Why do I keep doing this to myself?
I SWEAR, I'M GOING TO FINISH THIS ONE, FOR REAL
"The land...
I SWEAR, I'M GOING TO FINISH THIS ONE, FOR REAL
"The land...
Space Dragons in Space - No SV, you are the Miniboss
- Thread starter Alastor Mobius Toth
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Character Index
Alastor Mobius Toth
***** ***
- Location
- Neon Ghetto
Character Index
Commodore Desalt Abess
Our hero, ladies and gentlemen. Native of Giscander, an Earth-like world that is home to a militaristic blue-skinned race. In spite, or because of, their values of order, discipline and critical thinking, the Giscarlander culture was, almost over two centuries ago conquered and vassalized by the Reyan Great Space Empire. Today, the natives have two choices: eake out lives of meager workers, engineers and civil clerks, or fight on the frontlines for the privilege of true citizenship. Something of a maverick, Desalt chose the latter.
Graduate of a double tactical/technical program of New Baleras Military School, followed by an intensive naval officer training at renowned Anaxes Academy. One of few Auxillas to be invited into the institute upon personal recommendation of one of the instructors; excelled despite typical racial harassment by fellow cadets and punishingly brutal training course. Success and exceptional behavior had earned grudging respect from instructors and an officer commission, placing him at a fast-track for vessel command, and ultimately limited Auxilla squadron command.
Desalt is calm, composed and one might even say calculatingly cold individual. Years of surviving taunts, jibes and resentment of his Reyan superiors - and occasionally fellow Auxillas - had left him stoic and unflappable, with rare social grace of avoiding the worst pitfalls of society and keeping his head above water, while leaving him with a nasty, well-aimed bite. Ambitious and with no close family relations, Desalt is razor-focused on completing his mission with maximum efficiency and delivering results that are beyond questioning...no matter the price.
Traits:
- Stoic: To master others, one must first master themselves - particular character and interaction trait. Resistant to morale shocks; will retain discipline in adverse conditions.
- Whatever The Cost, Whatever the Effort: You will fight until you win, or you die - willing to sacrifice troops to achieve objectives. Seemingly unconcerned with carrying out "difficult orders". ??? Effects
- Charmer: Has the grace to convince others to come to his point of view. Useful in social interactions; improves troop opinion. ???
- Aggressive: Attack is the secret of Defense. The art of Defense is planning of an Attack - this character has gotten a taste for offensively-oriented strategies.
- Escort Command: As numerous as the stars themselves - this character has some experience commanding light escort and raiding forces in combat.
*To be updated as story develops*
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First Fight - First Blood
Alastor Mobius Toth
***** ***
- Location
- Neon Ghetto
The white of your Imperial uniform contrast with your blue skin, marking you out as one of the countless Auxillas within the Imperial service, laying their life on the line to prove themselves worthy of being admitted among the true Reyans. Centuries ago, things were different - your homeworld of Giscander was a minor space-faring empire, expanding in all direction before coming into contact with might of the Reyans. First contact was tense, if peaceful, but things quickly spiraled into hostility and a long, bitter-fought war. It had been a story that was repeated the universe over - your ancestors, no matter how valorous and warlike, were simply no match for the inevitable steamroller of Reyan military machine. With most of the military destroyed and civilian leadership dead, the survivors chose the pragmatic strategy of survival, offering the Empire their unconditional surrender.
It worked, up to a point. Giscander might never be the same shining jewel it once was, but objectively, it has enjoyed centuries of continued prosperity and stability. Supreme Leader himself has found a use for your disciplined people, and your world became a major contributor to Imperial production. It had been a choice that allowed your people to live, and still have a chance to gain some glory. Servitude was a reversible condition; annihilation was permanent. It was why so many Giscanlanders would apply for service - a chance at a good life, recognition, even grudging respect. Even if it was in service of a power that destroyed your world, erased its traditions to install its own.
It was something you did as soon as you could. You just couldn't stand the drudgery of factory work, and you didn't fancy an engineer's job either. Neither had you strong family connections. Military career had been an obvious choice. A pragmatic choice.
And it was one you excelled at. As much as an Auxilla would, of course; the Leader's word may be one thing, but not all Reyans had accepted the presence of other species within their glorious empire. Racism and discrimination were rife...
But if that alone could deter you, you wouldn't have bothered.
You took humiliations with grace, and the lectures with silence. In the end, your aptitude was borne out by your results - excellent tactical scores, "almost Reyan" instinctual understanding of strategy, superb technical knowledge. It was enough that you were grudgingly allowed to serve on a ship's command staff. In three years since, you had moved to become a captain yourself. Of an insignificant destroyer, crewed by those same as you.
"But it is a step. All journeys begin with one." You think, as your vessel falls in with the others.
Your position among the escorts might be taken for an insult, but you knew better than question small blessings. Most Auxillas were typically assigned to frontline formations, and more than one Reyan commander was fond of using them as living shields, cheap mobile destroyers taking the blows meant for more expensive, prestigious ships. Oh, many of these would get recognition of course, for bravery of their Reyan spirit, but most would already be in a grave by then. You would salute their bravery, but you'd rather live a little bit longer, in hopes of achieving your goal. Being posted with the escort fleet also meant that, at the very least, you were considered a cut above the ordinary cannon fodder - fit to take the bullets for admirals instead of common sailors.
"Captain" Taras was a Giscanlander like you, a fairly ordinary man with a thin moustache and brown hair. He had been a decent tactician in his own right, but his strengths lay mostly with his organizational abilities and understanding of ships themselves - qualities that made him your natural second. "We're in position along with the fleet. The vanguard is accelerating towards the enemy fleet."
You nod in silent thanks, your eyes focusing on tactical display. Admiral Hayrant was a fairly conservative Reyan and his tactics echoed it; while the main bulk of the fleet formed a loose encircling formation centered on its two battlecruisers with escort wings in reserve, the frontal vanguard force accelerated to attack speed in a probing attack. You hide your wince; the vanguard had been mostly crewed by other Auxillas and would undoubtedly suffer many casualties...but you were fairly certain they would be able to repel Heleians. But given that these barbarians showed remarkable ability to replace their ships, trading vessels one for one wasn't a way to win a war.
You watch as the two fleets close; the orderly knife-like formations of the Empire and the loose mass of Heleians. Finally, you see your allies give fire, fast-burn torpedoes and missiles coming alive on the screen. Multi-megaton explosions rake the Heleians fleet from end to end, but its loose nature means the barrage is less effective than it could have been.
"Fleets in Contact!"
Two formations smash into each other, and you watch with an odd and unsettling fascination as drive signatures wink out one by one, each marking death of thousands of sapients. You knew from your observations that Heleian particle blasters were less efficient and less accurate than your own positron batteries, but also more powerful. Heleians were also very adept at working with what they did; their carousel-pattern turrets, with their revolving barrels, allowed their small ships to generate stunning volume of fire, each bolt capable of easily piercing your destroyer; a good hit amidship would probably destroy it outright. Which meant that any close-range fight would be brutal unless stacked beforehand.
