by Will Crudge
In a matter of seconds he would get his answer…
Nose Bleed
Location: UDF Gunship, Slugger, CIC, Forge Station
Date Time: Post Interstellar 08/04/4201 2243HRS Unum Standard Zulu
System: Forge Controlled Space
General Melvin watched the main display light up with activity. The hyper gate station was typical in layout. It had five gates in all, but only three were currently open. Melvin had read the latest intelligence reports, and wasn’t surprised at all. The Crimson Agents had infiltrated the gate control on station, and had evidently powered down the two gates.
One was connected directly to the Celeste System, which was the main power base of Unum. The other gate connected to a series of commercial hubs that expanded in to trade routes from independent allies of the UAHC.
It was common knowledge that a hyper gate wasn’t easy to reinitialize once powered down. It would take a small army of engineers and AI’s several weeks - or even months - to get a gate fully up and running. Powering up a gate was the easy part. However, aligning the gates with their counterparts was a monumental challenge. The bulk of the time was consumed by a complex relay of data bursts. Data bursts which were used to finely tune the positioning of the gate pairing. It could take weeks for one full round trip of data to be completed.
Any attempt to traverse a gate that wasn’t flawlessly synchronized with its counterpart could mean certain disaster. Many vessels had been lost within the fabric of space-time itself.
If the Crimson forces lose the initial engagement, then they’ve certainly ensured that our supplies and reinforcements would be slow to arrive… if they even arrived before it’s too late. Melvin thought.
“Enemy disposition is – is more than we’d been briefed, Sir.” Dorman said with her eyes wide. Melvin could see a hint of fear in her expression as her forehead began to crinkle.
“Report!” The General said loudly. It was less than a yell, but his voice had more volume than the situation may call for.
“We’re picking up strange signatures from several mega-freighters in the taxiways. It’s not inert cargo, for sure. AI analysis gives it a ninety three point six percent chance that they’ve been repurposed to operate as troop carriers. Those vessels are already lined up to make hyper gate transition.” Dorman replied.
“Give me a strength report of the military assets inside the freighters.” Melvin’s order was calmer than before. He noticed himself becoming more rattled than he what he was trying to personify.
“Estimates range widely, Sir. Could be as few as a three regiments, or up to ten divisions. Either way, it looks like a massive ground force has been massed.” Dorman responded.
“It’s less of a ground force, and more of an occupational force. They’re trying to get the UAHC to surrender before they have to commit ground troops. Those troops are to maintain order once the fleets have surrendered.” Melvin said it as a matter of fact.
He knew that Crimson ground troops would be no match for UAHC Soldiers in a terrestrial battle. They may be well-trained conscripts, but the UAHC marines and ground-pounders were the deadliest close-quarters fighters in all of human history. Not only are UAHC Soldiers superior in terms of training, but they’re heavily augmented for strength, speed, and cognition. They also have superior battle hardware with unmatched command and control integration.
Defeating the UAHC had to be done in the blackness of space. Melvin knew that the presence of Crimson troops meant that the Crimson Fleets were either overconfident, or they’ve already achieved some level of success at Tangine. He prayed it wasn’t the latter.
“Any sign of the UAHC squadron?” Melvin asked.
“Not yet, Sir. We are still within this taxiway, and our scanners can’t…” She cut herself off. She leaned into her console to scrutinize something. Melvin stepped around the command console and came up behind her. “A UAHC dreadnaught just transitioned into forge space!” She threw her arms up in celebration. The dark haired woman was smiling from ear to ear.
“I don’t see a damn thing! Which gate did they come through?” Melvin said as he darted his eyes back and forth. Neither of the other two gates that were still in operation had anything coming or going. The taxiways for each were barren, and the curved space around the station itself was swirling with Crimson vessels.
“Look here, Sir.” Dorman pointed to a point in space beyond the perimeter of the station. Melvin focused in on a tiny spec of light. He gestured for the major to zoom in. She complied, and within a second the general’s jaw dropped.
