Heart of Oak (Age of Sail in SPAAACE!)
- Thread starter 4WheelSword
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Part 2
4WheelSword
The original N-body Problem
- Pronouns
- It/She/They
Part Deux
"Conn, come aft 500 on thrusters, down all sails." He watched as the two huge golden sails he could see were folded carefully and lowered into their armoured storage compartments. The other two on the Royal Oaks underside would be doing the same, tucked neatly away where they couldn't be shot out by the enemy. In their place up went the ship's signal mast, the huge red and white ensign already unfolding from it. These were at their core just a massive signal, both to the enemy that they were facing Royal ships and to friendly vessels to identify each other in the havoc of close order, independent fighting. Even so, he felt a rush at the sight of three Royal warships in full battle order.
"All hands, beat to quarters." At least he gave the fateful order, the alert ringing through every deck on the ship and in every compartment. Sailors, tense from waiting for 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."
"Thank you, Ms Mulligan." He said to the communications officer with nearly as many years in service as he had. "Conn, starboard 150. Hold 400 abaft the flagship." The Royal Oak slid smoothly into place behind the Neptune, the smaller Duke of Monmouth taking a similar position aft of O'Roarke's ship. They sped on, stretched across almost a kilometre and a half of space with their ensigns trailing and guns ready.
"Regime squadron is in sight, Captain. They've formed a battle line."
"Thank you, Mr Hammond. Midshipmen!" O'Roarke called out suddenly, not taking his eyes off of the fast approaching planet. "To the bow-rail, eyeglasses at the ready. You have sixty seconds to identify the enemy. Go." He stepped back out of the way of the sudden rush of gangly teenage officers-in-training and allowed them free reign at the forward window. There were a few muttered curses and shoves before they settled down. He gave them eighty seconds, all told, and cursed himself for growing soft. "Well?"
"Captain…" the young man who'd been thrust forward by the rest of the group looked around for support and found none. "I- We believe we see the Pegase, Sir, Second rate, and the Danae, third, both trailing."
O'Roarke looked to Lieutenant Mulligan for confirmation from the flagship and found it in a silent nod. "And the others?"
"Sir, we- we couldn't identify the second, but the leader, we- I mean i-" the boy stumbled over his words and wrung his hands and looked for all the world like a pupil before the headmaster and his cane.
"A guess is better than nothing, midshipmen."
"We think she's the Formidable, Captain!" O'Roarke's eyes widened momentarily. No wonder the boy had been so nervous to bring that to his Captain's attention. A first rate, brought to battle over a colony? Today would certainly be interesting, that was for sure. "Ms Mulligan, transmit our identifications to the flag and to the Monmouth. I'd like concurrence on that last."
"The flag concurs on all counts and gives the Argonaute, a third rate, as the unidentified ship." she said after a moment, her tone clipped. More nerves, O'Roarke wondered? Or simple expediency. Not something he needed to worry about, when the enemy had 352 guns to their 256. A full fifty percent more and with two fifths of those in a single, powerful vessel. But what was she doing here? First rates were rare, and for the Regime to risk one over an outlying and relatively unimportant colony, and a young one at that? Something to bring up with the other captains later, he thought.
"Range and time, please?"
"Four thousand, Captain; interception in four minutes." Hammond sounded more sure of himself. Perhaps he'd taken the time to double check his work.
"Signal from the flag: All ships prepare for insertion in three minutes."
"Thank you, Ms Mulligan." O'Roarke grinned, broad enough to show the white of his teeth, shining in the harsh lights of the bright bridge. The Admiral meant to give battle, he thought, slowing into orbit and a close duel with the Regime forces. Had they not inserted, the Royal ships would have swung past the enemy fast enough to trade a handful of shots and nothing more before escaping into open space. No, they were here to stay, as long as they could defeat or drive off the Regime squadron. "Give me the ship," he's passed a handset, the trailing wire of which he wraps around his wrist before clicking the switch to the on position. All around the ship, speakers switched on and helmet comms hummed.
