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Heart of Oak (Age of Sail in SPAAACE!)

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While I'm leaving this here for posterities sake, please read the new stuff. It's better. K...
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4WheelSword

4WheelSword

The original N-body Problem
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While I'm leaving this here for posterities sake, please read the new stuff. It's better. K?​

In reading this thread I came across an argument that the Harrington books are not, as is commonly touted, Age of Sail in Space(!) combat. And, to be honest, I agree with them, not least because HH books are becoming less than stellar as time goes on.
Anyway, I decided to take the concept that Harrington is supposed to be, and ran with it. As far as I damn well could. So here's the first post of what promises to be a truly serious piece of fiction. I hope you enjoy it.

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The three warships cruised towards the blue and white marble that was their destination, sails wide open and sparkling in the sun. Captain Michael O'Roarke, commander of the second rate ship of the line HMS Royal Oak, stood on the observation bridge looking out across the formation. With the squadron's flagship Neptune, another second rate, and the Duke, a third rate, on his port beam he felt truly powerful. He knew despite the assemblage of power that they were in for a hell of a fight when they reached New Grenada. His lookouts had already sighted four ships of the line in orbit around the planet, a sighting confirmed by the flag. Even if they were incredibly lucky and all four were third rate ships they still faced near parity in guns, 128 to 160. Reports that the Regime has developed a new, more accurate type of cannon had yet to be confirmed, but it was nonetheless concerning when looking to engage a numerically superior force.

"Mr Hammond, have we resighted them yet?" he said, standing and walking to the forebridge.

"They're due to come around to the day side shortly, Captain." The Junior Lieutenant called sharply. It would not be the man's first taste of combat, O'Roarke knew he has been aboard the Bellerophon at the Battle of Sharpton's bridge. Even so he looked nervous, his jaw clenched.

"And the range when they do please?" He spoke calmly, aiming to settle the man.

"Eight-thousand kilometres, Captain. If they hold their course, we'll meet in ten minutes."

"Eleven, Captain." Midshipman Chambers blurts across the bridge, immediately reddening.

"You have something to add, Ms Chambers?" She flushed darker, staring at her feet.

"We'll meet the enemy in eleven minutes, Captain, not ten." O'Roarke turns at looks at his lieutenant as he rushes to recalculate their trajectory.

"I... I'm sorry Captain, the midshipman is correct." O'Roarke nods to himself.

"Very good, Ms Chambers, eleven minutes to contact. Maintain your watch, I want them identified before we reach five-thousand." O'Roarke fought the urge to sigh at the given ranges. A scholar as much as an officer, he had always loved the myths and legends from before the Solar Cataclysm. The stories of great space battles fought calmly at tens of thousands of kilometers, stoic captains ordering barrages of torpedoes to be launched across great stretches of space. The dark times between then and now had been a great tragedy in both human life and technological loss. Now they were limited to duels at knife fight ranges, batteries of plasma cannons tearing viciously at each others hulls with only a few short kilometres between them. It was savage, near barbarism, rather than the cultured style of warfare that had preceeded it. He was simply glad of the men and women around him, confident that their skill and spirit would bring them out the other side of the line in more or less one piece.

"Signal from the flagship, Captain." O'Roarke turned to see the bright coloured lights illuminate the side of the Neptune, even as the orders printer clattered. He read the signal lights as the communications lieutenant read aloud; "All ships, furl sails and put up battle ensigns. Form line ahead. Neptune will lead." O'Roarke smiles, the Admiral obviously wanting to take the lead and thus the glory of opening the engagement.
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Why are you naming your main character Daniel O'Leary? For an Age of Sail in Space fiction?

Is it a bizarre shout out to the RCN series?
 
HMS Sophia said:
It was the name of someone I met at work yesterday. Ill edit the surname at some point as I hadnt intended that :p
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Yeah, the "reference" work, so to speak for Space Age Age of Sail is David Drake's RCN series, and it's actually pretty good.

Way better than the later HH in any case.
 
... the MC is Daniel Leary... :facepalm:
I... This is getting an edit as soon as I get a chance :p Serves me right for half-assing naming characters.

EDIT: My main character is now Michael O'Roarke. Please say there isn't a series of books with a Michael Roarke sailing in space... :D
 
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Part two, whoo!