“Where in the hell did that hyper gate come from?” He gasped.
“I have no idea, Sir. That point in space has always been restricted for all space travel. The beacon reads as a warning of ‘graviton fluctuation.’”
“Which makes no sense.” The general said as he tilted his head as if to call someone’s bluff.
“True. If there was a risk of fluctuating gravity fields, then you wouldn’t dare put a hyper gate station within three light minutes of this place.” Dorman stated firmly.
“Well, it’s irrelevant. We have bad guys to kill.” Melvin turned and winked at Dorman. She didn’t even seem to bat an eye in response. She simply kept her eyes on the scan display. He decided it would be prudent to get back to his position, and began to walk back over towards the command console.
“Multiple contacts inbound!” Dorman shouted, and Melvin stopped dead in his tracks. He whipped around with all the agility his body armor afforded him, and he put his eyes on the main display.
“Simon!” Melvin shouted for the main ship’s AI.
“Already on it, General.” Simon’s low but steady tone came through the CIC speakers. “Firing solutions complete, and I’ve relayed them to all Unum ships. Standing by for engagement orders.”
“Engage!” The General asserted.
“With what?” Simon asked.
“With whatever you’ve got!” Melvin instantly realized he made a crucial mistake with his order. It was protocol for the commander to specify the method of engagement. He did not. But then, the AI never specified what the firing solutions were calculated for. He decided it was too late in the game to scrutinize procedural flaws, and refocused on the situation at hand.
“Sending!” Simon responded. A few seconds later, icons appeared in the tactical display. Two thousand Crimson fighters - Mark-4’s according to the icon labels - streaked towards them from a battle carrier. The carrier itself was situated in the main taxiway that circled the equatorial region of Forge’s main structure.
New icons began to emerge now. Thousands of short range missiles appeared on the screen. The lines that marked their individual projectile paths made the image look as if they were rose pedals in full bloom.
“Give me an ETA, Simon!” Melvin sounded off. His tone had equal parts confidence and disdain. He wasn’t quite sure what he was feeling at the moment, but he knew he wished he were anywhere but in the middle of a cylindrical taxiway… a taxiway surrounded by a powerful energy shield. The only way to achieve their objective was to shoot their way down to the station, and link up with their UACH counterparts.
“On the intercept?” Simon asked as if it were nothing more than a casual conversation.
“No, dumbass! On my laundry!” Melvin spat after he masterfully crafted his sarcasm.
“Oh, that.” Simon replied as if nothing was amiss. “Countdown on main display, now.”
No sooner did the AI say the word ‘now’ than the countdown appeared. Melvin figured he could have heard a pin drop in the CIC. His eyes were on the display for twelve agonizing seconds before the clock hit zero. He found himself holding his breath as he waited.
The visual feeds showed the engagement in brutal detail. Missiles slammed into Mark-4 fighters as their wrecked hulls were scattered like ashes in the wind. The closest fighters never made it through the wave of missiles, but given the narrow corridor they were amassed within, that meant they had only lo
st a fraction of their number.
“Ninety seven fighters destroyed on the opening volley, Sir.” Dorman reported, but her voice was borderline sheepish. Melvin understood her concern.
“We’ll have to take the rest out with beam fire and defensive batteries. Looks like the second wave got smart and knocked out most of our remaining missiles with beams and chaff launchers. We can’t afford to lose any more ordinance.” Melvin stated as calmly as possible.
“Sir, we’ve received a data burst from the UAHC Broadsword.” Simon chimed in.
“Send it to my console.” Melvin replied. He quickly walked to the command console, and slide around into the forward facing seat. Once situated, he reached up and tapped the data burst’s icon.
[Attention all allied vessels. This is Major General Olaf, commander of the Broadsword Squadron. Crimson Agents have set up an ionization field, therefor standard broadcast coms are no longer an option without line-of sight. Hold off any non-essential data-burst traffic until secured hailing can be achieved. In the mean-time I intend to take out the carriers on the far-side of the station. We will attempt a direct link up with you there. Admiral Olaf out.]
