The man said nothing. His legs began to tremble, ever so slightly, and he shook his head.
“Speak,” said Nikolai. “Use voice. I cannot hear you.”
“I—” the man choked briefly as he tried to get some words out.
“You what?” asked Nikolai, still in that same calm yet hardy tone that seemed, now, to somehow, simultaneously, come across as both patient and threatening.
The man seemed at a loss for words. Calvin could tell by looking at the soldier’s eyes that the man’s mind was racing. No doubt his highest and only priority, at this point, was to avoid sharing the experience the other defiant soldier had endured.
“I am not hearing you,” said Nikolai. “Are you speaking?”
“I—” the soldier began again, obviously still finding it hard to form words, so terrified was he of Nikolai. He probably expected the muscular, bald soldier to strike him too, at any moment, holding nothing back.
Oh, for God’s sake, thought Calvin, the man had seen battle, he had just seen his comrades die beside him; hell, he probably had participated in the killing when they’d engaged the enemy. But now, after seeing one man get punched in the face, suddenly he is too stunned to move or form a basic sentence? Calvin shook his head disapprovingly. And this clown thought I wasn’t in any state to retain command?
“So then no?” asked Nikolai, still staring into the man’s eyes, as far as Calvin could tell. “Is no problem after all then, yes?”
The soldier nodded. Then answered with one simple word. “Yes.”
“Yes is problem?” asked Nikolai.
The soldier rapidly shook his head, as if desperate to communicate that he had no problem. Whatever beef he had thought to start, now it was the last thing he wanted.
“If no problem, then tell me, is no problem,” said Nikolai with a shrug. He took a small step closer and, perhaps involuntarily, the soldier retreated an equal distance. “Yes, is problem or no, no problem?” Clearly Nikolai was trying to send a message, not just to this previously defiant soldier, but to everyone aboard the pod. Hell, even Calvin could put into words what Nikolai, through this display, was essentially stating.
Calvin is in charge. He is to be obeyed. Any efforts to undermine his authority, or challenge his orders, or refuse to obey him, will result in severe consequences.
“I—” the soldier said, his voice quivering with cowardice. “I have no problem,” he finally managed to get the words out. “I…I just want to sit in my seat. Nothing more.”
“Oh, okay,” said Nikolai, making a friendly gesture toward the man as if to say, go right ahead, take your seat. “So then, I understand, no one has problem, yes?” he looked throughout the room, searching for any sign of agitation or defiance. “No? No one?” he looked each of them in the eyes, one by one, for several seconds. Meanwhile, no one spoke. “Okay then,” said Nikolai, apparently satisfied that all the others had fallen back into line, the way good soldiers should.
Nikolai returned to Calvin, “Sorry for interruption,” he said, making his crooked smile. But, before Nikolai could return to his knees, where he could look Calvin face to face, Calvin raised his hand, motioning for Nikolai to stop.
Then, slower than he’d intended, Calvin managed to climb up from the floor and stand, once again, on his own two feet. All the while thinking to himself, I may have lost everything and everyone I ever loved; I may be stranded deep inside Forbidden Space; and, quite likely, I may even die here in short order, whether Custos finds us and eliminates us like the Nighthawk, or some Rotham patrol finds us, or we simply use up all our air supply and oxygen reserves—to his knowledge a tiny craft such as this was not equipped with the ability to recycle the atmosphere and create oxygen—which meant suffocating on their own nitrogen and carbon dioxide exhalations was a real possibility.
The chips had fallen, and most of them not where he wanted them to, but reality was what it was, he realized. And, as much as he hated it, and as a desperate part of him craved an escape from it all—any escape—he ultimately refused to let this be the end. Even if he never set foot outside this pod again, Calvin intended to go out with some measure of dignity.
