Thankfully, the enemy had relented on its repeated, borderline obsessive, attacking of the portside flank, which Sir Arkwright had needed to divert practically all his forces to successfully hold. And, just as the reserves of reinforcements had been all but tapped out, the enemy had withdrawn out of firing range. All its side fleets and minor squadrons appeared to have been recalled to regroup with the largest host of starships. Which, by all appearances, was assuming a wedge-like formation, leaving little doubt in Sir Arkwright’s mind that they were preparing to charge.
They will probably charge our center position, thought Sir Arkwright, even though it is where we are the strongest. It doesn’t matter how strong we are, if they are sufficiently stronger, which they are and more.
If he was right, and some dark sense of foreboding told him that he was, that meant the enemy would be coming directly at the ISS Victory, and, more than likely, concentrating their combined firepower at the greatest warship ever built. They’ll light us up like a candle, he thought, with all those beam weapons. Hell, we might not even get an opportunity to shoot back before we’re scorched into space dust.
Still, even knowing that was his likely fate, Sir Arkwright was not one to run from it. He still believed in God. None of this evil he had witnessed today had shaken that faith. Obviously, the Divine Creator had some greater design, something far grander than what Sir Arkwright’s miniscule mortal mind could comprehend. Evil did sometimes win the day, that much he knew. And today was going to be one such day. There was no mistaking that fact. And although he had pled for Divine deliverance, the Creator had chosen in His wisdom to withhold his hand and allow the evil enemy to come after them, like wolves upon sheep.
But, just as surely as evil sometimes won the day, good always won the war. Sir Arkwright did not know how, and he did not know when, but somehow this Dread Fleet, and all its evil, would be destroyed. For such evil would not be suffered by the Creator for long. In that, Sir Arkwright trusted. And, although it appeared his time had come to rejoin the heavens, and walk with the angels among the stars, someone would come, one day, and stop this Dread Fleet. It won’t be me, thought Sir Arkwright. But it will be someone. And then it will become clear why the Creator had been wise not to spare the people who had died today, and the people who would yet die. Including Sir Arkwright himself.
But, even though he accepted his fate, and trusted in his Lord, the Creator of all the heavens and all the stars and all the worlds, that did not mean Sir Arkwright had to accept his ultimate destiny lying down. No, he would die defending the innocent—or trying his best to—while swinging the twin swords of justice and righteousness, destroying as much evil as possible before the Creator took his breath from his lungs and spirited away his soul.
For Queen and Country! But, even more, for God! he thought, feeling his resolve return along with his determination. He tapped the transmitter.
“General Order to all allied ships. This is your commander, Sir Arkwright; the enemy is forming up to charge this position with all strength. It is up to us to stand against them. I hereby command all warships yet able to move to immediately form up on my position. Do so with all haste. Let us stand as one when the enemy is upon us. Let us make the galaxy remember this day! Not only what we have done here already, but, even more importantly, how we chose to end it! That message will be heard across thousands of worlds and remembered for thousands of years. Let us make our descendants proud and be strong until the end, my brothers and sisters! The dark tide fast approaches. Let us stand together, united, and cast the darkness back once more! The choice we make, right here and now, to stand against an overwhelming force of cruelty, malice, evil, and darkness, and say to it—with our voices and our swords—we will not bow! We will not kneel! We will not surrender! Resistance until death! My blood for the queen!”
He let go of the switch and the Comms board lit up with most of the commanders of the remaining starships also transmitting, as many as could get through, “My blood for the queen!”; “My blood for the queen!”; “My blood for the queen!”
It was an ancient battle cry, one that harkened back to feudal times. And yet, Sir Arkwright found it appropriate to be used again here, for one final time. Before the slaughter cast its shadow upon them all.
“All hands, stand ready,” commanded Sir Arkwright.
“All hands report ready,” said his Comms chief.
“All crews to their guns,” commanded Sir Arkwright.
“All crews report ready and standing by,” said the Defense chief.
“Shields double front, I expect a lot of beam weapon strikes.”
“Aye, sir, shields directed to double front,” said the Defense chief.
“Ops, all secondary, tertiary, and emergency power sources are to be ready to be diverted into the shields the instant they begin to fall; is that clear?”
“Sir, yes, sir,” said the Ops chief.
As he gave these commands, he watched on the tactical display as the remaining blue and green lights converged on his position. The defenders would make their final stand, together, just like he’d wanted. A few had strayed, some had even fled. It did not matter. As far as Sir Arkwright was concerned, those who fled would forever be branded traitors and cowards. While those who stayed—and fell—would forever be remembered as heroes. For it isn’t some great attribute about a person that makes one a hero, thought Sir Arkwright, No one is born a hero. Heroes are forged in the fires of singular, solitary moments…moments when a choice has to be made, and often, a risk taken. When a person chooses greatness, often at their own expense, that is what makes a hero.
Once he had finished giving his commands, both to his crew and his remaining fleets, Sir Arkwright leaned forward in the command chair, against the restraints, and stared at the large red swarm of lights in a triangle shape on the tactical display. As if to say to them, come at us, if you dare. We fear no forces of evil!