Taras breaths sharply next to you. True enough, the vanguard already suffered casualties equal to third of their number. Individual formations limp out of melee, gaping holes among them. Barbaric as they were, light Heleian fleets were fierce and aggressive enemies. Except...
You narrow your eyes. The enemy casualties were less than you expected - and as you observe the action itself, you realize that the Heleian formation wasn't fighting with same wild zeal and abandon they were known for. It made no sense, unless...
You quickly recheck the astro data and bite down a curse. Hayrant couldn't be possibly this stupid. Or at least his staff. Heleians were known for their uncanny ability to maneuver huge vessels even in dense asteroid or debris fields, and their loose fleet formations played well to such terrain. As luck would have it, your illustrious commander chose to engage the first encountered enemy group next to a gas giant with a large, thick ring...
As if to prove your dreadful suspicion, the Heleian fleet begins disengaging, ships rapidly pivoting towards the asteroids. Scenting blood, the vanguard surges ahead. Poor fools were probably already dead-
"Message for flag command! The main fleet is to advance and strike a decisive blow. Escorts are to follow and provide fire support." One of your operators report.
"This is a trap. The Heleians are baiting us, and we're falling for it hook, line and sinker." You mutter.
Taras turns uneasily towards you."Sir?" He asks.
What to do...what could you do?
[]Warn the good Admiral - an officer like him will probably not listen to a report from a "mere" captain like you, but you are supposed to watch out for dangers to the fleet itself, and you will be doing your duty regardless. Assuming you don't get dismissed for cowardice.
[]Onwards, brave escorts - try and convince your admiral to let you hunt down the barbarian stragglers. It's a long shot, but if Hayrant agrees, he probably won't notice you doing scouting in force...but you are going to have to overstep your position, and he will not like it.
[]Do nothing - You have some authority, but not much, and certainly no capital to spend with the Admiral. You will have to endure come what may, and keep yourself alive.
It worked, up to a point. Giscander might never be the same shining jewel it once was, but objectively, it has enjoyed centuries of continued prosperity and stability. Supreme Leader himself has found a use for your disciplined people, and your world became a major contributor to Imperial production. It had been a choice that allowed your people to live, and still have a chance to gain some glory. Servitude was a reversible condition; annihilation was permanent. It was why so many Giscanlanders would apply for service - a chance at a good life, recognition, even grudging respect. Even if it was in service of a power that destroyed your world, erased its traditions to install its own.
It was something you did as soon as you could. You just couldn't stand the drudgery of factory work, and you didn't fancy an engineer's job either. Neither had you strong family connections. Military career had been an obvious choice. A pragmatic choice.
And it was one you excelled at. As much as an Auxilla would, of course; the Leader's word may be one thing, but not all Reyans had accepted the presence of other species within their glorious empire. Racism and discrimination were rife...
But if that alone could deter you, you wouldn't have bothered.
You took humiliations with grace, and the lectures with silence. In the end, your aptitude was borne out by your results - excellent tactical scores, "almost Reyan" instinctual understanding of strategy, superb technical knowledge. It was enough that you were grudgingly allowed to serve on a ship's command staff. In three years since, you had moved to become a captain yourself. Of an insignificant destroyer, crewed by those same as you.
"But it is a step. All journeys begin with one." You think, as your vessel falls in with the others.
Your position among the escorts might be taken for an insult, but you knew better than question small blessings. Most Auxillas were typically assigned to frontline formations, and more than one Reyan commander was fond of using them as living shields, cheap mobile destroyers taking the blows meant for more expensive, prestigious ships. Oh, many of these would get recognition of course, for bravery of their Reyan spirit, but most would already be in a grave by then. You would salute their bravery, but you'd rather live a little bit longer, in hopes of achieving your goal. Being posted with the escort fleet also meant that, at the very least, you were considered a cut above the ordinary cannon fodder - fit to take the bullets for admirals instead of common sailors.
"Captain" Taras was a Giscanlander like you, a fairly ordinary man with a thin moustache and brown hair. He had been a decent tactician in his own right, but his strengths lay mostly with his organizational abilities and understanding of ships themselves - qualities that made him your natural second. "We're in position along with the fleet. The vanguard is accelerating towards the enemy fleet."
You nod in silent thanks, your eyes focusing on tactical display. Admiral Hayrant was a fairly conservative Reyan and his tactics echoed it; while the main bulk of the fleet formed a loose encircling formation centered on its two battlecruisers with escort wings in reserve, the frontal vanguard force accelerated to attack speed in a probing attack. You hide your wince; the vanguard had been mostly crewed by other Auxillas and would undoubtedly suffer many casualties...but you were fairly certain they would be able to repel Heleians. But given that these barbarians showed remarkable ability to replace their ships, trading vessels one for one wasn't a way to win a war.
You watch as the two fleets close; the orderly knife-like formations of the Empire and the loose mass of Heleians. Finally, you see your allies give fire, fast-burn torpedoes and missiles coming alive on the screen. Multi-megaton explosions rake the Heleians fleet from end to end, but its loose nature means the barrage is less effective than it could have been.
"Fleets in Contact!"
Two formations smash into each other, and you watch with an odd and unsettling fascination as drive signatures wink out one by one, each marking death of thousands of sapients. You knew from your observations that Heleian particle blasters were less efficient and less accurate than your own positron batteries, but also more powerful. Heleians were also very adept at working with what they did; their carousel-pattern turrets, with their revolving barrels, allowed their small ships to generate stunning volume of fire, each bolt capable of easily piercing your destroyer; a good hit amidship would probably destroy it outright. Which meant that any close-range fight would be brutal unless stacked beforehand.
Taras breaths sharply next to you. True enough, the vanguard already suffered casualties equal to third of their number. Individual formations limp out of melee, gaping holes among them. Barbaric as they were, light Heleian fleets were fierce and aggressive enemies. Except...
You narrow your eyes. The enemy casualties were less than you expected - and as you observe the action itself, you realize that the Heleian formation wasn't fighting with same wild zeal and abandon they were known for. It made no sense, unless...
You quickly recheck the astro data and bite down a curse. Hayrant couldn't be possibly this stupid. Or at least his staff. Heleians were known for their uncanny ability to maneuver huge vessels even in dense asteroid or debris fields, and their loose fleet formations played well to such terrain. As luck would have it, your illustrious commander chose to engage the first encountered enemy group next to a gas giant with a large, thick ring...
As if to prove your dreadful suspicion, the Heleian fleet begins disengaging, ships rapidly pivoting towards the asteroids. Scenting blood, the vanguard surges ahead. Poor fools were probably already dead-
"Message for flag command! The main fleet is to advance and strike a decisive blow. Escorts are to follow and provide fire support." One of your operators report.