That might not mean much. Perhaps it meant nothing. But to him, it was one more tiny reason not to collapse and give in. Yes, the Nighthawk was gone, and yes, his friends were gone, as were Christine and Rain both, but there was still one sliver of silver in those black clouds that now, finally, he managed to take notice of. One very important fact that had finally sunk into his brain; and that fact was that, even though all the rest had been lost, he still remained. For the time being, until the universe finally decided to end him, he was alive. And that truth, standing by itself, was sufficient to create meaning. And now he promised himself that, despite all the tragedy he had experienced, and the horrors and painful losses that would probably never stop haunting him, he was going to live, and fight on, and keep planting one foot in front of the other, however he could; somehow, he would find the strength, no matter how hard it got. In that he chose to believe. And, as he accepted that, he felt as though a portion of the weight crushing down on him became a little more bearable. The weight wasn’t lifted, the sorrow and the regret and all those negative feelings were still there, still part of him, but now they were no longer the only part of him. That difference, subtle as it seemed, was every bit the difference between his wanting to die and his wanting to go on living.
Nikolai, evidently, somehow, picked up on this change within Calvin because, when he stood, and they looked at each other again, face to face, all Nikolai chose to say was, “Welcome back.”
Calvin nodded. Then he clapped his hands together and said, “It’s time we come up with a plan.”
Hearing him say that, and seem to mean it, caused a cheer to resound throughout the pod, as now the soldiers looked to him eagerly, waiting to hear whatever ingenious idea he’d come up with that would get them all home, somehow. Whether it was to Aleator, or back inside the Empire, there was no mistaking the fact that they would need to traverse a tremendous distance. That required a starship, not a pod. And, whatever starship they had, needed to either have state-of-the art stealth capabilities, or else enough weapons and armor that they could bully their way back home, by force, if necessary.
It just so happened that Calvin had come up with an idea, a truly mad idea, but one that maybe, if everything went perfectly right, just might possibly get them home.
“I have an idea,” he announced, and again his words were answered by a cheer. No doubt these soldiers had become as sick of this damned pod as he had. Well, if his idea worked, they would soon be rid of it. And when that happened, it would truly be a long time before Calvin ever missed the damn thing.
“The only problem with my idea is, it might not work, it’s dangerous, and I’ve really only figured out the initial details,” he said. “But,” he looked from one side of the pod all the way to the other and then continued, “Who’s up for doing something utterly and completely mad?”
CHAPTER 14
Raidan had ordered the Harbinger into a position near the formation’s front, but not so near as to draw unnecessary fire. He wanted to have all of his weapons in range of the forward-most enemy warships, but did not wish to take excessive flak, especially not so soon into the battle. He had also ordered his flotilla, all the ships that remained loyal to the Organization, to form up just behind and below the Harbinger; he wanted the Harbinger to be the paramount ship in their starship group because it could withstand attack far greater than any other vessel belonging to the Organization.
After Sir Arkwright had given the order to clear for action and then the defense force had charged headlong into the enemy’s formation, needing to get within attack range for the missiles and guns to be effective, the battle had transformed into a massive firestorm of starships ripping one another apart, and Raidan could only begin to guess at the number of lives lost. Even during the initial charge, many of the defense warships had been destroyed,
taking all hands with them. And, from that point on, it had seemed only to get bloodier and worse.
The Harbinger, and its flotilla of ships, had exchanged fire with the enemy from a position that had, so far, proven to be of very little interest to the enemy, and so they had not yet had to endure much fire returned at them. It seemed odd to Raidan that that would be so, the enemy had brought enough ships, why not simply converge entirely upon the defensive formation and eradicate it completely, sighting ship to ship? Sure, there would be more casualties taken by such an approach but, as Raidan glanced at the tactical display and saw, once again, how vastly outnumbered the green and blue lights were by the cluster of red ones, he figured the Dread Fleet had plenty of vessels to spare. What did a few more casualties mean?
But, whoever was in command of the Dread Fleet had proven him or herself to be more patient, careful, and tactically minded than Raidan had originally suspected. That meant two things: First, the battle would drag on longer than he had expected, as the enemy carefully carved into the defensive formation, little by little, poking holes in it with surgical precision until entire portions of the defensive formation began to collapse inwardly. And, secondly, it meant that whomever they were up against was an experienced battle commander and not some simple bloodthirsty marauders.