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"Conn, come aft 500 on thrusters, down all sails." He watches as the four huge golden sails were brought in slowly as they drifted behind the Neptune. Replacing them was a set of banners, identifying flags which gave the enemy notice of who they were engaging and allowed friendly ships to identify each other easily in the havoc of close fighting. He felt a rush, the sight of three Royal warships in full battle order. "All hands, beat to quarters." At last the order came, the alert ringing through the ship on every deck and in every compartment. Sailors, tense from waiting or nervously trying to relax, raced to their fighting stations. Cannons were crewed and damage control parties were formed as the ship roused itself for a fight.

"All stations report ready, Captain."

"Very well. Conn, starboard 150. Hold formation 400 aft the flagship." The Royal Oak slid in behind the Neptune, the Duke taking a similar position aft of O'Roarke's ship.

"Regime squadron in sight, Captain. They've formed a battle line."

"Thank you, Mr Hammond. Identification?"

"I see... I think she's the Pegase, Captain. Second rate, trailing. Oh, and the Argonaute, third rate, preceding her." He turns smiling, a look that O'Roarke returns. Encouragement would be necessary after the man's earlier mistake. He worried about Hammond's ability to cope aboard ship sometimes.

"And the others?"

"The Flag confirms the Argonaute, and gives the ship leading her as the Danae, another third rate Captain." Lieutenant Fisher at his communications station says. "The Pegase is agreed as well."

"And the leader, man, what about the leader?" A touch of irritation colours his tone. Knowing the identity of the ships they faced could be vital in the coming battle, if only to know which posed the greatest threat.

"I, uh..." The lieutenant hesitated, biting his lip.

"Spit it out, Mr Hammond."

"It's the Formidable, Captain. First rate." O'Roarke's eyes widened. A first rate, brought to battle over a colony? Well, today would certainly be interesting. The enemy had 256 guns to their squadron's 128, and on more hulls to boot. But what was a first rate doing here? Why were the Regime risking one of their few most powerful ships to defend a relatively young world... Something to bring up with the other Captains later, he thought.

"Hmm... Range and time."

"Four-thousand, Captain, interception in four minutes."

"Signal from the flag. All ships prepare for insertion in three minutes." O'Roarke grins, showing his teeth. The Admiral meant to give battle, not simply make for a passing engagement and then escape the Regime's ships in open space.

"Give me the ship." He says aloud. He's passed a handset, the switch of which he clicks to on before speaking, his voice transmitted and broadcast throughout the ship.

"Men and Women of the Royal Oak, this is the Captain. In a few minutes we will arrive about the colony of New Grenada. We came here to bring the colony into the Empire's fold, to ensure that this vital stretch of space was made safe from the Regime's predations once more. We find ourselves facing Regime vessels, vessel which our Admiral and I intend to bring to battle. Once we have them under our guns, do not fear. They will be judged, and they will be found wanting. Fight well, and stand as steadfast as the ship which you call home, and we will win this day." He switched the channel off and looked around the bridge, pleased to see his officers grinning back at him. He takes a final look over the bows of his ship and past the Neptune, at the glowing jewel of New Grenada.

"Well, gentlemen, we shall retire to the combat bridge." They stand almost as one, following the Captain down into the bowels of the ship and into the highly secure, well protected combat bridge buried there.
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His officers quickly take up their stations, joining the standing crew, and bring additional systems online. Cameras, to watch the progress outside, sensors for keeping an eye on their enemies and all the equipment needed to fight not only their own battle but to lead one if necessary. He took up his position behind a large console in the centre of the room, one that would tell him everything he would need to know in the next minutes. He could view any camera, and sensor readout. He could receive reports from and speak to any officer aboard. Almost more importantly, he had his number one alongside him.

"Lieutenant Archer. I hope things are going well enough down here." O'Roarke says, returning the man's salute.

"Well enough, Captain. Better for having you down here." He nods, turning back to his own console.

"Time to insertion." He said, his voice resonating in the enclosed chamber as the heavy door closed, sealing them in.

"One minute and counting, Captain. 150 seconds to firing range." Mr Hammond reports from his new station.

"Signal the Flag. Request permission to fire as we bear on the enemy." The communications officer turned to his console and began typing, fingers a blur on the keyboard. A few moments later, the printer chatters.

"Reply, Captain. Message reads, Hold fire until the range closes. Wait on the Flag." O'Roarke frowns, sharing a look with Archer. The Regime wouldn't hesitate to fire at the their maximum range. Their own guns might not be particularly accurate at these ranges, but if they waited too long, they would begin suffering under the enemies.

"What does she-" Archer begins before O'Roarke cuts him off.