"This is a trap. The Heleians are baiting us, and we're falling for it hook, line and sinker." You mutter.
Taras turns uneasily towards you."Sir?" He asks.
What to do...what could you do?
[]Warn the good Admiral - an officer like him will probably not listen to a report from a "mere" captain like you, but you are supposed to watch out for dangers to the fleet itself, and you will be doing your duty regardless. Assuming you don't get dismissed for cowardice.
[]Onwards, brave escorts - try and convince your admiral to let you hunt down the barbarian stragglers. It's a long shot, but if Hayrant agrees, he probably won't notice you doing scouting in force...but you are going to have to overstep your position, and he will not like it.
[]Do nothing - You have some authority, but not much, and certainly no capital to spend with the Admiral. You will have to endure come what may, and keep yourself alive.
First Battle - The Blood Flows
Alastor Mobius Toth
***** ***
- Location
- Neon Ghetto
[X]Warn the good Admiral
In another life, Admiral Hayrant would perhaps been a great sportsman, or even a warrior. As it was, years of comfortable position, high life and inaction had turned his stalwart, broad-chested stature flabby and slack. Even his finely fitted uniform couldn't hide it. His tiny, fish-like eyes glazed over you, clearly annoyed.
"You are overstating you position, captain." For a man his stature, his voice is positively, infuriatingly nasal. "We have been observing the enemy same as you, but there is nothing 'suspicious' to be seen. Or are you suggesting that a mere destroyer has a better picture of the fleet battle than a fleet's flagship?"
"Your Excellency, with utmost respect, are Heleians not know for their reckless barbarian abandon?" You politely stand firm, trying to appeal to his racism as much to his ego. "For them to not fight to the last can only mean that they seek to embroil us into an even greater fight. Would it not be prudent to simply blast them from range? Or at very least send us to reinforce the vanguard?"
"And leave our formation unprotected?" The Admiral scoffs. "This is the problem with you second-class core worlds yokels...you are shown an ounce of appreciation and think that you know everything there is to know! How dare you." The mass hisses. "Know your place! I have shown you much favor already by assigning you to this position. Perhaps, it was too much..."
You force back the bile in your throat. Even by the standards of the worst, Hyrant was a scumbag. "Forgive me, Your Excellency. I am but merely concerned for your well-being."
Hayrant scoffs, but doesn't continue his tirade. Byarlant, the actual commandant of the defense screen, takes this moment to politely intercut with a cough.
"Uncouth manner aside, there is some merit in Giscarlander's opinion." You haven't had much contact with the older, graying man, but while somewhat suspicious of your ancestry, he always seemed appreciative of good work, and seemed equally vexed by Hayrant's approach, by the sound of things. "It is base, low cunning, but one that is to be expected from the likes of Heleians. Perhaps, we could at least spread out our search pattern..."
You lower your head as Hayrant thinks. After a few long minutes...
"Pah! I will hear no more of this nonsense. Byarlant - after this battle is done, I see we will have to discuss how you run things...as for you captain, obey my orders. I don't have time to deal with every impudent colonial know-it all. If you cannot follow, you will be replaced, is that understood?"
"By your command, Your Excellency." You bow your head as you salute, clenched fist horizontally over your heart. Hayrant merely scoffs again and disconnects.
Silence reigns on your bridge, before Taras cleares his throat.
"Well...at least you tried sir." He says diplomatically.
"And it was not enough." You reply briskly. "But at least we have not been dismissed out of hand or shot for treason. Now we must bear our course, ready for the worst, and hope reality doesn't come to pass."
You watch on the bridge screen as the vanguard and the main fleet join back into a single formation, surging after the retreating Heleians. You try to spread your formation as much as possible without Hayrant noticing, but it's not enough; your destroyers simply don't have sufficiently powerful sensors.
"Contact!" Another operator reports. "Additional forces emerging with the planetary ring disk! They are reinforcing the first Heleian formation."
Like a flock of swallows, the barbarian fleet turns around, executing full burn towards the Imperial fleet. Excited at the prospect of easy glory, Hayrant disperses his depleted vanguard forces to make way for his capital vessels. You refrain from biting your nails.
"They will attack now, as Hayrant is committing and cannot easily retreat." You begin to turn to Taras to issue fresh orders, but an operator preempts you.
"A-alert! Detecting numerous high-energy signatures rising from the disk behind main enemy force!"
"On screen." You bark. Besides you, Taras winces.
With grace seemingly impossible for vessels their size, Heleian capital ships rise up from the disk, leaving behind trails of water and dust. You notice that some have some sort of rock cover peeling off them - you venture to guess that it was some form of improvised camouflage. But more importantly...
"Three assault carriers." Taras almost bites his tongue. The Heleian assault carriers were among the most powerful capital ships in their fleet - fast and well armed, with two long-range quad particle batteries, numerous carrousel turrets and missile launchers, not to mention the durable, fast-moving strike craft. But most significantly, they were armed with the Comet Shock Cannons. Even your battlecruisers could be seriously damaged by one; three would mean certain death.
"Reading energy spike!"
As one, the three spindly, arrow-shaped vessels belch fire towards the middle of Hayrant's fleet. The battlecruiser Crown of Solitude is hit almost dead on, practically coming apart. The enormous explosion rips a hole through the main fleet, the four cruisers closest to the mighty vessel disappearing in explosion cloud along with it, and with numerous smaller destroyers and frigates.
"Admiral Hayrant is demanding that all escort wings fall in and protect the flagship-" the operator doesn't finish as another interrupts her.
"Enemy vanguard is attacking! Reading several smaller forces detaching and being reinforced by squadrons emerging from the ring; Captain they're attempting to flank us!"
"-look, there goes another salvo!"
The Imperial fleet barely had the time to respond before the assault carriers fired their main guns again. By whatever providence however, only one landed a solid blow on the remaining battlecruiser, shorting out its shields and skidding along reinforced armor, tearing apart upper decks and venting atmosphere and crew into space. The other two sail past it, though not without effect - at least several light cruisers find themselves in the blast zone and become stars.
"Enemy formation at 90.00!! Approaching at full burn!"
Your response is immediate.
"Hard roll to portside, 90 degrees. Load dorsal missile batteries; two salvos one with proximity fuses, one seekers, fire pattern Shockbird. Batteries on track; Helm, prepare for full course reverse at my command."
The inertia compensators keep you from being squashed against the decks the decks as your ship - and others in its formation - roll hard on their axis, exposing their top to the enemy formation seeking to swing around the battlefield and bulldoze their way past you into the center of the fleet. Officers shout as they repeat your orders, and systems whine as power is distributed, but you remain unmoving, razor focused on the image before you.
You wait for several heartbeats, watching and waiting as speed and inertia carries the Heleian unit right where you want them.