Melvin was so enthralled in reading the message that he failed to notice that Dorman was reading it over his shoulder. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing, Major?” He scowled at her. She immediately stood upright in response.
“I – I’m sorry, Sir.” She replied sheepishly. Melvin could tell she was obviously shaken, as she clenched her teeth in response.
“Now’s not the time to be away from your station, Major!” The general continued to chastise.
“Yes, Sir!” She nodded as she quickly made her way back over to her own workstation. Melvin watched her for a moment. That was uncalled for. He chastised himself. If we survive, then I owe her an apology.
“Enemy fighters are within defensive battery range.” Simon reported.
“Very well, Simon.” Melvin nodded. “Coordinate fire with all CIC’s. Take those fuckers down!”
“Oh, and also they’ve fired thirty six SK’s at our lead ships.” Simon said casually.
“Holy crap-on-cracker, Simon!” The general was now on his feet… fists buried within the surface of the console. “Lead with that next time!”
Praying Against Idiocy
Location: UAHC Drone Dreadnaught, Broadsword, CIC
Date Time: Post Interstellar 08/04/4201 22310HRS UAHC Standard Zulu
System: Forge Controlled Space
Lieutenant Commander Wilkins waited for Admiral Olaf to approve the message content. Olaf looked up from the display and gave him a nod of approval. Without a word spoken, Wilkins sent the data burst out to their Unum counterparts.
“Do you think they’ll read between the lines?” General Estrada asked.
“Let’s pray they do.” Olaf said with a light shrug. There had been no direct contact between the two allied forces prior to the transition into Forge Controlled Space. He knew sending the semi-shoddy encrypted message was a gamble. “Surely their CIC’s will figure out that the data-burst was mildly encrypted. Obviously the Crimson Agents have taken full control of all data burst relay transmitters throughout the station, and it’s a safe bet that they’ll crack it quickly.”
“This plan hinges on giving the Crimson fuckers a lot more credit than what they likely deserve. Maybe they’ll see right through it.” Estrada said.
“If they do, then they’ll clear a path for our allies to make it to the far side of the station. The Unum ships are tin cans compared to ours, and won’t last long in a corridor full of enemies. Best case scenario… Crimson will fall for it, and our Unum buddies will see right through our ruse.” Olaf stated plainly.
“I’d hate to interrupt your coordinated attempt of divination, but what do you suppose we do about the destroyers?” Howard chimed in.
All three men matched expressions simultaneously. Every eyebrow was arched, and every eyeball was peeled. The main holographic display showed thirty red icons. They were all Crimson destroyers, and they’d assumed a standard attack formation.
“How long before we’re within their weapons range?” Olaf asked.
“We are within their range… As of five seconds ago.” Howard replied.
“Well, we’re too close-in for time dilation to be a factor, so what are they waiting for?” Estrada asked. Olaf shook his head. It didn’t matter, really. Even the ancient hulks of the drone ships were heavily armed with recent UAHC tech. Not the latest. But recent enough. If the Crimson could range the squadron, then the squadron could annihilate the Crimson.
“Wilkins, give the order.” Olaf calmly said. He didn’t bother to specify what the order was. He didn’t need to. Wilkins didn’t bother asking for clarification. Likewise, he didn’t need to. UAHC Soldiers spoke their own language. Sometimes the absence of words said more than a paragraph of detailed instructions. The benefit of having an entire military force with identical training, was that everyone fully understood what needed to be done.
Moments later, the blackness of space erupted in a shimmering display of beam fire and missiles. The mixture of modern and ancient UAHC ships fired coordinated beams of energy towards key parts of the enemy hulls. Each formation began to fan out and try to encapsulate the other.