"Now isn't the time, number one." He makes a point of glancing at the junior offices. "Lock bow camera one on the enemy formation, camera two on the Flag. Aft one on the Duke. Lets make sure we know what's happening." Three images flashed onto the screens around them, the distant enemy formation on the largest of them.

"Thirty seconds to insertion, Captain."

"Order all hands brace, Mr Hammond."

"Yes, Captain." He picks up a handset and around the ship his voice rings out "All hands, brace, brace, brace." Officers race to strap themselves into chairs as sailors grab hold of webbing, wrapping themselves as tightly as possible in order to remain upright during the insertion burn. A few seconds later, on all three ships, rocket motors ignite in their bows. Firing just off-angle to avoid reaction mass slamming into the ship ahead of each vessel, they begin to slow the three Royal warships. 5 gravities of force act on them, ensuring that they would circle New Grenada instead of shooting back out into the safety of space. It meant they were committed to the coming engagement, an engagement O'Roarke trusted the Admiral to win.

After a minute the intense forces stopped, the rockets running dry. The three ships were in a somewhat circular orbit and rapidly approaching firing range on the Regime vessels. O'Roarke chews his lip, looking at the approaching enemy and the silent Flagship. The enemy was sure to start firing any time now...

"Ms. Turner," He says, catching the eye of his gun commander. "Have the portside guns run out and readied."

"Aye, Captain." she says simply. As her orders go out across the two gun decks, thick shields draw back from thirty-two openings, allowing the Royal Oak's cannons to see their enemies. More importantly it unveiled their targeting cameras. Crews did last minute checks, both by hand in the breech chamber, and both visually and electronically on the firing deck. "Thirty-Two guns report ready."
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There was silence then. It swept over the command crew like a spectre, the quiet before the storm, the hush preceding a great calamity. They each watched as the enemy crept closer, magnified to identifiable size by their cameras. Then suddenly, finally, the first pale green flashes of the Regime's guns.

"Captain-"

"I see them, Ms Chambers, I see them." Several streaks of green flashed past the Royal Oak, though most of the fire was focused on the Neptune. "What do you make of it, number one?"

"I think they might have recognised the Flagship." Archer says plainly, a grim smile flashing across his face. "Formidable is leading the engagement. It would be best if we were to focus our fire either there, as the largest concentration of power, or on the Argonaute or Danae. It will be significantly easier to put a third rate out of action than a first."

"Ah, but for the simplicity of speech on the battlefield, eh?" O'Roarke frowns as he watches the opening stages of the battle unfold. "I doubt the Admiral will take anything but the Formidable though. Ms Turner." He raises his voice to speak across the bridge. "All guns to be trained on the Formidable. Prepare to fire on my command." The woman mumbles a reply, already issuing orders through her console, adding imperatives through her handset whenever necessary.

O'Roarke winced as a bolt finally found it's mark on the Neptune, splashing against the side armour. Starfire lashed at the hull, but he knew it would take more to put her down or to discourage the admiral from action. The projectiles were coming more rapidly now, as the enemy turned to present more of their broadsides to the Royal ships. The Formidable's 48 guns were joined by the 16 apiece from each third rate, and finally the 32 from the Pegase as she finally came into range and could bring her guns to bear. The Captain shook his head subtly, wishing the Admiral would give the order to fire. He couldn't believe how long it was being left. A second hit was scored on the Flag, then a third landed but on the smaller Duke aft of them. The Royal Oak was lucky to have been spared thus far, but- Their luck ran out. The ship shook at a sudden impact, it's effects felt even here, deep inside her.

"Damage report, Ms Chambers, now!" He had to fight to keep from shouting. He consciously relaxed his whitened knuckles where they were gripping the edge of his console. He mustn't get agitated, not in front of his officers, but to see his sailors lives wasted uselessly...

"Minor hull damage, Captain. Effectiveness unimpaired." He relaxed, slightly. The hull was tough, but not so tough that they could afford to keep taking hits.

The distance between the two squadrons diminished rapidly, the Regime ships hammering away at the hulls of the Royal vessels as they went. They took hits, they took damage, even casualties but still they sailed closer without a single shot fired. The range dropped to just a handful of kilometres, to the point that a sailor standing on the hull of the Neptune would be able to see the Regime's ships with their bare eyes. To the relief of all watching, the Flagship chose that moment to light it's colourful signal lights.