No wonder the Dread Fleet failed to fall for the vanguard’s ploy, he thought. These are no mere thugs we are dealing with. These are trained and tested warship crews, I’d stake all my Q on it.
As the battle progressed, and the defenders boldly held their position, Raidan made certain the Harbinger did its share and he spent the time, unsure how many minutes had passed, eliminating one enemy vessel after another. At first, Raidan had tried to keep a kill count, but, after picking off so many of the weakest enemy ships—destroyers, sloops, and even the occasional frigate—the exercise had grown tedious, and so he’d abandoned it.
Naturally, he demanded from his officers that they keep him constantly appraised of the ship’s status, as well as any notable change in the enemy’s formation, position, or tactics.
After the fighting had gone on for some while, Mister Ivanov had done exactly that. Informing him right away that the defense formation had rapidly begun to collapse along the portside flank of the ISS Victory, which brazenly had chosen, so far anyway, to remain at the forefront of the battle.
Raidan had sprinted then, all the way to the Ops station, where he saw for himself, in much greater detail than the tactical display provided, images of the defense force charged with holding that position being swiftly overpowered. Many of the ships were destroyed in quick succession, like they had no armor at all, while others, beaten and battered, were in flight, attempting to maneuver deeper inside the safety of the defensive formation. This left the ISS Victory dangerously exposed. If the command ship was lost, Raidan expected many of the Fleet Admirals to begin to rout as soon as their forces began to collapse. No matter how annoying Sir Arkwright was, his presence in the battle, along with the sight of his massive warship, was likely to help keep the various admirals and starship commanders in line and engaged against the enemy, in the most organized—and therefore effective—way possible.
That had led to some discussion between his XO and himself about what to do about this situation. At minimum, Raidan had commanded his Comms staff to inform the crew of the Victory that their ship had become exposed along its portside flank, even though they had both the means and the staff to see that for themselves; Raidan needed to know for certain that they had noticed. After that, he and Mister Mason had an exchange about whether or not to maneuver the Harbinger, and the rest of the Organization’s flotilla, to those exact coordinates, and retake—or attempt to retake—the position where the defensive formation had most collapsed.
Ultimately, Raidan decided not to, instead urging other warship groups and nearby admirals to assume the responsibility. Alone, he and his ships, despite the tremendous power of the Harbinger, would not stand a chance against the enemy force that seemed determined to occupy that position. Because, Raidan had reasoned, the enemy would send a force strong enough to defeat and destroy the ISS Victory, along with any companion ships that were nearby it; if the assaulting force could accomplish such a feat as that, then turning the Harbinger and the rest of Raidan’s flotilla into space dust would prove as easy as swatting a fly.
Mister Mason had disagreed with him, he had argued that it was their duty to at least try and shore up that position, even if they failed. Because, he had been quick to point out, if the defense force did not retake it, and manage to hold it, the rest of the formation was compromised, and it was only a matter of time before it collapsed entirely—especially if they began such an assault by destroying the ISS Victory which, to many of the starship commanders, Raidan knew, represented hope itself. If the Victory were destroyed, the formation would quickly fall into chaotic disarray; Raidan did not disagree, and, should that happen, the battle would essentially be over.
As it had turned out, while they were having this discussion and attempting to reach a decision, the admirals they contacted gave excuses for why they were too preoccupied with their own orders and battles to come to the rescue of the collapsed part of the formation, one admiral—who must have thought very similarly to Mister Mason—had chosen to do exactly that. It was Fleet Admiral Ravinder, aboard the ISS Hyperion, his men had informed him. And, moving alongside the beautiful alpha-class dreadnought was the most unprepared, battle-scarred, wreck of a squadron that Raidan had ever seen. In fact, the thirty-six warships, although each a capital ship in its own right, seemed as a collection to represent every possible state of disrepair.
