“How many remain?” asked Sir Arkwright.
“Few of the first two waves,” said the Ops chief. “But more and more are coming. Swarms of them.”
“What is the state of our starboard armor?” asked Sir Arkwright.
“There is some damage,” said the Defense chief. “But it remains superficial.”
“Bad enough that we should yaw starboard and show them our portside?” asked Sir Arkwright.
“I don’t believe that is necessary, sir, not yet,” said the Defense chief.
“The new waves of drones are quickly closing,” said the Ops chief. “They will be on our position momentarily.”
“Any friendly starfighters nearby?” asked Sir Arkwright.
“No, sir,” said the Ops chief. “My scanners show that all squadrons near our position have been destroyed or diverted elsewhere.”
“I guess it’s up to us dreadnoughts, then,” said Sir Arkwright. “Warn the Buccaneer and Invictus to prepare for imminent attack.”
“Yes, sir,” said the Comms chief.
“And Mister Adolphus,” said Sir Arkwright. “Make sure your gun crews are careful not to overheat the guns. If they have a shot, they should take it, but don’t waste ammunition, and especially don’t put any of the guns out of commission; we’re still going to need them…” he looked down at the tactical display where a massive force of red lights remained still. Thousands and thousands of capital ships, just sitting there, waiting. Sir Arkwright wasn’t sure what they were waiting for, but he knew, soon enough, they would become part of the battle. And, when that happened, it was hard to imagine what the defenders could do.
“Yes, sir,” said the Defense chief. “Sending message to all gun crews.” A moment later he spoke up again. “Message acknowledged by all gun crews. Reducing rate of fire to prevent gun disruptions and preserve ammunition.”
The battle went on like this for some while, the swarms of drones surrounding and attacking the defending capital ships, nipping and pecking at them from inside their own shields. Scratching away at their armor wherever they could. The defense starfighters did everything they could to engage, distract, and destroy the enemy drones, but they were overmatched, and it remained the capital ships’ responsibility to deal with the majority of the drones.
To Sir Arkwright, it felt a great deal like swatting at mosquitos. Endless pests, any one of which was no threat at all, but in numbers could be overwhelming—if they were not dealt with. Fortunately, the guns on the defense’s capital ships seemed enough to handle the drones, and as the seconds and minutes went by, fewer and fewer enemy drones remained. Though their numbers still defied counting, and the threat they represented remained keenly on Sir Arkwright’s mind.
He gave orders to other ship captains, including fleet commanders, maneuvering his forces like pieces on a chessboard to both counteract the drone swarm but also keep his forces in line, ready to charge the enemy capital ships at the first sign of movement. Only then, Sir Arkwright knew, would the battle begin in earnest. Once the fleets of capital ships locked horns, the situation would become very chaotic and very deadly very quickly. He was not eager for that to happen, but he knew it was coming. And coming soon. Every now and again his eyes would flick to the tactical display and stare at the mass of red lights, unmoving, as if taunting him, and he would then look to the mass of blue and green lights, and realize how much smaller and fewer they were by comparison.
Intervention from God, he thought. That is what we depend on today. For no strategy, artifice, or cunning can win us this battle. He did not share these thoughts with any of his subordinates, however. Partly because few of them, if any, shared his belief in some kind of supernatural being. But mostly because he did not want his people to believe their hope rested in the hands of a deity whose existence they doubted; he wanted them to believe, if they fought hard enough, and long enough, and showed no fear, they could prevail through their own efforts and their own cunning. Sir Arkwright knew better. Probably, they all did. But, wisely, no one admitted it out loud.
And then the moment came, the moment he most dreaded. And as he heard the words, “The enemy fleet is advancing,” come from his Ops chief’s lips, Sir Arkwright felt a deep fear seize his insides, and he understood exactly how the Dread Fleet had gotten its name.