"Captain, message from the Flag. All ships will engage the enemy. That is all." As the officer reads the torn off communique, O'Roarke watches the flag fire for the first time. His heart leapt for joy at the perfect rolling broadside, guns firing one after the other. The Flag Captain was no slouch on gun drills, that was easy to see. More importantly, they were accurate, the bolts lancing out and into the heavy hull of the enemy.

"Ms. Turner?" She turns, hands hovering over her controls, waiting for the order to come. "Open fire."

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Even through the thick bulkheads, the command crew could hear the rolling rumble of their own broadside. Cameras on the port side flicked around, following the glowing plasma fire into the enemy's ships. O'Roarke frowned at the fall of shot, the spread wider than it should have been. Some of their fire even missed the Formidable.

"Ms. Turner, we're fighting a formation of Regime ships, not target drones. The next broadside will be more accurate."

"Aye, Captain." Her clipped reply speaks volumes about her feeling at the Captains admonition. She picks up a handset to speak to the gun deck. For a brief moment he catches a gun commander calling a timing cadence. He ignored it, despite the technicality of that sort of thing being banned in the Navy. If it helped the gunners fire a better broadside, he'd let it slide. Another subtle shake, and another wave of plasma shot out towards the largest of the enemy formation. He nodded. They had indeed been better this time around, though he supposed the rapidly closing range may have had something to do with it.

The two formations fell on each other, firing as they went. Armour plate, hull beams, fighting compartments, all were shattered under the relentless bombardment of plasma. The Oak was initially lucky, spared the worst of it by the Regime's apparent focus on the Duke and the Neptune. She was by no means unscathed however, as the two formations crossed each other's paths.

"Port eight points slow, Mr Hammond. I don't want the enemy out from under our guns for even a single moment!"

"Yes, Captain." The young man called back, hands giving his controls the slightest of touches. The bow of the ship swung around, angling down towards the distant ground and keeping the broadside facing the enemy as they came around the outside of them. The thunder of battle was constant now, guns firing as soon as they were loaded and had a target rather than waiting for every light on the board to be green.

"Fighting compartment eighteen is hit, Captain." He bit back a curse, looking over at Lieutenant Chambers. "No survivors." Damn, he thought to himself, calmer than perhaps he should have been. Regime plasma had slipped into the gap in the hull where a cannon was mounted and burned out the entire compartment. It was rare for any of the gun crew to survive and to make matters worse it was their seventh loss. Seven guns of thirty-two was a significant loss of fire-power. He damned the Oak's slow helm for good measure, keeping them from bringing the untouched, unfired starboard broadside around.

He looked at the Cameras, a glance telling him all he needed about the progress of the battle. Two Regime ships, the Danae and the Pegase, had already started turning away, their colours pulled in. They were neither firing nor being fired upon, both openly displaying their surrender and unwillingness to continue the fight. It would be a sign of a coming victory if it wasn't for the Duke's precarious situation. Twin plumes of fire and plasma were streaming from her hull, a sure sign of ammunition ignition. Whether from enemy fire or insufficient care, she was in danger of gutting herself in the next few minutes unless her Captain was very, very careful. He shook his head, dragging his eyes back to the battle. The Formidable was firing still, the Argonaute supporting her in battering the Flagship. All four vessels were scorched, cracked open in places as plasma washed over them. Something would have to turn the tide.

"Mr. Hammond, match courses with the Argonaute and bring her under our port quarter. Let's silence her guns."
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Warringer said:
Kinda reminds me of Phoebus Krumm... >_>
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Is that a good thing? :p
Speaking of which, it's been a week. time for more of this silliness

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"Take us closer I said!" The Captain shouted. The roaring thunder of cannon fire and the blasts of plasma fire hitting the hull were loud enough now to make it difficult to hear the O'Roarke's normally soft voice, let alone the reports of the quiet command deck. The Royal Oak was drifting up on the enemy third rate ship, the Argonaute, and both ships were battering the other with feverish fusillades. The Captain stalked across the command deck, growing more agitated as they closed the gap, itching to take action himself. "How close are we, Mr Hammond?"

"One kilometre, Captain." He nodded, leaning over the young officer's shoulder and squinting at his control board.

"Good. All stop at one hundred and hold." He stepped back across the room, heels clicking on the bare deck. "Where's the boy with my weapons, number one."