"Execute." You say simply. Besides you, Taras bellows into the operation pits.
"Fire! All ships, full reverse!"
The compensators struggle and groan as you ships fight to defy physics, their powerful drives battling against momentum. You can hear rhythmic thuds as the launchers belch fire, sending out a swirling cloud of missiles at your adversary.
The proximity missiles had been programmed to fire first, racing ahead. Heleians respond with AA fire, but it is anemic at best, and most of them find their marks. The warheads detonate, space coming alight with blazing fire. Several smaller ships implode on themselves, while strike craft are shredded by the bushels. Still, the aim wasn't to kill, or even wound your enemies - just leave them confused before the real blow.
The seeker missile slither into Heleian formation uncontested, and you watch how their own destroyers and corvettes founder one by one. Your first combat salvo is brutally efficient - at least third of enemy vessels are down as the fleet barrels in front of you, cutting the empty space where your fleet would have been were it not for your orders.
And you were not yet finished.
"All batteries. Fire free."
Each of your destroyers was equipped with a pair of frontal triple-barreled positron batteries. Although they were somewhat less powerful than the brutally primitive weapons of the Heleians, at this distance the distinction was largely academic - but their superior accuracy and the training of your men was not.
As one, the brilliant prisms light the universe before you. Heleian vessels disappear in gusts of explosions, many struck before their crews even realized they were now in ship-to-ship combat. Your gunnery crews were ruthlessly effective, each single barrage aimed to kill before methodically moving onto next target. A few Heleian ships were fast enough to turn, presenting you with their own batteries, but at this range and speeds, their return fire was pitiful at best. Still, a couple of your vessels are grazed, a few even belch fire and smoke as they limp back into formation. Your follow up barrage has no mercy however, and the enemy centre becomes undone, fiery wrecks spiraling out of control.
Taras orders outlying ships to let loose several more seekers, trailing after the handful of survivors that desperately sought to ram themselves into the fleet besides you. You had your victory; but whatever thrill you might've felt was quashed by the gravity of the situation.
The main fleet was a mess; Hayrant's battlecrusier listing heavily as fire burst from its port engines, its attendant escorts desperately attempting to tow away and shield the vessel. Further up, the main bulk of the fleet found itself under sustained attack by the mass of Heleian light vessels.
Unlike your dainty, disposable, knife-like destroyers however, the line ships of Great Space Empire were vicious broadswords; ships made to last in battle surrounded from all sides by terrors unimaginable. Scores of Heleians blast them from all gunports to merely overload their shields; scores more pour fire onto their armored hulls, causing only minor breaches. However cowardly and incompetent Hayrant might have been, at least some of his subordinates had the will to fight. Heavy cruisers formed an iron wall, their heavy prism cannons cutting through Heleian flock like scythe through wheat; lighter vessels launched coordinated barrages sniping larger Heleian command craft. A Reyan soldier knew only victory; and if he was to die, then he would die standing.
"But a bolt from a peasant's crossbow kills a knight as surely as a pauper" You think grimly. The front fights bravely, but Heleians do not relent. Their mass and agility allows individual ships to slip past Reyan defense net, especially without a flag officer to rally them. Ships find themselves stranded as their engines and comms are blasted out; few even destroyed when rammed by suicidal Heleian crews.
It is a massacre.
"Sir" one of the operators reports quietly. "Last known orders from Admiral Hayrant call for retreat. He demands that all escort fleets shield his Hayrantine from enemy fire as it makes its escape."
Unease falls on your men. If your commander was willing to abandon you so soon, then the battle was truly lost.
But underneath the dismay, there was also anger. Second-class they might be, but Auxillas were imperial sailors none the less. To flee as a coward rather than fight your way out was unsightly...especially when it left good sailors and good ships to die a pointless death.
"Confirm those orders." You say. In front of you, the second escort fleet is fully engaged, squeezed between Hayrant's flagship and the pouring mass of Heleians. Meanwhile, the assault carriers begun to shift their fire away from the slippery flagship and into the frontline, systematically blasting away heavy vessels.
"We-we're unable." The operator muttered, her confidence fraying. "There's no contact with the Hayrantine. Rear Admiral Boozes was killed in action. We cannot contact either Commodores Byarlant or Weliss!"
"Saint Yurisha preserve us." a new voice cried out in anguish. "Detecting Hyshouts behind our fleet! Suspected Heleian forces jumping in along our escape vectors!"
As if at those words, Hayrant and his escort increased their speed, leaving a gaping hole in Imperial formation without even waiting for a confirmation from the remaning ships. You yourself offer a briefest of nods to the enemy commander - they gambled, and gambled well, resolutely paying the toll of blood to bait the Empire into a stunning and bitter defeat. Perhaps they would even have the good fortune of killing Hayrant before Imperial Guard got to him. You frown. With his speed and heading, he would probably Hysh out just before they caught him.
"First to fight, first to flee, how fitting."
The rest of the fleet would not be so lucky.
"Captain..." Taras asks, his mouth sounding very dry. "What do we do?"
[]As Empire Wills It - Time has come to follow not orders, but spirit. Hayrant runs; if he is not killed by the enemy, the Supreme Leader will mandate it soon enough. However, the fully offensive formation of Heleians can be used against them. Your fleet is in position to launch a daring action right into the middle of enemy fleet. Your vessels are fast and quick enough that they stand a real chance of reaching enemy assault carriers and sinking them; this should punch open a corridor through which some of your fleet may escape...but you will have to hit the enemy attack head on.
[]To Live Another Day - The battle is lost, and Hayrant bears the responsibility. Thus, much of the guilt will remain with him, and you will have saved the lives of your flotilla and followed the orders....but the battle will become unmitigated disaster as the core of 114th fleet is enveloped and annihilated. The Empire may not look kindly on those who survived it scarred...
In another life, Admiral Hayrant would perhaps been a great sportsman, or even a warrior. As it was, years of comfortable position, high life and inaction had turned his stalwart, broad-chested stature flabby and slack. Even his finely fitted uniform couldn't hide it. His tiny, fish-like eyes glazed over you, clearly annoyed.
"You are overstating you position, captain." For a man his stature, his voice is positively, infuriatingly nasal. "We have been observing the enemy same as you, but there is nothing 'suspicious' to be seen. Or are you suggesting that a mere destroyer has a better picture of the fleet battle than a fleet's flagship?"
"Your Excellency, with utmost respect, are Heleians not know for their reckless barbarian abandon?" You politely stand firm, trying to appeal to his racism as much to his ego. "For them to not fight to the last can only mean that they seek to embroil us into an even greater fight. Would it not be prudent to simply blast them from range? Or at very least send us to reinforce the vanguard?"