“General order to all ships,” said Sir Arkwright, in the strongest voice he could muster, his words were being transmitted to every vessel in the entire defense force. “Advance and attack. I repeat, advance and attack. Full charge ahead. Get to missile and gun range and then hold position. This order applies to all ships and all fleets, intercept the enemy, full keel, we move together, now!” He watched as the swarm of blue and green lights on the tactical display moved to meet the incoming swarm of red lights.
“We have accelerated to maximum sublight speed,” said the helmsman.
“Weapons range in fifty seconds,” said the Defense chief.
“Mister Adolphus, order your gun crews to hold half the batteries in reserve and to standby for missile interception,” said Sir Arkwright, as the armadas began to converge on one another, clash imminent.
“Aye, sir!”
There was a flash, followed by another, then a third, all in quick succession.
“We are taking fire,” said the Defense chief. “Our anterior ships have gotten within range of the enemy’s beam weapons.”
“Shields double front,” said Sir Arkwright. “Helm, whatever you do, do not slow. We must clear the distance. All of us must. Only then can we engage the enemy.” They had to get in range to use their missiles and guns, otherwise the defenders were dead in the water, mere fodder for the Dread Fleet’s countless beam weapons.
More flashes of light, again in quick succession; Sir Arkwright lost count of how many.
“We are taking heavy fire,” said the Defense chief. Sir Arkwright had expected nothing less, but it was still unwelcome news.
“Status of our shields?” asked Sir Arkwright.
“Holding at sixty-nine percent,” said the Defense chief. “I am rerouting all power out of our beam weapons and into our shields, with secondary reserves standing by.”
“Excellent work, keep it up,” said Sir Arkwright. “Whatever you do, keep those shields up. They are going to continue to pound us with those beam weapons, even when we are in missile and gun range.”
“Understood, sir,” said the Defense chief.
Sir Arkwright looked back at the tactical display; the swarm of red lights had stopped their forward motion and now held position, but the blue and green lights continued forward, racing to get their weapons into range—weapons that negated the advantage of the phalanx shield.
As the swarms of light converged upon each other, and his Ops chief counted down the seconds until missile range was achieved, Sir Arkwright watched blue and green lights flicker and disappear at an alarming rate.
We’re losing too many ships, he thought. Just to close the distance. Just to begin the battle. It is costing us dozens of capital ships…
“Order all the commanders of each fleet to coordinate their attacks with their warships; they are to focus fire on the same targets, as best they are able, in order to eliminate enemy warships at the speediest rate,” said Sir Arkwright, just as his Ops chief was about to finish his count.
“Yes, sir, relaying order,” said the Comms chief; he and the rest of his staff scrambled to get the message out, giving more specific instructions to the other fleets, tailored to their exact courses and positions, along with their assigned duties in the battle. All of which had been determined in advance, mostly by Sir Arkwright.
“Sir, the First Fleet is now within missile range!” announced the Ops chief.
“Full stop! Order to the First Fleet, full stop at once and commence fire,” said Sir Arkwright. “Defense, fire at will. Comms, order the squadron commanders to coordinate with their ships and focalize their attacks on selected priority targets.”
“Yes, s
ir,” his staff acknowledged. They were close enough now that, although he could not see the forms of the ships of the enemy through the forward window, he could see many of their operating lights. And, true to form, the whole lot of them seemed tightly clustered together, packed like sardines, yet expansive as an ocean. Their running lights were so bright and so numerous, they seemed to block out any view of the stars themselves. On first glance, Sir Arkwright hadn’t been entirely sure he wasn’t looking at the stars, except the lights were too bright and too clustered to be celestial bodies.
“General order to all fleets,” he said, again tapping the switch that sent his message to the entire defense force. “Once you achieve weapons range, fire at will! But hold some percent of your guns in reserve to intercept inbound missiles. Otherwise let loose! Let us make them pay and pay dearly for ever coming here!” he released the switch.
Moments later, his Comms chief spoke up. “Acknowledgement from all fleet commanders, they have engaged the enemy. Except for the Seventh Fleet. The Seventh Fleet is still en route.”
Sir Arkwright nodded. “And the Fifth Fleet, has it engaged the enemy force from below, as ordered?”