“Sir,” said his XO from where he was standing next to Sir Arkwright.
“Yes?”
“I just want to say, it’s been an honor, My Lord,” he saluted.
“Commander, the honor has all been mine,” replied Sir Arkwright, and he returned the salute.
“My blood for the queen,” said the XO, making a fist.
Sir Arkwright made the same gesture. “My blood for the queen!”
***
My blood for the queen.
It had a certain ring to it, Raidan had to admit. A certain catchy-like quality that had probably helped stir the morale of the remaining defenders in some positive way. Sir Arkwright had been wise to use it. One of the few sparks of wisdom the battle commander had shown.
Of course, to Raidan it was merely a slogan, and not one that carried much weight with him. He had put the queen upon her throne personally, by eliminating her rival, at tremendous risk to himself, and the thanks he had gotten for it? To be branded a traitor for all time. An official Enemy of the Empire.
That outcome had come as no surprise. He understood that Kalila had been forced to do it for political reasons. Raidan had even predicted that outcome before making the decision to take control of the Organization and use it to attack Capital World, ultimately eliminating Caerwyn Martel. Who, had it not been for him and his damned civil war, the Empire might have had some chance to resist the Dread Fleet. Unfortunately, Raidan’s intervention had come too late, and now, though the Empire was finally united, they had an enemy at their gates for which they were entirely unprepared.
The arrival of the Dread Fleet and its strange obsession with eradicating life, planet to planet, was something he had not seen coming, nor was it something he understood. All he knew was that it had come knocking on his door, invaded his house, and was threatening to destroy everything that had ever once stood tall and great, all the glory of the Empire, the apex of human civilization, even humanity itself. All of it was straw before a fire. A hateful, wrathful, merciless fire that could not be stopped. That took no prisoners. Acc
epted no quarter. And, most importantly, there was nothing Raidan, nor anyone, could do about it.
The fire now burned outside the house, an inferno like never before seen, and now, little by little, it approached, accelerating, drawing ever nearer. All that stood in its way, truthfully, was time. Not the defense fleet. Not Raidan. No one could stop the Dread Fleet. In the end, it would take what it wanted and no one could do anything about it. The only master it was forced to respect, that Raidan knew of, was the cost of time. The Dread Fleet might take or destroy everything, eventfully, but it could not do so all at once.
On that point, he agreed with Sir Arkwright. Defending Capital World, at this point, was obviously futile. The intelligent thing, Raidan supposed, would be to flee the battle, any who still could, since to do otherwise would be akin to lying down before the fire, allowing it to consume you, for no purpose at all. Whether the defenders held the Dread Fleet at bay for six minutes, six hours, or six days, it made no difference. Eventually, the Dread Fleet would swarm the planet with all its vile black ships, and rain down a storm of violence and death that would sweep the planet, coast to coast, everywhere. There would be no escape.
It’s inevitable, thought Raidan from his seat at the Harbinger’s command position. There really is no stopping them…
Part of him had always understood that this was an adversary he could not hope to defeat. None of them could. But still, somehow, he had managed to convince himself, just enough, that it was possible to have hope.
Now, however, as he watched the swarm approaching: with its countless battleships, endless destroyers, hordes of battlecruisers, bevies of sloops, armadas of frigates, and squadrons of dreadnoughts—and whatever the hell else was packed into that tight phalanx—drawing ever nearer to the relatively small group of starships waiting to oppose them, both sides nearly within striking distance now, Raidan knew, without so much as a sliver of doubt, that the enemy would smash through the defenders with ease, and then it was on to the planet.
I give it fifteen minutes, he thought to himself, before the entire planet is surrounded by the Dread Fleet in orbit. This last charge, this is the end. There is no more battle after this.
Of course, some of the defending starships would survive the push, but they would be scattered and thrown into disarray. Badly beaten, bleeding, many of them slowly self-destructing as their bruised and broken hulls finally gave way.
Still, Raidan could not find it within himself to leave the system. He knew it was the smart thing to do. In fact, it was the only thing even remotely reasonable. There was no sense in dying if it accomplished nothing whatsoever. Whether he left or stayed and fought to the bitter end, it made no difference to the billions of lives down on Capital World. Because, ultimately, they would all be slaughtered. Whether the enemy had to cut down the Harbinger to get to them first, or not, he was nothing but a paper shield.
He stroked his chin, as he often did while in deep thought. The Harbinger had maneuvered somewhat near where the ISS Victory and its loyalist ships had gathered to make their final stand, but Raidan held the Harbinger back, just enough that he would not be drawn into the fight unless he wanted to be. In which case, he need only move a short distance to achieve weapon’s range.
He could see the lights of several starships through the forward window. They were too far away, and their lights too bright, for him to identify any of the individual starships—except for the Victory, but only because its lights were far brighter and more numerous than any of the others.