"I requested him, Captain. I'm sure he's on his way." Archer said, smiling. The Captain fought the urge to scowl. It was amazing how cheerful his first officer could get in the midst of deadly combat. O'Roarke started pacing again. He simply had to do something.
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Fredrick Rushworth Howe raced through the corridors of the Royal Oak, clutching the Captain's equipment in one hand and using the other to swing himself around corners and break his headlong flight whenever necessary. As the senior ships boy, he'd been given the thankless duty of waiting out the battle in the Captain's Cabin, ready at a moments notice in case the man himself needed anything that might have not seemed necessary when battle was joined. And thus, he was dodging Damage Control teams, gun crews and sealed sections in an attempt to reach the Captain before the Captain reached the end of his tether.

He made a bad turn somewhere and ended up passing the surgeons chambers. Not his best choice, considering they were in the middle of live combat. Freddy was always amazed at the number of wounded produced even when everything said that death should be instantaneous from any of the weapons thrown around by ships like the Royal Oak and it's enemies.

He slowed almost to a stop, picking gingerly around the bodies of the wounded and dead. He looked down, and suddenly wished he hadn't, as his dinner made itself known against the back of his throat. The sailor lying on the deck has no feet, just a pair of charred stumps, cauterised by what could only be the heat of plasma wash. Freddy wondered for a ghastly moment quite how it had only got his legs, given that the rest of the poor sod with a large M stencilled on his forehead seemed untouched. Freddy looked up, took a deep breath (oh, what a terrible mistake that was) and carried on about as quickly as he could, trying to ignore the moans of pain emanating from the operating room and the whimpers of the men and women on the deck.

Once back in the clear spaces he was off again. Finally he came to the right corridor and shot along it, arriving outside the sealed command bridge just as the thick door began to slide slowly open. He pulled up to one side, trying desperately to control his breathing, as if to pretend he had been waiting all this time rather than having just made it. Maybe the Captain would be pleased with him if he had.
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O'Roarke looked down as the vault door opened, biting back a grin at the boys efforts to hide his panting. The Captain and Archer had watched Howe's final dash down the corridor, Archer commenting on his apparent commitment despite his lateness. He looked the boy, who's eyes were fixed respectfully on the floor, up and down. He was almost too old to be considered a boy any more. It would soon be time for the well connected young man to be a midshipman on some poor unfortunate's ship. After a moments tense silence, the ship noisy around them, Howe touched his forelock and spoke.

"Please, Captain, the equipment you requested." O'Roarke raised his eyebrows. However much he acted, the boy certainly wasn't intimidated by his rank.

"Carry on." He said, raising his arms. Howe stepped up, quickly slinging the thick belt around O'Roarke's hips, buckling it. "Tell me, Howe, how old are you again?"

"Fourteen, Captain. For a month now, Captain." He said, voice steady as he clipped the heavy ship sword onto the Captains belt.

"It's about time you were made a Young Gentleman then, should your performance be adequate." The boy stiffened imperceptibly for a moment, as he added a brace of pistols to the attachment points on the front of the Captains uniform.

"I wouldn't like to be so forward as to suggest, Captain." He said, very diplomatically. O'Roarke smiled. Someone had been coaching Howe. His money was on Archer, he seemed to have a soft spot for the boy's.

"Perhaps we'll see how you feel after we're done with today's trivialities." he turned and looked back onto the bridge, his first officer standing just to the side of the door. "The bridge, and the ship, is yours, Number one. I hope you'll see her well while I'm away." They shared a grin and shook hands, vigorously. Howe pressed himself against a wall, apparently trying not to witness the informality between the two most senior officers aboard the ship. "We're ready?" A quiet nod from Archer was all that was needed. "Good. Fire the hooks as soon as we're in range and reel her in. I'll be at the second lock, leading as I must." He touched the hilt of his sword, his thumb pressing against the family crest enamelled at the base. His expression slipped for a moment.

"We'll have her, Captain. Good and true."

"Aye, John. We'll have her." His grin was back, hand shaking Archer's vigorously again. "I'll be in touch. Warn me if the Formidable decides to play." He pulled his hood up without another word, not yet sealing the faceplate. He turned, beginning his long walk to the second airlock and the waiting boarding party.​
 
Interesting. I would speculate that warships take alot of time and effort to build, which is why they're willing to commit to boarding parties to seize new ones. This also suggests a certain amount of standardization even between warring nations.
 
forum viking said:
Interesting. I would speculate that warships take alot of time and effort to build, which is why they're willing to commit to boarding parties to seize new ones. This also suggests a certain amount of standardization even between warring nations.
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I was thinking either something along these lines, or plain old don't know how to build new ones (which has an entirely new set of suggestions that come with it). It took about four years to build a wooden ship of the line, afaik, so I can certainly go for years if they can be built.
I think they're all build to the same set of ideas, yes.
 