“Yes, sir,” said the Comms chief. “Fleet Admiral Zeller reports that his ships have already dealt significant casualties to the enemy. They are adapting to his position, but he says the tactic was effective, although he is concerned it will ultimately leave him and his fleet exposed.”
“I confirm that,” said the Ops chief. “The ISS Assassin is leading a force of…one-hundred and sixty-three warships, moving fast, heading directly into the enemy’s center of mass. It is disrupting the enemy formation.”
“Until those hundred and sixty-three warships become no warships,” said Sir Arkwright, recognizing that Fleet Admiral Zeller’s force had already sustained the loss of forty-four warships, just in the initial attack. Even if they had lain waste to four times that number, it was barely a dent in the vast host that was the Dread Fleet. There was no longer any reason for Fleet Admiral Zeller or any of his subordinates to continue to put themselves at extra exposure, just to disrupt the enemy for a few more seconds—until the Fifth Fleet could be entirely dealt with.
“Now the Fifth Fleet has been reduced to one-hundred and fifty-seven warships, sir,” said the Ops chief. “According to my scans.”
“Order Fleet Admiral Zeller to take the Assassin, and any other warships left, and withdraw immediately. Have them regroup with the rearguard of the First Fleet,” said Sir Arkwright, wanting to minimize friendly casualties as best he possibly could. The Fifth Fleet had done its job; there was no reason to leave it alone and surrounded, certain to die.
“Aye, sir,” said the Comms chief. “Relaying order.”
“Defense, status report,” said Sir Arkwright. “Shields remain at double front, now reduced to fifty-percent, but holding. All power from the beam systems has been drained, but we are still on secondary reserves, tertiary power remains untapped.”
“And damage to the ship?” asked Sir Arkwright.
“To the Victory? Only superficial. We have mostly been the target of beam attacks, none of which has broken through our shield barrier—yet. I cannot say the same for the Invictus and the Buccaneer at our flanks.”
“What do you mean?” asked Sir Arkwright, surprised and alarmed. Both the Invictus and the Buccaneer were first-rate ships of the line, mighty dreadnoughts, and, although not a match for the Victory, not even together, they had been deliberately built to withstand intense assault.
“I’m afraid the Buccaneer has been destroyed, sir,” said the Defense officer. “As for the Invictus, it’s quickly buckling.”
“My scans confirm that,” said the Ops officer. “I read no shields on the Invictus, with severe damage to its portside armor, including multiple hull breaches.”
“Order them to withdraw, dammit,” said Sir Arkwright.
“Yes, sir,” said the Comms chief. Then he spoke into his headset, “ISS Invictus, you are ordered to withdraw to the rearguard position immediately. I repeat, withdraw immediately. Do you copy?”
Sir Arkwright’s eyes glanced back to the tactical display, where more and more lights dimmed and faded, of all colors, alarmingly fast. Flashes of beam weapons fire lit up the windows. In the distance, seemingly small, instantly vanishing explosions could be seen, and every tracking scanner on the bridge indicated an absurd number of missiles being traded between the opposing capital ships. Most were intercepted by heavy gunfire, but many more reached their marks, destroying armor, breaching hulls, and, in several cases, eliminating starships outright.
Sir Arkwright gave additional orders, maneuvering the stronger and healthier ships into the most dangerous positions and commanding the most wounded vessels to attempt to maneuver to the back of the defense force. Some of them succeeded, others failed, their lights dimming on the tactical display.
It seemed like, with every passing second, another dozen or so lights had blinked out, be they red, blue, or green, ships were being lost. It was carnage on a scale that Sir Arkwright had never seen and, though he tried his best, and issued the most intelligent orders he could think of, his force was taking a serious beating. Though he took some small pride in the fact that they seemed to be giving it out more than they were taking it. But not so well as to compensate for the enemy’s superior numbers.