"Men and women of the Royal Oak, this is your Captain. In a few minutes, we will arrive about the colony of New Grenada. We came to bring her into the Empire's fold, to ensure that His Majesties spaceways were made safe from the Regime's predations once more. We find ourselves facing the enemy, an enemy that the Admiral and I fully 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, just as they were at Satapan and so many others. Fight well, and stand as steadfast as the ship which you call home, and we will win the day." Switching the channel off, he silently slotted the handset back into its cradle, not looking back at his officers. Instead he looked out over the length of his ship, at the colours flying and the Neptune some five hundred metres ahead. She was a fine ship, and he hoped she'd come through the battle in one piece. Not that that was a concern he'd ever raise with his crew.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, finally turning and finding each and every face on the bridge grinning back at him. "We shall retire to the combat bridge." They stand almost as on, following the Captain down into the bowels of the ship and into the highly secure primary control bridge buried there. Using high speed elevators it took barely a minute to reach but even so O'Roarke had a mildly dangerous habit of leaving the move till almost the last moment. A show of strength, he'd tell anyone who would listen, though some of his fellow captains labelled it a show of ego, or foolishness. Either way, it was entertaining to watch newly appointed officers who'd served under more restrained Captains squirm as they waited for the order.
4WheelSword
The original N-body Problem
- Pronouns
- It/She/They
Part Three
When they reached the combat bridge, the handful of officers he'd brought with him from above quickly found their places amongst the already present crew. Even the middies tucked themselves out of the way with a little less of the boundless energy than they normally displayed. Perhaps the sight of the Formidable had cowed them more than he had thought. They'd have to get used to the sight if they were ever to serve his Majesty. Seeing a single first rate was certainly an impressive sight, but it was nothing compared to the eight O'Roarke had once seen, in full battle order with 30 other ships of the line trailing. That had been such a battle, and he'd only been a little older than his oldest midshipman then.
He had so much more control down here he always thought as everything was brought online. He had cameras to watch every angle of the battle, sensors to keep track of every twitch the enemy made, communications, weapons, signals, everything needed to fight not only their own battle but to lead a squadron as well. He took up his position behind a large console in the centre of the room and retrieved his control wand from where it was tied to his belt. He slotted it into the central panel and watched the array come to life. He could view any camera, any sensor. He could receive reports from and speak to any officer aboard, all the way down to the individual gun captains. Almost more importantly, he had his Number One along side him.
First Lieutenant Archer was a man of good breeding, an officer's officer whose father and grandfather had both sailed with the Royal Navy for decades before he caught the scent of the void and found himself aboard ship. He'd come late to the board, struggling as a middie but had done everything he possibly could since to distinguish himself. Like every officer aboard he kept his hair cropped close, but between his unusually pale skin and an unfortunate birthmark that ringed one eye he was never difficult to pick out from a crowd.
"Mr Archer, I trust everything's been quiet down here." O'Roarke said, returning the man's razor sharp salute.
"All the better for having you, Captain." The man smiled, a genuine smile. O'Roarke hesitated to consider it, but it was quite possible that in the year or so since they'd begun serving together they'd become something approximating friends. Whatever their personal relationship, he was an outstanding officer.
"Time to insertion?" He said, his voice resonating in the enclosed chamber as the heavy blast door rolled shut and locked itself with an audible clunk. The combat bridge was the safest part of the ship except, perhaps, the magazine. Buried in the core behind layer upon layer of the toughest materials known to humankind, it had an independent life support system and was seated in an armoured shell. Even if the enemy could dig the bridge out of the ship, the officers inside would be safe for several days.
"One minute and counting, Captain. 150 seconds estimated to gun range." Mr Hammond had apparently found his place quickly enough. O'Roarke wondered idly for a moment whether the Lieutenant would ever give Ms Chambers the opportunity to interrupt him again.