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The 'Crump-hiss' of a boarding hook firing was unmistakeable, a sound that had been with O'Roarke since he'd first heard the pneumatic launcher followed by the rapidly un-reeling steel cable. Six of them were spaced along the Royal Oak's mid-deck, and all six were fired at the Regime ship which was by now just metres from their own hull. O'Roarke looked at the men around him, the roughest, dirtiest fighters from amongst his crew. They knew how deadly a boarding action could be, and they also knew how vital it was that their Captain made it through alive. He nodded to them, these men who would keep him alive, at the cost of their own lives if necessary. No words needed to be said. Almost as one they sealed their masks. O'Roarke took a deep breath of the chill air filtering through his tanks, drawing his sword and one of the four pistols slung from his vest. He thumbed the chamber, checking the plasma cell was firmly seated. It wouldn't do to have a misfire when he needed it most. A loud bang interrupted his thoughts, the sound of two huge hulls coming together. A screeching sound followed, as they settled against each other, locked together by boarding hooks and magnetic clamps. Then the whomp of the breaching charges firing. Finally the hatch fell open, and they charged with a roar.

The first of them were cut down in moments as a line of Regime troops fired long rifles into the charging mass. Then they were upon them. O'Roarke slashed across the front of one man, cutting him open from collar to hip. He raised his pistol, stepping out of the way of a pike, and blew the face off of another. A third, a woman this time, in the blue and gold of a Regime officer stepped up with sabre at the ready. O'Roarke grinned and lunged, but his strike was parried neatly. A slash, another parry. They went back and forth for a few moments as the battle raged around them. She was better than he had thought, possibly better than any swordsman he had faced. She launched into another attack, and he defended desperately. Her blade came awfully close to drawing blood a few times. He glanced around him, seeing his men were winning the fight, and shrugged. Stepping back, he drew his second pistol and fired it, taking her leg cleanly off at the knee. She dropped to the deck, face twisted in a silent scream behind her air-mask. He straightened up and brought his breathing back to a normal level as his men finished off the last of the enemy.

A moment later they were off again. Down one corridor and then another they raced, only stopping to make sure of their route. At one intersection, a shout alerted them to a squad of armed crew running to attack them. Half of remaining men split off, a couple loosing off shot as the enemy approached. He nodded to their leader. They'd hold them long enough. The rest of them went on, heading deep into the ship, heading for the bridge. The sound of clashing steel and plasma fire, and dying men, followed them as they went.

Finally, almost unmolested, they reached the bridge door. Huge, burnished steel, they were sealed tighter than a bank vault. O'Roarke smiled, amused by their attempts at maintaining security. He motioned on of his men forward. The man sheathed his weapons and swung a black cylinder off his back. He clamped it onto the steel, pressing a button. A series of lights lit red, and O'Roarke and his men scurried back, pressing themselves against the bulkheads. He pressed his face into the crook of his elbow. Even so, he still half saw the bright flash as the charge burned through the door. Again they charged. Again, men were cut down by plasma shots, the officers inside apparently having chosen to arm themselves despite their trust in hardened steel. O'Roarke used his third shot to bring down an overly energetic looking lieutenant, his fourth blew out the stomach of a man who might well have been the ships first officer. He didn't care. The Captain was the important one, and O'Roarke was upon him with a savage roar. He struck hard, the force of the blow pushing the red-faced Captain back despite his block. He pushed a weak swing aside with contemptuous ease. With a flick of his wrist, he caught the Captain across the fingers. Digits fell and blood spattered across the deck. He fell backwards, shuffling backwards until his back hit the wall. O'Roarke stepped forwards, sword levelled at the man's neck.

"Give the order."

"Monsieur?"

"Give the order, Capitaine. I believe we won this day." The man slumps, broken.

"Arretez! Stop!" The Regime officers slowly stop their efforts to kill the men O'Roarke had brought with him.

"Your sword?" O'Roarke says, picking up the one he thought was the Captain's. He smiles at the man's nod, and flips it over. From the hilt, he draws the electronic wand that gave the Captain of a ship access to every system aboard.