According to the tactical display, Sir Arkwright, had convinced, whether by order or rhetorical persuasion, some seven-hundred and sixty-three capital ships to hold beside the ISS Victory, in defensive formation, waiting, fingers on triggers, watching as the enemy approached at a seemingly gliding pace. Neither fast nor slow, showing neither caution nor carelessness, the enemy fleet simply seemed to move as though it did not even recognize that any ships blocked their path. And why should they react? thought Raidan. Why should thousands of capital ships fear mere hundreds? It was the same question why should seven men fear just one?
Sir Arkwright had described the entirety of the remaining Dread Fleet as four-thousand ships. In that, Raidan thought, Sir Arkwright had not been entirely honest. By Raidan’s estimate, it was something closer to five-and-a-half thousand. And, although there were some groups of defense ships, and lone ones, scattered about the system, some routing, some immobilized, others withdrawn from the fight but unwilling to jump system—at least not yet, and others doing…God knows what, none of them were in a position to lend any further resistance to the Dread Fleet. If humans and Rotham had the same level of discipline and respect for command that the Dread Fleet apparently had, then Sir Arkwright’s defense line would be something close to twelve-hundred capital ships. Significantly more. Yet still not enough.
Seconds later, the battle was joined. All Raidan could truly see was an exchange of flashes of light and the occasional, rapid firework type of explosion when a starship’s atmosphere caught fire, very briefly, as the remnants of the vessel were thrown across space in every direction.
He watched the number of blue and green lights blink out rapidly, along with many red lights.
“It’s a slaughter out there,” said Mister Mason, who stood not far away.
Raidan nodded. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The thoughts that filled his head all came from his imagination, yet they haunted him. Tormented him, even. He imagined men and women sprinting through corridors, struggling to fight fires burning everywhere, then vicious, violent death as debris sliced off limbs, explosions burned skin, and the collapsing innards of a starship crushed people, killing them with blunt force trauma…
That is literally happening right now, he thought, opening his eyes again. And here I am just watching it. Like having a family picnic next to a battlefield.
“Accelerate the ship,” he said, quite suddenly. “All thrusters fire.”
“Course and heading, sir?” asked Mister Watson.
“Dead ahead,” said Raidan. “Hold straight and true.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Engaging thrusters. All thrusters engaged.”
The distant lights, the flashes, the instantly vanishing explosions, all of it continued, like a parade of sparks meant for his entertainment, yet he could not sit idly by and watch it, knowing what it truly was.
“Sir, if we continue on this heading, we will be drawn into the battle,” said Mister Watson.
Raidan gave the man a look as if to say, it’s obvious.
“Are you certain that’s what you want?” asked Mister Mason.
“Stay on course, Mister Watson. Mister Demir, ready the guns and clear us for action, if you would please,” said Raidan.
“Aye, sir,” both his men acknowledged. A second later, the klaxon sounded and the emergency lights sprang on.
“As for you, Mister Watson,” said Raidan. “I suggest you find a seat and strap in.”
“Attention all decks. Attention all decks,” said Mister Demir loudly into his headset. “All hands, clear for action! I repeat, all hands, clear for action!”
Of course, the alarms going off would have been signal enough to the lower decks that they would already be scrambling for General Quarters, but it never hurt to use extra measures. Not in Raidan’s view. Besides, he always believed the call to “clear for action” had a way of making a person’s hair stand up, giving them that extra jolt of urgency that might be the sliver of difference between a won fight and a lost one.
“Weapons range achieved, sir,” said Mister Demir.
“Full stop,” said Raidan.
“Answering full stop,” replied Mister Watson.
“To all gunnery crews and other weapons operators,” said Raidan, “Fire at will!”
“Yes, sir,” said Mister Demir, as he and his staff sent the order below to the many, many weapons crews on the Harbinger.
“And how many guns shall we hold in reserve, for missile int
erception?” asked Mister Watson, who had actually gone and done as Raidan had advised and was now seated in the XO’s chair, all strapped in.
“Um, let me think,” said Raidan. “None.”
“None, sir?” asked Mister Demir.
“Captain,” said Mister Watson, “Don’t you think it would be wise to at least hold a few guns in reserve, just in case—”
Raidan interrupted him. “Mister Ivanov, how far away, in relative terms, are we from the battle?”
“We answered a full stop just barely within weapons range so…I guess I would say, reasonably far from the battle itself, more like a fringe participant,” said Mister Ivanov. “Although I could tell you the exact distance in technical terms quite easily.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Raidan. “Just tell us, in your expert opinion, what do you suppose the probability is that, from this position, a warship involved in the battle ahead would select this ship as a target, lock a seeker missile onto it, and then fire, hoping that somehow, while blasting across that vast distance, none of the defending ships, including the one targeted, by some miracle, wouldn’t intercept it?”
“Well,” said Mister Ivanov. “That sounds like a somewhat loaded question, but I think what you want me to say is that chances are small. So, I’ll go with that. Chances are very small that we will be a target for missiles at our present position.”
“There you go,” said Raidan. “Hence, no reserve guns.”
“I still disagree with your decision, sir,” said Mister Watson.
“Well, that is your privilege,” said Raidan, “To be as wrong as you want to as often as you want to, but it makes no difference to me whatsoever.”
“Sir, if you consider—”
The Phoenix Requiem (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 7) Page 39