"And leave our formation unprotected?" The Admiral scoffs. "This is the problem with you second-class core worlds yokels...you are shown an ounce of appreciation and think that you know everything there is to know! How dare you." The mass hisses. "Know your place! I have shown you much favor already by assigning you to this position. Perhaps, it was too much..."
You force back the bile in your throat. Even by the standards of the worst, Hyrant was a scumbag. "Forgive me, Your Excellency. I am but merely concerned for your well-being."
Hayrant scoffs, but doesn't continue his tirade. Byarlant, the actual commandant of the defense screen, takes this moment to politely intercut with a cough.
"Uncouth manner aside, there is some merit in Giscarlander's opinion." You haven't had much contact with the older, graying man, but while somewhat suspicious of your ancestry, he always seemed appreciative of good work, and seemed equally vexed by Hayrant's approach, by the sound of things. "It is base, low cunning, but one that is to be expected from the likes of Heleians. Perhaps, we could at least spread out our search pattern..."
You lower your head as Hayrant thinks. After a few long minutes...
"Pah! I will hear no more of this nonsense. Byarlant - after this battle is done, I see we will have to discuss how you run things...as for you captain, obey my orders. I don't have time to deal with every impudent colonial know-it all. If you cannot follow, you will be replaced, is that understood?"
"By your command, Your Excellency." You bow your head as you salute, clenched fist horizontally over your heart. Hayrant merely scoffs again and disconnects.
Silence reigns on your bridge, before Taras cleares his throat.
"Well...at least you tried sir." He says diplomatically.
"And it was not enough." You reply briskly. "But at least we have not been dismissed out of hand or shot for treason. Now we must bear our course, ready for the worst, and hope reality doesn't come to pass."
***
You watch on the bridge screen as the vanguard and the main fleet join back into a single formation, surging after the retreating Heleians. You try to spread your formation as much as possible without Hayrant noticing, but it's not enough; your destroyers simply don't have sufficiently powerful sensors.
"Contact!" Another operator reports. "Additional forces emerging with the planetary ring disk! They are reinforcing the first Heleian formation."
Like a flock of swallows, the barbarian fleet turns around, executing full burn towards the Imperial fleet. Excited at the prospect of easy glory, Hayrant disperses his depleted vanguard forces to make way for his capital vessels. You refrain from biting your nails.
"They will attack now, as Hayrant is committing and cannot easily retreat." You begin to turn to Taras to issue fresh orders, but an operator preempts you.
"A-alert! Detecting numerous high-energy signatures rising from the disk behind main enemy force!"
"On screen." You bark. Besides you, Taras winces.
With grace seemingly impossible for vessels their size, Heleian capital ships rise up from the disk, leaving behind trails of water and dust. You notice that some have some sort of rock cover peeling off them - you venture to guess that it was some form of improvised camouflage. But more importantly...
"Three assault carriers." Taras almost bites his tongue. The Heleian assault carriers were among the most powerful capital ships in their fleet - fast and well armed, with two long-range quad particle batteries, numerous carrousel turrets and missile launchers, not to mention the durable, fast-moving strike craft. But most significantly, they were armed with the Comet Shock Cannons. Even your battlecruisers could be seriously damaged by one; three would mean certain death.
"Reading energy spike!"
As one, the three spindly, arrow-shaped vessels belch fire towards the middle of Hayrant's fleet. The battlecruiser Crown of Solitude is hit almost dead on, practically coming apart. The enormous explosion rips a hole through the main fleet, the four cruisers closest to the mighty vessel disappearing in explosion cloud along with it, and with numerous smaller destroyers and frigates.
"Admiral Hayrant is demanding that all escort wings fall in and protect the flagship-" the operator doesn't finish as another interrupts her.
"Enemy vanguard is attacking! Reading several smaller forces detaching and being reinforced by squadrons emerging from the ring; Captain they're attempting to flank us!"
"-look, there goes another salvo!"
The Imperial fleet barely had the time to respond before the assault carriers fired their main guns again. By whatever providence however, only one landed a solid blow on the remaining battlecruiser, shorting out its shields and skidding along reinforced armor, tearing apart upper decks and venting atmosphere and crew into space. The other two sail past it, though not without effect - at least several light cruisers find themselves in the blast zone and become stars.
"Enemy formation at 90.00!! Approaching at full burn!"
Your response is immediate.
"Hard roll to portside, 90 degrees. Load dorsal missile batteries; two salvos one with proximity fuses, one seekers, fire pattern Shockbird. Batteries on track; Helm, prepare for full course reverse at my command."
The inertia compensators keep you from being squashed against the decks the decks as your ship - and others in its formation - roll hard on their axis, exposing their top to the enemy formation seeking to swing around the battlefield and bulldoze their way past you into the center of the fleet. Officers shout as they repeat your orders, and systems whine as power is distributed, but you remain unmoving, razor focused on the image before you.
You wait for several heartbeats, watching and waiting as speed and inertia carries the Heleian unit right where you want them.
"Execute." You say simply. Besides you, Taras bellows into the operation pits.
"Fire! All ships, full reverse!"
The compensators struggle and groan as you ships fight to defy physics, their powerful drives battling against momentum. You can hear rhythmic thuds as the launchers belch fire, sending out a swirling cloud of missiles at your adversary.
The proximity missiles had been programmed to fire first, racing ahead. Heleians respond with AA fire, but it is anemic at best, and most of them find their marks. The warheads detonate, space coming alight with blazing fire. Several smaller ships implode on themselves, while strike craft are shredded by the bushels. Still, the aim wasn't to kill, or even wound your enemies - just leave them confused before the real blow.
The seeker missile slither into Heleian formation uncontested, and you watch how their own destroyers and corvettes founder one by one. Your first combat salvo is brutally efficient - at least third of enemy vessels are down as the fleet barrels in front of you, cutting the empty space where your fleet would have been were it not for your orders.
And you were not yet finished.
"All batteries. Fire free."
Each of your destroyers was equipped with a pair of frontal triple-barreled positron batteries. Although they were somewhat less powerful than the brutally primitive weapons of the Heleians, at this distance the distinction was largely academic - but their superior accuracy and the training of your men was not.
As one, the brilliant prisms light the universe before you. Heleian vessels disappear in gusts of explosions, many struck before their crews even realized they were now in ship-to-ship combat. Your gunnery crews were ruthlessly effective, each single barrage aimed to kill before methodically moving onto next target. A few Heleian ships were fast enough to turn, presenting you with their own batteries, but at this range and speeds, their return fire was pitiful at best. Still, a couple of your vessels are grazed, a few even belch fire and smoke as they limp back into formation. Your follow up barrage has no mercy however, and the enemy centre becomes undone, fiery wrecks spiraling out of control.
Taras orders outlying ships to let loose several more seekers, trailing after the handful of survivors that desperately sought to ram themselves into the fleet besides you. You had your victory; but whatever thrill you might've felt was quashed by the gravity of the situation.