"Ms Mulligan, signal the flag. Request permission to fire as we bear on the enemy." The communications officer turned to her console and began typing, fingers clattering across the brass signal keys. The system would send a tightbeam laser message at Neptune's received while also displaying the traditional signals down the side of the ship facing the flag vessel, if any was. A few moments after she finished, the printer chattered.
"Reply, Captain. Message reads: Hold fire until the range closes. Wait on the flag." O'Roarke frowned, sharing a momentary glance with Archer. The Regime wouldn't hesitate to open fire at maximum range, trusting in their superior weight of fire to win the day before the Royals could turn it into a brawl. Their own guns might not be particularly accurate at these ranges, and their magazines were anything but bottomless, but if they waited too long they would begin to suffer with nothing to show for it.
"What does she-" Archer began before O'Roarke cut him off.
"She's giving orders, Number One." Now wasn't the time to be questioning the Admiral's choices. Later, alone in his cabin over brandy, perhaps they could discuss command decisions. But now, as they were about to enter combat? No, doubt was deadly when battle was afoot. He made a point of casting a stern eye over the junior officers on the bridge. "Lock bow camera one on the enemy, camera two on the flag. We wouldn't want to miss a signal." If their radio and teletype went down - certainly a possibility in the thick of it - they would need the colourful signal flags that ran the length of the Neptune's flank. "Aft one on the Monmouth."
Three images flashed onto the main monitors, their brass and chrome rims glinting as they lit up. The central, largest one showed the four enemy ships backlit by the planet below, their colours now up and confirming their identity as Regime vessels. As if there'd been any doubt. The right hand one showed the aft end of the Neptune, the left the prow of the Duke of Monmouth.
"Thirty seconds to insertion, Captain."
"Order all hands brace, Mr Hammond."
"Aye, Captain," He picked up a handset and his voice rang out around the ship. "All hands, brace, brace, brace." The officers around the bridge pulled webbing and straps from their seats while others, the gang of midshipmen included, raced for the walls and the handholds and protection they offered. O'Roarke sat for the first time in hours, pulling his harness into place and gritting his teeth in the face of the coming shocks. He'd known Captains who enjoyed deceleration burns, but he'd never been one of them. A few seconds later rocket motors ignited in each ship's bows. Firing off angle to avoid slamming reaction mass into any ships ahead (though truly it would have done little damage beyond marking the paint) they rapidly slowed the three Royal vessels. Five gravities of force, almost 50 metres per second of negative acceleration, shook them along their entire hulls and ensured they would safely orbit the colony world rather than shooting off into the safety of space. For better or for worse they were committed to the battle, a battle O'Roarke trusted the Admiral to win.
After a minute, a full sixty second of bone jarring, body shaking force, the rockets cut out, fuel expended to bring the speeding ship's speed down enough to give them a secure orbit. They were already rapidly approaching gun range, with only a few thousand metres between themselves and the enemy. O'Roarke chewed his lip, watching the approaching enemy and the still-silent flagship. They were sure to see the first flashes of Regime plasma any moment now.
"Ms Turner," he said, addressing his until now unusually silent gunnery Lieutenant. She had been, as ever, at her post when he entered the combat bridge as she was expected to be, but this time she had seemed taciturn and reticent. For a woman usually outspoken and full of curiosity and questions, it was unusual. Perhaps O'Roarke had misread the mood amongst them when he arrived. Perhaps he wasn't the only one nervous of facing the numbers they did. "Have the port side guns run out and made ready for firing." It was a less cautious image than perhaps the Admiral was hoping for but he was by no means going to be caught with his guns in in the face of the enemy."Aye, Captain." She said simply. It wasn't the time for complicated answers, not that he'd asked a complicated question. As her orders went out across the two gun decks (and, by proxy, his) thick shields were drawn back from forty-eight openings, exposing forty-eight gun barrels and allowing them to see the Royal Oaks targets. More importantly they unveiled the targeting cameras. The crews made last minute checks, by hand in the breech chamber and both visually and electronically in the now airless firing compartments. "Forty-eight guns report ready." Turner announced as a row of lights flashed green on her console.