Though the battle took place over a rather large spherical swath of space, explosion-propelled debris became hazards to the surviving ships, as did the skeletons of those who had been destroyed. The remaining forces had to maneuver carefully and, more frequently than Sir Arkwright had expected, his ship, and others, took direct hits to their armor from flying debris. In some cases, causing tears and breaks in the armor, compromising it in places. Since the debris could not be detected on scanners and subsequently targeted by the guns fast enough, each blow gave him cause for concern. His only comfort was, the tightly packed enemy formation, due to its extreme proximity, must have been taking the punishment a lot worse.
And, while a successful missile strike on a friendly craft gave Sir Arkwright cause to grimace, as though he’d taken a punch in the gut, a successful missile strike on the enemy force proved more effective and far deadlier, again due to the proximity of the enemy ships, proximity that, if they abandoned it, would cause the collapse of their phalanx shield. And so, while the phalanx stripped the human and Rotham starships of their ability to fire beam weapons at the Dread Fleet, it also had created a liability for the Dread Fleet, making them extra vulnerable to missile attacks and sprays of debris. They were also easier to strike with guns, though the main guns were mostly kept occupied with intercepting inbound missiles, or else fending off drones.
The battle raged on, increasing in intensity. Lights blinking out on the tactical display at a near constant rate. Sir Arkwright ordered his ships to maneuver to compensate, and to tighten up where necessary. We’ll make them rue this day, he promised himself. They will pay dearly for this slaughter!
CHAPTER 12
“Sir, part of the forward formation is collapsing,” said her Ops chief. “It appears that the enemy is trying to create an attack vector that would enable an additional squadron of capital ships to engage the ISS Victory directly.”
“Isn’t the Victory already engaged in the battle?” asked Ravinder.
“Aye, sir, it is,” admitted the Ops chief. “But I believe the enemy is trying to weaken the Victory’s portside flank, eliminating the ships in the way, so that many more battleships can affix their weapons onto the Victory itself.”
“I concur with that assessment,” said the Defense chief.
The Victory was not just the flagship of the First Fleet; it was the command ship of the entire defense force. Because of its raw might and power, unmatched by any ship in the galaxy—so far as Ravinder knew—Sir Arkwright had claimed that ship as his own, with permission from the queen, and had currently positioned the massive warship, along with several dreadnoughts, at the fro
nt and center of the defensive formation. From that position, Ravinder could tell, by watching the tactical displays, the Victory and its partner ships were able to wreak extensive havoc on the enemy’s forward guard.
Obviously, Ravinder could not allow the enemy’s plan to strike at the Victory’s portside to be successfully executed; if the enemy were to expose a weakness on the Victory’s portside, enabling them to concentrate significantly more firepower directly upon the command ship, then the Victory itself could be lost—difficult as that was to believe.
And, though it was mostly a psychological thing, Ravinder believed that, so long as the Victory remained in the fight, then there was hope for success. The ship was not only the deadliest and strongest ship ever to take to the cosmos; it was also a symbol of hope itself. To Ravinder, the presence of the ISS Victory, front and center, fighting in the throes of the thickest point of battle, was excellent for morale. In her mind, she likened it to the feeling of an infantryman on a battlefield during a desperate, perhaps losing fight, who then looks up and sees proudly his standard is still tall and flapping in the wind, undaunted. So long as the standard remained tall, or, in this case, the Victory remained in the battle, then they could feel emboldened to defy the enemy, for hope of success remained. That was what the command ship’s presence meant to her. The ship could not be lost; Ravinder would never allow it.
In addition to the value the Victory added to morale, not to mention its uniquely expert ability to rapidly shred other warships to pieces—including alpha-class dreadnoughts—there was also the consideration that Sir Arkwright was aboard that ship, and he was the master tactician commanding the defense, to lose either the Victory or Sir Arkwright would mean losing the other as well, and neither was acceptable. Not to mention the disheartening effect it would have on morale if the Victory, the mightiest warship ever constructed, were destroyed right before their eyes.
“What ships are currently holding that position, protecting the Victory’s portside?” asked Ravinder.
The Phoenix Requiem (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 7) Page 23