The main fleet was a mess; Hayrant's battlecrusier listing heavily as fire burst from its port engines, its attendant escorts desperately attempting to tow away and shield the vessel. Further up, the main bulk of the fleet found itself under sustained attack by the mass of Heleian light vessels.
Unlike your dainty, disposable, knife-like destroyers however, the line ships of Great Space Empire were vicious broadswords; ships made to last in battle surrounded from all sides by terrors unimaginable. Scores of Heleians blast them from all gunports to merely overload their shields; scores more pour fire onto their armored hulls, causing only minor breaches. However cowardly and incompetent Hayrant might have been, at least some of his subordinates had the will to fight. Heavy cruisers formed an iron wall, their heavy prism cannons cutting through Heleian flock like scythe through wheat; lighter vessels launched coordinated barrages sniping larger Heleian command craft. A Reyan soldier knew only victory; and if he was to die, then he would die standing.
"But a bolt from a peasant's crossbow kills a knight as surely as a pauper" You think grimly. The front fights bravely, but Heleians do not relent. Their mass and agility allows individual ships to slip past Reyan defense net, especially without a flag officer to rally them. Ships find themselves stranded as their engines and comms are blasted out; few even destroyed when rammed by suicidal Heleian crews.
It is a massacre.
"Sir" one of the operators reports quietly. "Last known orders from Admiral Hayrant call for retreat. He demands that all escort fleets shield his Hayrantine from enemy fire as it makes its escape."
Unease falls on your men. If your commander was willing to abandon you so soon, then the battle was truly lost.
But underneath the dismay, there was also anger. Second-class they might be, but Auxillas were imperial sailors none the less. To flee as a coward rather than fight your way out was unsightly...especially when it left good sailors and good ships to die a pointless death.
"Confirm those orders." You say. In front of you, the second escort fleet is fully engaged, squeezed between Hayrant's flagship and the pouring mass of Heleians. Meanwhile, the assault carriers begun to shift their fire away from the slippery flagship and into the frontline, systematically blasting away heavy vessels.
"We-we're unable." The operator muttered, her confidence fraying. "There's no contact with the Hayrantine. Rear Admiral Boozes was killed in action. We cannot contact either Commodores Byarlant or Weliss!"
"Saint Yurisha preserve us." a new voice cried out in anguish. "Detecting Hyshouts behind our fleet! Suspected Heleian forces jumping in along our escape vectors!"
As if at those words, Hayrant and his escort increased their speed, leaving a gaping hole in Imperial formation without even waiting for a confirmation from the remaning ships. You yourself offer a briefest of nods to the enemy commander - they gambled, and gambled well, resolutely paying the toll of blood to bait the Empire into a stunning and bitter defeat. Perhaps they would even have the good fortune of killing Hayrant before Imperial Guard got to him. You frown. With his speed and heading, he would probably Hysh out just before they caught him.
"First to fight, first to flee, how fitting."
The rest of the fleet would not be so lucky.
"Captain..." Taras asks, his mouth sounding very dry. "What do we do?"
[]As Empire Wills It - Time has come to follow not orders, but spirit. Hayrant runs; if he is not killed by the enemy, the Supreme Leader will mandate it soon enough. However, the fully offensive formation of Heleians can be used against them. Your fleet is in position to launch a daring action right into the middle of enemy fleet. Your vessels are fast and quick enough that they stand a real chance of reaching enemy assault carriers and sinking them; this should punch open a corridor through which some of your fleet may escape...but you will have to hit the enemy attack head on.
[]To Live Another Day - The battle is lost, and Hayrant bears the responsibility. Thus, much of the guilt will remain with him, and you will have saved the lives of your flotilla and followed the orders....but the battle will become unmitigated disaster as the core of 114th fleet is enveloped and annihilated. The Empire may not look kindly on those who survived it scarred...
First Battle - Against the Roaring Death
Alastor Mobius Toth
***** ***
- Location
- Neon Ghetto
[X]As Empire Wills It
"Signal all vessels" You reply resolutely. "Prepare for attack run."
There's a nary a sound on the bridge, but you can see the officers and enlisted look at each, tense and unsure. You speak out again, a hint of steel ringing in your voice. "You are all Imperial sailors, are you not? Here because you wish you to prove that you have what it takes to be a Reyan, do you not? Then now is the time to act like it!" You snap. "A Reyan does not retreat. There is only victory or death. If in hour of need you cannot follow on this, then you will never reach your goal. Now, to battle stations!"
"Battle stations! Signal all vessels to prepare for attack run!" Taras finally finds his voice and nods resolutely. At his bellowing, the crew finally comes alive, morale turning. For now at least, they obey you. "What are your orders, Captain?"
You quickly scan the battlespace. You have to not just reach the enemy assault carriers, but give the capital ships a window of opportunity to punch through. If you go in a too-wide a formation, you will be overwhelmed and massacred by weight of the enemy alone. Too concentrated however, and your own squadron may be wiped out by a single lucky Comet cannon strike or a concentrated curtain of fire...
After some consideration, you give precise orders to put your fleet in a three-pronged formation, broadly resembling sleek spearheads, with just enough space between the individual ships to give some room to maneuver. It would also hopefully ensure that at least some of your vessels would reach their destination. It is not much, it will have to be enough, for time was against you.
"All ships! Begin attack!"
Like a screaming falcon, your formation falls onto the chaos of melee. You are outnumbered by great odds, however in the heat of battle, the enemy seems to have lost the initial trail of your unit. With your ships barreling at full speed, the Heleians simply don't notice them until they are among them, positron batteries lighting the space. A fortuitous turn of events, and perhaps the only reason you stand a chance at success.
Your vessel shakes as explosions rake your formation from all sides. This is a truly close-range battle; with your vessels cutting through the center of enemy formations, sometimes meters away from their Heleian counterparts. It is the sort of battle where raw speed and reflexes are all that matters. Batteries fire point-blank; missiles plow into armored hulls without warheads having armed only to overpenetrate enemy ships and hit their compatriots. Quick, sudden and merciless.
For a few precious minutes, the Heleian commander simply does not recognize your blitz. By the time he does, it is too late. Your fleet had passed through the front, leaving a trail of burning wrecks behind you. The Reyan fleet, as if shaking itself from stupor advances with a roar, armored hulls reorienting themselves towards the enemy like antique arrows. Heavy prism batteries rain fire onto the Heleian, cutting a fiery swath that your own fleet uses to advance even further in. Like a sword splitting a bamboo, the enemy formation parts.
But you are not yet clear.
The rear of Heleian formation begins to react, it's sheer depth allowing the echelons to spot the danger and take countermeasures. Green particle bolts begin flying toward your formation, but your ships neither slow nor dodge. There is simply no time. Artillery crews race against the time, hoping to neutralize as many ships as possible before Heleians start coordinating their fire.