Archer had been right. They'd carried the day. The ship was theirs.
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The battle ended soon after the taking of the Argonaute and her colours were run down. The Formidable went the same way as the Pegase and the Danae, turning away and firing her engines. They ran, damaged and leaving their colleagues behind, with their tails between their legs. The three ships would escape into deep space, there to start a long journey to one of several nearby Regime bases, unless in all unlikelihood they came upon another formation of Royal ships on their way. Whatever happened, they were out of the battle and likely out of the war for some time to come.

The small squadron had dealt the Regime a great blow. The capture of the Argonaute would almost certainly lead to it entering service with the Royal's, plus a great bounty for the Royal Oaks crew (and a smaller amount for the other ships present). But was the cost worth it? HMS Duke was drifting, uncontrollable as fire raged between her decks. One of her magazines had lit and, though it hadn't exploded, was producing a great gout of flame from the hull and wouldn't stop until all of its contents had burned away. HMS Neptune was... luckier. In its own way. Her hull, one the starboard side at least, was shattered. It had taken the brunt of the Formidable's fire and the armour was scorched and buckled.

O'Roarke, now back on the observation bridge of his own ship, looked at the Neptune with a frown. He could only imagine the casualties she'd taken. Hated to think of the condition of the corridors, men and women lying dead, the deck slippery from spilled blood. Smoke, flame... He shuddered. He'd been on ships after battles as fierce of this one before. Even with the Surgeon's working, they were terrible, visions of hell. He shook himself, went back to his pondering. His ship was in a better state than either of his compatriots, not having faced off with a First Rate or battled a pair on his own. He had his own casualty lists to go through though. They were depressingly long.

He looked at the ship keeping station a little the Royal Oaks port side. The Argonaute was in a similar state to his own, though his boarding crews had torn through the inside and she had suffered from hideous casualties beyond that of his own vessel. He thought of Lieutenant Archer, now commanding from a bridge very much like this one and the prize crew, thinly spread as they were. He thought of the prisoners, locked away in the Royal Oak's holds. He thought of the female Lieutenant, who'd almost bested him until he took her leg. And he thought of the colony below, now a Royal property by all accounts. he turned, shaking his head to clear it.

"Mr Hammond!" He called out, turning away from the screen.

"Aye, Captain?"

"I'll be in my cabin. Send for one of the prisoners, the young lieutenant. The one-"

"With the sharp eyes and one leg, Captain?" O'Roarke glares at him, and he has the good sense to go pale, at least.

"Thank you for that, Lieutenant. As I said. I'll be in my Cabin." He stalked off the bridge, not looking at the man now acting as his First as he passed.
​
- - -
​
"We've received word from the squadron off New Grenada." The man said, taking a long sip from a glass of wine. The table was well stocked with food, the two well dressed individuals having sat down just moments before. "I say 'off', they're on their way back."

"Coming back? Then... they've found it?" The smaller of the two men glanced up from his plate nervously.

"No. A Royal fleet has beaten them off." A splutter from the other man.

"What! But- They were supposed to stay until-"

"Until it had been recovered, I know."

"But they are coming home, yes? The ships, they are okay..."

"Ah yes, you have family aboard."

"My daughter. My only daughter, she's a Lieutenant on the Argonaute." The first man's eyes widen imperceptibly and coughs.

"The Argonaute? Ah... well, it seems then that there is more trouble. The Argonaute was captured, she's the only ship which didn't escape."

"I... Captured... My god, my daughter... I must- I mean, you must excuse me. I must call her mother."

"Don't let me keep you. Another time perhaps."

"Yes... yes... I'm sorry, I must go." He dashes out of the room, heading for the street outside. The first man sits back down and wets his throat with more wine. Then, as if nothing had happened, he continued to eat.
​
* * *​
 
Was it really a year and a half ago that I first wrote this? Gosh. Time flies when you're dealing with bullshit. Well, after passing it to an editor friend, it underwent the first of what will likely be a couple of re-writes. I'll be posting it here again as well.
 