If they are seriously going to try and stand against the enemy with that, thought Raidan, then they are merely kindling before a raging fire.
Still, he had to admire their courage for even attempting such a thing. Certainly he hadn’t found the force of will to go and do it himself with his resources. And his flotilla, including the Harbinger, easily overmatched Ravinder’s rag-tag starship group. And yet it was Ravinder and not Raidan, nor anyone else, who attempted to push the enemy back, and who successfully—at least for a time—disrupted the attempted assault against the ISS Victory.
All of that while fighting in direct opposition with an adversary that was stronger, more numerous, and otherwise superior in every way. And, somehow, the group of them, miraculously, managed to stand their ground long enough for help to arrive—which came in the form of some forty-five capital ships diverted away from the Second Fleet. Although, by the time those ships had arrived, only the powerful Hyperion remained. Each of the others, all that had belonged to Fleet Admiral Ravinder, and therefore must have been the remains of the Third Fleet, had fallen. Raidan’s only surprise had been how effective the weakened warships had been, and how long they had managed to last before meeting their inevitable demise.
So that’s that for the Third Fleet, he’d thought, the force that had been bold enough to accept assignment as vanguard for the defense. Now, only part way into the battle, the noble and courageous Third Fleet had, aside from the Hyperion, experienced one-hundred percent casualties. He’d then shaken his head in disbelief.
At the arrival of forty-five capital ships to hold the fragile position, not to mention the beaten but stubborn Hyperion, which also remained there, Mister Mason had again attempted to persuade Raidan to take the Harbinger and all of their forces and join those forty-six ships. In fact, considering how important it was to the defense of the system that the flank not be allowed to collapse, Mister Mason had very nearly persuaded him to go and do just that. But not quite. Ultimately, what had prevailed had been Raidan’s instinctive suspicion that, although forty-five capital ships and one dreadnought appeared to be a rather powerful force, it would prove unequal to the task of repelling the force that, he’d been quite sure the Dread Fleet was at that same time preparing to strike them with. He was just as certain that, even with the seemingly powerful augmentation of th
e defense of that position by adding the Harbinger and all the remaining ships of the Organization to the forty-six vessels already there, it still seemed extremely likely, practically a foregone conclusion, that their force, even combined together, would be unable to withstand what the Dread Fleet’s commander was planning to hit them with.
It had not taken long for Raidan’s suspicions to be confirmed. An attack force emerged from the safety of the tight phalanx formation and converged upon Ravinder’s dreadnought, along with the forty-five other defenders. Raidan had watched the tactical display, feeling a kind of sickness in his stomach, when he saw just how many red lights had changed position in order to engage the forty-six blue lights. Then, with a sensation that felt almost like physical pain, he watched as, one by one, in rapid succession, the blue lights began to flicker and disappear.
In fairness, many of the red lights did too, indicating that the hammer the Dread Fleet had used to against strike the defensive formation in its weakest spot had, itself, taken substantial casualties in the effort.
Some of the blue lights moved, in obvious retreat. Cowards, thought Raidan. And, when a few of them also flickered out, he had felt almost glad about it. To him, such an action, was so similar to desertion there wasn’t really any distinction between them.
Soon the number of blue lights holding that position had been reduced to eight. And then fewer still. By the time only one remained—which Raidan did not have to ask to feel certain it was the Hyperion—the last, lonely blue light began to move away from all the many red lights that had been part of the assault. Then, before Raidan or anyone else could do anything about it, or try to, the final blue light flickered and went out.
Raidan had bowed his head then, respectfully. Thinking, Fleet Admiral Ravinder had as much courage as any man I’ve ever met, and certainly far more than most. Rest in peace, you, and all who fell beside you. Of course, he did not believe that any supernatural mind-reader had heard his thought, nor that, even if one did, that such a creature should care even a little about what he wanted. But the thought had given him some small measure of peace and, in a way, reminded him that he too would likely share Ravinder’s same fate, so long as he continued to oppose the Dread Fleet.
The Phoenix Requiem (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 7) Page 30