“Forgive me, gentlemen,” Howard spoke up. “I’m not a tactical genius, but I’ve been on a training ship for hundreds of maneuver exercises… I don’t understand the enemy’s mind-set.”
“What’s there to understand?” Wilkins asked calmly, but didn’t bother to take his fingers and eyes away from the arcane workstation.
“Why would destroyers take on a whole squadron of superior ships?”
“Because, Howard… They are trying to lull us into an easy victory. Soon there’ll be some Crimson cruisers, frigates, or a swarm of fighters coming at us from somewhere.” Wilkins said it as if it were as simple as basic math.
“So, you know they’re baiting you?”
“Yup.” Wilkins nodded.
“And you’re just playing along?” Howard’s tone of confusion seemed to escalate.
“Yup.”
“But don’t they know that you’ll see right through their maneuver?”
“Probably. But remember, the Crimson haven’t been in a pitched battle in two centuries. Not to mention the fact that their commanders can face execution if they lose a battle without adhering to standard doctrine.” Wilkins explained. He then pulled himself away from his station, and took a few moments to study the tactical overlays on the main display.
Estrada walked up and stood beside Wilkins. They both studied the icons of ships that seemed destined to engulf each other. “Call the spot.” Estrada said.
Wilkins shot him a quick grin, and then pointed at a particular sector of space that composed a portion of the UAHC’s left flank. “Here.”
“Bullshit!” Estrada exclaimed dismissively.
“What’s bullshit?” Howard asked.
“The General doesn’t think I can call out which point in space the enemy ships will emerge to flank us.” Wilkins said with a light tone.
“Two hundred credits says he’s wrong!” Estrada added, as he reached into his pocket and grabbed a fresh cigar. Then he gently placed on his lips, and let his teeth clench it securely into position.
“You’re betting on where we’ll be attacked from?” Howard asked. “I don’t know what’s more disturbing… The fact that you’re taking bets, or the fact that your vital signs show minimal levels of stress!”
“C’mon now, Howard!” Wilkins jibed. “The regulations that prohibited gambling were rendered null and void as soon as the officer corps was reinstated!”
“I don’t give a damn about military regulations. I’m a civilian, remember?” Howard replied. “But what I do care about is that I’d like to NOT die today. I would be less fearful of my mortality if the humans I’m depending on, were actually capable of fear!”
“Lighten up, Howard.” Ad
miral Olaf chimed in.
“Not you, too?” Howard huffed.
“What’s the point of surviving if you’re just going to spend the rest of your life in fear of death?” The Admiral said with a light chuckle.
Guys in Red
Location: Forge Station, STC Tower
Date Time: Post Interstellar 08/04/4201 2243HRS Local
System: Forge Controlled Space
Major Tyler paced back and forth behind the workstations that stretched out from bulkhead to bulkhead. The workstations faced towards the panoramic window that dominated the room. Tyler never did like civilian facilities, and he made no effort to hold back a scowl. The rectangular room resembled a coffin, as far as he was concerned. Looking at the backs of the workers heads did nothing to improve the ambiance.
These agents should be ashamed of themselves! He thought to himself. Every one of the people present were Crimson infiltrators, and had been filtering into their roles over the course of many years. Tyler understood the need to assimilate into any given culture, but the civilian hairstyles still annoyed him to no end.
“Sir, we have enemy contacts making transition into Forge Space!” One of the civilianized agents reported.
Tyler spun on his heels at once and he rushed over to the agent’s workstation. He came to a stop and leaned over the man’s shoulder to view his display. “Which gate?”
“Gate three.” The dark haired agent replied. Tyler paid no mind to the man’s appearance, but kept his eyes glued to the screen. He watched the icons begin to populate, and he noticed a distinct lack of and IDENT transmission.
Tyler turned to look at the smaller man. The agent was slight in stature, with black hair, and a grey flight suit with the familiar ‘STC Staff’ logos on both of his shoulders. “Good catch.” Tyler said with a blank expression and a flat voice.