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Heart of Oak: Part 1
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    • Heart of Oak
    ​
    The three warships cruised towards the blue and white marble that was their destination, each a near identical navy-grey cylinder dotted with protrusions, rows of sealed weapon ports and capacious engine bells. The only difference between them were the colours of the huge sails which glittered in the light of the distant sun and the diminished size of the second in line, it being a full third smaller than the pair which flanked it. Captain Michael O'Roarke, commander of the second rate ship of the line HMS Royal Oak, stood silently on the ships dorsal observation bridge and looked out through the three feet thick armoured glass at the formation his own vessel was a part of. The squadron's flagship, another second rate named Neptune, was most distant, only barely discernible by its extended sails and the admiral's flag glowing from the masthead. Closer, between the two larger ships, was the Duke of Monmouth, a third rate and the smallest type that could still be considered part of the line of battle. He studied her intently, the sleek lines of the thick, durable hull, and the sails trimmed perfectly to make the best use of the systems star. A scale model of his own vessel, with fewer guns on her flanks and less canvas above and below, she was nonetheless a deadly proposition in a fight and a superlative member of the squadron.
    ​
    Indeed, sailing with the other two members of the squadron made him feel truly powerful. Three Royal ships of the line were more than a match for their equal weight in Regime vessels. There were not, however, to face their equals as four ships had already been sighted in orbit around their objective. Even if each was a third rate vessel, an unlikely thought he knew, they would face total parity in guns at 256 to 256. If but a single enemy was larger than a third, they would be in for a hard right. Reports that the regime had developed a new, more accurate cannon had yet to be confirmed but was still concerning in the face of a numerically superior force.
    ​
    "Mr Hammond," O'Roarke said, walking forward to stand between the helm consoles "have we resighted them yet?"
    ​
    "They're due to come around to the day side shortly, Captain." The blonde Second Lieutenant muttered just loud enough to be audible. O'Roarke glanced at the boy, almost snarled out a word of reprimand when he caught the signs of nervous tension in the young man's face. The clenched jaw, darting eyes. Criticism would only make him worse, O'Roarke knew, better the patient Master and hope he came out true when the plasma let fly. It wouldn't be the first combat Hammond had faced, most of the crew knew about the scars he'd received aboard the Bellerophon at the Battle of Sharpton's Bridge. He'd come true, O'Roarke repeated to himself.
    ​
    "The range, Mr Hammond, when they do if you will?" He said calmly, hoping to settle the man.
    ​
    "Eight thousand kilometres. If they hold their course, we'll meet them in ten minutes."
    ​
    "Eleven, Captain," One of his gaggle of ever present midshipmen blurted out. He looked over, eyes scanning for the guilty face until he found the one glowing red.
    ​
    "You have something to add, Ms Chambers?" He watched her flush darker. He wasn't a petty man, but occasionally he liked to let the interminable youngsters fluster themselves.
    ​
    "Well meet the enemy in eleven minutes, Captain, not ten."
    ​
    "Oh? Is such a minor mistake enough to disrupt the running of my bridge?" Her eyes narrowed. She knew he was testing her. Good.
    ​
    "Captain, when making contact with the enemy all information given should be accurate and, if faulty, corrected by whomever happens across the mistake."
    ​
    "Well said. Perhaps you'll make an officer one day after all. Mr Hammond, is the midshipman correct?"
    ​
    "Aye Sir, eleven minutes to contact." The boy stared at his plotting board, his own blush of embarrassment hidden by the green glow of the screens.
    ​
    "Very good, eleven minutes. Maintain your watch, I want them identified before we reach five thousand." O'Roarke fought the urge to sigh at the given ranges. He styled himself a scholar as much as an officer, a philosopher-warrior when he felt particularly poetical, and he had always loved the myths and legends from before the Solar Cataclysm. The ancient stories of wars fought at millions of kilometres, whole fleets swept away by barrages of laser torpedoes and nuclear fire and stoic captains ordering their ships into the conflagration to give battle. The dark times between then and now had been a great tragedy both in lives lost and technology vanished. Now they fought knife duels with plasma cannons in hulls they couldn't build, rescued from lost graveyards and solar orbits and refitted for battle. It was savage, near barbarism, so unlike the cultured style of warfare that had preceded it. He was simply glad of the men and women around him, his faith in the flesh and blood rather than dark steel to carry the day and bring them out of the fire in more or less one piece.

    "Signal from the flagship, Captain." The middle aged woman standing a watch at the command console called out. Her hair was pulled up in a tight bun, an oddity when compared to the close crops and shaved heads of most of the rest of the crew of any gender. She looked up, her green eyes catching his for a moment. "All ships furl sails and put up battle ensigns. Form line ahead. Neptune will lead." O'Roarke smiled. The Admiral wanted to take the lead, and thus the glory of opening the engagement. The Captain was more than happy to let her have it. They'd yet to identify the enemy and with four Regime ships out there, the first ship to enter gun range was sure to face a serious hammering.    ​
     
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