"This is the crucial part." You think, holding tight on rail. "If we are halted here, we all die in failure"
The enemy, giving up hope on trying to target each of your ships individually simply begins to pour fire into raw space, as if to create a firestorm. Some of your ships begin to duck and wave, minimal corrections that turn lethal hits into narrow misses. A few destroyers even manage to deflect an odd shot or two.
But your luck cannot last forever.
A ship to the starboard of you is hit dead on, cored out by the enemy particle blast. It explodes immediately with all hands. Soon thereafter, others follow it. Several vessels fall out of the formation, fire and debris bursting from holes. A number dies practically instantly from direct reactor or munitions hits, leaving behind only a cloud of debris. You see one hit passing cleanly through a destroyer, it's hull comically ballooning before it explodes with great force, sending its prow rocketing out of the battlefield. But even so, you keep yourself resolute, your ships in formation. Even as several bolts pass right outside the bridge tower.
Your formation smashes into the last, concentrated rank of Heleians. Batteries turn to fire practically point-blank while captains scream to empty the missile holds. The last act of your squadron is dramatic and vengeful, Heleian corvettes and several larger ships torn to pieces. But so are your destroyers.
Out of the perfect firestorm, only your destroyer and six others emerge; barely a fraction of your original force.
But you made it through.
"All vessels, attack at will!" You bark as your flagship desperately swerves under the battery of the closest assault carrier. "Reserve nothing! Victory or death!"
Like bloodthirsty harpies, your ships circle the larger vessels. One of the assault carriers desperately fires its Comet Shock Canon, incinerating a lone destroyer. But the rest carry on.
"Tubes 1 through 4!" Taras' voice rings clear over the dull boom of ship drives and exterior explosions. "Angle at plus 3! Sustained barrage, fire!"
Your destroyer makes a final turn, dipping low as its four torpedo tubes finally let loose. Graceful, almost delicate arrows cut through space, passing through Heleian shields unmolested and piercing into the hull before they detonate.
Your smile is positively bloodthristy as enormous explosion severs the dreaded ship in two. Your destroyer flies right past the debris, buffeted on all sides by venting inferno, debris and even unfortunate crewmen. Somewhere behind you, the second assault carrier dies, having successfully nailed one of the attacking destroyers with its secondary quad batteries before a second rams straight into it. Only one remains, listing heavily as it limps mortally wounded.
But not yet dead.
Taras orders torpedoes reloaded as your ship enters second attack run. But then the lumbering ship shifts, rolling horizontally to present one of its working quad-batteries right into your face. Your ship's cannons fire, hitting the armor, but not doing much damage. Then, right as you let your torpedoes loose, it fires.
One of the beams plows directly into the first battery, destroying it immediately and passing through on the other side. Secondary explosions tear through thin internal bulkheads and wreck the secondary battery right behind it. Almost all your gunnery crews die instantly while the sleek barrels come loose from wrecked turret, one crashing right against the bridge tower. The force of impact throws you and several others onto deck, while loose elements come crashing down in cacophony of screams and groaning metals.
The second beam passes somewhere behind and below the bridge. Decks disappear immediately, their crews immolated. Secondary explosions cut open further bulkheads, shrapnel and debris turning isolated rooms into charnel houses. Not even bridge is spared as consoles explode, while debris falls all around you.
"PROTECT THE CAPTAIN!!!" Taras shouts, and it is the last thing you hear before you are knocked back and your vision goes dark.
The pain is the first sign that you are not dead.
You try to open your eyes, wincing. Your body hurts, including a few places you were only tangentially aware of before. But you seem to be able to move unaided, and most of your cuts and bruises are superficial.
The bridge is a mess. Parts of the ceiling had came down, crushing a number of command pits and cutting the level off from the rest of the ship, though thankfully the bulkheads were still holding together. Lights flicker and exposed cables spark. Gravity was still functional however, and in the background, you could still hear the faint hum of the engines.
This was good. The ship still had power.
You keep looking around, and your eyes widen. "Taras? Taras!"
Your second opens his eyes, coughing phlegm and blood. You only now notice that you had been thrown to the front of the bridge...your old post being in fact crushed by debris. Taras and several servicemen have shielded you with their lives.
"Ca...p...tain." Taras manages to rasp out from beneath the debris. His body from waist down was mulched, and maroon blood already begun to flow over the deck. Even so, he manages a smile. "Y...you...survived.....that...i-is...good."
There is a sharp intake of breath, and his eyes lose focus. He dies smiling, looking almost serenely despite his gruesome wounds. You gently close his eyes and stagger upwards.
"Bridge, report!"
Even with your rasping voice, your command might as well have been booming among the ruins of the bridge. Moans and groans answer you. Some dying, others alive-if-in-pain. You wade to the nearest functioning tactical station, trying to get a picture of the situation. The officer there - you recognize him as your weaponmaster, old, bald and wizened man with thick moustache - lies with his eyes half-lidded, tiny streams of blood flowing from his lips and ears. You check his pulse, but no will inhabits the body anymore. Muttering a short prayer to the old saints, you undo his belt and drag his body out to take his place. The time for decorum would come later.
The enemy assault carrier was destroyed, it's splintered wreck floating back into the asteroid ring. On the simplified projection, you could make out the reminder of the battered fleet - few had made it through, and a handful of cruisers seemed to be holding the rear in a suicidal rear-guard action. But there were survivors, and your job was done.
All that was left was survival.
"Navigation. Can you hear me?" You throw a glance to the front. After what seemed like an eternity, a voice answers.
"...y-yes sir. I am here sir." It is young, feminine. Couldn't be older than 18, maybe even less.
"What is your name, sailor?" You ask almost gently.
"...junior lieutenant Cirilla." You can't see her from your position, but can practically feel the shock in her voice. "Senior Lieutenant Basril and Lieutenant Holtz are dead s-sir. I'm the only one left from navigation section."
"Lieutenant, I need you to focus." You explain quickly. "I need you to check if controls are responding and if we have drive control and Hyshtam drive. We cannot stay here - and right now you are the only one who can get us out. Do you understand?"
"...yes." Her voice grows more even. She does not respond, but you can hear tapping on some screen. Meanwhile, you quickly look around and grab the old weaponmaster's communication earpiece, browsing the chaos of onboard frequencies.
"Engineering, come in."
"Captain! Thank the Saints, we thought the bridge was gone!" The relief in the voice of your chief engineer is palpable.
"What is our status? Do we still have thrust?"
"Yes. We managed to keep the reactor stable, though we had to bleed off a few surges into non-essential systems. We have hull breaches and fires on practically every deck. Frankly, I don't even know how this ship is still in one piece."
You mentally piece the information while trying to work the console in command mode. "Can we go into Hysh?"
"...I give this ship all of one long-range jump before it starts falling apart captain."
