said Lafier, rising to her feet.
“I’m not giving you the captain’s seat, Fïac,” he joked.
“No, not that,” she pouted, taken aback. “I was going to suggest I stand in for Vanguard Ecryua.”
“Is that so? Well...” Sobash shook his head. “If this weren’t just a training exercise, I’d take all the hands I could get. But Your Highness isn’t a participant in this exercise. You’re an observer. If I let you pitch in, it wouldn’t be as fair.”
“I understand, but this training exercise is extremely realistic, and in a real battle, there’s a multitude of uncertainties at play. There is no ‘fair’ in war.”
That is one way to look at it, thought Sobash, very near to giving her the nod. But ultimately, he waved off the idea. “I’m afraid I won’t allow it. I’d like to see how we fare without a core crewmember.”
“I see. Then there’s no helping it,” she said, backing down.
Sobash was relieved. To tell the truth, he couldn’t imagine what having Lafier as a subordinate would be like, temporary or otherwise.
He positioned the space-time bubble surrounding his ship behind the one surrounding the rest of the Blue Team. Then he eyed the movements of the enemy on the planar space map. They were veering his way, but the Flicaubh was right next to the larger Blue bubble, so there was no telling which was their target. Either way, the Flicaubh would be drawn into combat maneuvers. After all, if the enemy fused with the Blue bubble, Sobash was duty-bound to fuse and join the fray.
“This is your Ship Commander speaking,” announced Sobash. “There’s a possibility the ship will enter a combat exercise. Unfortunately, it’ll be single-ship combat. I know you’ve likely had enough of this, but give it a hundred percent. Now then, all hands, ready for battle.”
He seated himself back down in the Ship Commander’s Seat and switched to out-of-ship frocragh mode. “Check the safeties on all of the firearms,” he ordered Deca-Commander Idlia.
“Checked the safeties, sir.”
“Excellent.” Sobash entered a passcode into the control console, informing the ship’s compucrystal network of the imminent combat exercise. This allowed him to pull the trigger of the laser cannons despite the safety being active. The cannons wouldn’t fire destructive death beams, but rather just concentrated light. When that light hit its mark, one or more of the receptors laid throughout the surface of the hull of the targeted ship would cry out and count it as a blow received.
“Space-time fusion in three minutes,” reported the Communications Officer.
“Release the safety on the irgymh faina (mock EM cannon),” he told Deca-Commander Idlia.
“Mock EM cannon ready to fire,” came the immediate reply.
Mock EM cannons were wonderful devices attached to the muzzles of real EM cannons, and about two dagh in length. They shot spytec faina (mock shells). These mock shells were smaller than the nuclear fusion shells fired by EM cannons, but they ripped through space at the same speed. Again, they effected no harm whatsoever to the defending ship; it was all about what the receptors read.
“Ignite the main engines.”
“Main engines ignited.”
The Flicaubh was going through all the necessary steps for the combat to come.
“Space-time fusion in one minute.”
Now that the enemy had come this close, their quarry was clear — it was the Flicaubh.
“Communications Officer, turn eighty degrees to the left, then engage.”
While Atosryua had told them intercepting the enemy was unnecessary, now that it was obvious the enemy was targeting them, that no longer applied.
“Gunner, upon fusion, fire without delay. All hands, prepare for EM cannon fusillades.”
Mock EM cannon recoil was beyond paltry. The crew wouldn’t feel a thing, not even from a barrage of simultaneous fire. That was where the compucrystals came in. When they fired, the reverse thrusters and gravity control system were used to simulate the recoil of the real thing.
“E-minus ten seconds. Seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, fusion!”
The range of Sobash’s frocragh widened as soon as the Flicaubh rocked from the recoil. Needless to say, the enemy was firing at them, too. A head-to-head shoot-out.
At this rate, we’re not likely to get much out of this exercise, thought Sobash. “Gunner, I won’t give orders. Fire at will.”
“All ships ready for combat,” said the Senior Staff Officer, Hecto-Commander Semlaich.
“Very good,” said Atosryua, giving Semlaich a light nod before announcing to all ships under her command: “Attention. This is your Commandant speaking. The field of battle’s at our doorstep. It may not be playing host to a heated exchange of death lasers. It may be virtually flashlight-level beams and harmless pellets flying out of our cannons. But make no mistake — it is a battlefield. Those of you who are familiar with zones of war, remember that driving fire within. I’m sure it will be plenty heated enough for the young ones who haven’t seen actual battle yet to appreciate. Heads in the game, everyone.”
Atosryua pretended to be relaxed and comfy in her Commandant’s Seat. In her heart, however, she was seething with a level of rage one wouldn’t expect even toward the enemy on the real field of battle. Most Abhs conceptualized war as a stripe of natural disaster, and Atosryua was no exception. As such, she knew no hatred against the enemy.
No, the cause of her ire was Hecto-Commander Roiryua’s stratagem. It was a workable idea, there was no doubt about that. If it went according to plan, sacrificing a single ship could well halve the fighting capabilities of the target. Unfortunately for Roiryua, she’d managed to crawl out from under that fate, but unfortunately for her, that didn’t put the Red Team at any particular disadvantage.
What she wondered was whether he’d be willing to employ that tactic in the real world. In a scenario
where both sides were of equal strength, and the total mass of the corps wasn’t just under the capacity limit of a single space-time bubble, the strategy wouldn’t hold. Plus, it was casting one ship as a nearly-suicidal decoy.
The Abh tended to view combat as a form of play. The thrill of a battle with lives on the line mirrored that of a game with points or prestige in the balance. But it wasn’t just one player’s life at stake. One could toss their own life on the wager board, but with subordinates’ lives to consider, contestants had to play prudently and with all seriousness. And mightn’t this be showing Roiryua to be lacking the proper discretion? Perhaps he couldn’t tell the difference between a gambling match over everything one was worth, and a game of chance played over a piece of candy with a child. Or perhaps he was simply taking this exercise as a light-hearted affair.
Ever the social butterfly, Atosryua had yet to feel the call of motherhood, but she did have an interest in the life-forms known as children. She’d even, at times, initiated the kids of friends into the fun of betting. She’d go a little easy on them, naturally. But if she felt that the kids, who were supposed to be avidly learning from the opportunity, were instead using it as a chance to take it easy, she was the type to have to resist the urge to spank them.
She didn’t feel as though she was teaching Roiryua the way of the game, but at the same time, she wasn’t here to get schooled by him. There was still a raft of unknowns when it came to operating raid ships and trample-blitz squadrons; this was the stage where they had to work hard to figure things out and rack up findings to spread to all the other starpilots. Even if post-meal dessert was all that was at stake, Atosryua intended to treat this seriously, and she expected the same from her opponent.
“Hyde Portal in thirty seconds,” said the Rilbigac Glagar (Flagship Navigator).
Yes, in thirty seconds’ time, all chance at a breather to go kick the punching bag would vanish.
“...Five, four, three, two, one, passing through!”
At once, her beyond-ship frocragh expanded. It just so happened Hyde’s sun was burning bright ahead of them.
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