One was better than zero. "I see. Very well then, begin pulling out who you can from exposed section. We must leave before some Heleian realizes we're not quite dead." It would also mean that all those survivors trapped in breached sections would die immediately upon jump into the strange, hostile plane beyond your own universe....but it was that or death.
"I understand." The engineer quietly replied. "We will do what we can."
"Captain." Cirilla finally calls in, now more composed. "I have limited thrust, but FTL engine is operational."
You nod. From what limited sensor readouts you had, the vanguard was down to its last few vessels. If you were to leave, it would have to be now.
You close your eyes for just a minute, making a silent prayer to those of your men you had already killed, and those that were to be sacrificed still.
"Lieutenant, execute Hysh jump. Take us out of here."
Out of your squadron, only three other ships survived - a fraction of the original number, if not less. Of course, three enemy assault carriers had combined weight and crews equal to almost entire escort force.
But that does not fill the gaping hole somewhere in the back of your mind. Your men had trusted you, and you led them to their deaths.
And the worst part was, that on some level, you were sure you would do it again. More than a thousand people lost their lives under you, but you had turned what would be unmitigated disaster into a merely humiliating defeat. You had went into battle, carried out your plan and paid the price.
And in the end, you had emerged victorious.
The journey back is quiet - everyone knows that even Hayrant's cronies will not be able to cover for the magnitude of this defeat. But there is also an odd sense of pride among your survivors. They were put to the ultimate test...and none were find wanting.
Even so, you are a bit surprised that, when your destroyer finally limps into dock and you're allowed to disembark, you are greeted by an assembly of surviving Reyan officers.
As one, they salute you, their immaculate heels clacking against the surface. You barely have the time to salute back when the man in front of speaks.
"I am Captain senior grade Doman Seriph, of the Everlasting Sunrise. I understand that you and your men had been the one to lead the surprise counter-attack at the conclusion of the battle?" Doman is every picture of classic Reyan warrior. Dark skin, more brown than white-pink, silver hair, tighs thicker than most men's skulls. In fact, you were pretty certain his immaculately pressed uniform badly stretched against his positively enormous chest. He was a total opposite of Hayrant.
"I am." You answer.
After what seems like an eternity, Seriph finally speaks. "....you have our gratitude, Captain. It was only through your efforts that the fleet rallied and fought its way out. You and your subordinates....It may be presumptuous for me to say, but even though you were not born Reyan, you clearly have our hearts and spirits. Our gods weep for the souls you lost, while our sailors salute their fellow warriors."
The delegates salute, again, before another officers speak. She is a redheaded woman, with paler skin and eyes like embers.
"I am Captain Mira Xandar. There is one other thing. Namely, the actions of our so-called admiral." The words are spoken with such venom that they honestly surprise you. "I understand that you have been-"
Whatever else she might have said is cut off by the sound of running, a dozen of MPs suddenly swarming your docking bay.
This month just keeps getting interestingly, doesn't it?
***
(QM's Note: Nope, it's not a failure state. However, I think some of you are going to love what's going to happen next. And I don't mean it in "SKY IS FALLING" gm speak. Also, holy batman your PC has insane dice luck, but more on that after prologue).
"Signal all vessels" You reply resolutely. "Prepare for attack run."
There's a nary a sound on the bridge, but you can see the officers and enlisted look at each, tense and unsure. You speak out again, a hint of steel ringing in your voice. "You are all Imperial sailors, are you not? Here because you wish you to prove that you have what it takes to be a Reyan, do you not? Then now is the time to act like it!" You snap. "A Reyan does not retreat. There is only victory or death. If in hour of need you cannot follow on this, then you will never reach your goal. Now, to battle stations!"
"Battle stations! Signal all vessels to prepare for attack run!" Taras finally finds his voice and nods resolutely. At his bellowing, the crew finally comes alive, morale turning. For now at least, they obey you. "What are your orders, Captain?"
You quickly scan the battlespace. You have to not just reach the enemy assault carriers, but give the capital ships a window of opportunity to punch through. If you go in a too-wide a formation, you will be overwhelmed and massacred by weight of the enemy alone. Too concentrated however, and your own squadron may be wiped out by a single lucky Comet cannon strike or a concentrated curtain of fire...
After some consideration, you give precise orders to put your fleet in a three-pronged formation, broadly resembling sleek spearheads, with just enough space between the individual ships to give some room to maneuver. It would also hopefully ensure that at least some of your vessels would reach their destination. It is not much, it will have to be enough, for time was against you.
"All ships! Begin attack!"
***
Like a screaming falcon, your formation falls onto the chaos of melee. You are outnumbered by great odds, however in the heat of battle, the enemy seems to have lost the initial trail of your unit. With your ships barreling at full speed, the Heleians simply don't notice them until they are among them, positron batteries lighting the space. A fortuitous turn of events, and perhaps the only reason you stand a chance at success.
Your vessel shakes as explosions rake your formation from all sides. This is a truly close-range battle; with your vessels cutting through the center of enemy formations, sometimes meters away from their Heleian counterparts. It is the sort of battle where raw speed and reflexes are all that matters. Batteries fire point-blank; missiles plow into armored hulls without warheads having armed only to overpenetrate enemy ships and hit their compatriots. Quick, sudden and merciless.
For a few precious minutes, the Heleian commander simply does not recognize your blitz. By the time he does, it is too late. Your fleet had passed through the front, leaving a trail of burning wrecks behind you. The Reyan fleet, as if shaking itself from stupor advances with a roar, armored hulls reorienting themselves towards the enemy like antique arrows. Heavy prism batteries rain fire onto the Heleian, cutting a fiery swath that your own fleet uses to advance even further in. Like a sword splitting a bamboo, the enemy formation parts.
But you are not yet clear.
The rear of Heleian formation begins to react, it's sheer depth allowing the echelons to spot the danger and take countermeasures. Green particle bolts begin flying toward your formation, but your ships neither slow nor dodge. There is simply no time. Artillery crews race against the time, hoping to neutralize as many ships as possible before Heleians start coordinating their fire.
"This is the crucial part." You think, holding tight on rail. "If we are halted here, we all die in failure"
The enemy, giving up hope on trying to target each of your ships individually simply begins to pour fire into raw space, as if to create a firestorm. Some of your ships begin to duck and wave, minimal corrections that turn lethal hits into narrow misses. A few destroyers even manage to deflect an odd shot or two.
But your luck cannot last forever.
A ship to the starboard of you is hit dead on, cored out by the enemy particle blast. It explodes immediately with all hands. Soon thereafter, others follow it. Several vessels fall out of the formation, fire and debris bursting from holes. A number dies practically instantly from direct reactor or munitions hits, leaving behind only a cloud of debris. You see one hit passing cleanly through a destroyer, it's hull comically ballooning before it explodes with great force, sending its prow rocketing out of the battlefield. But even so, you keep yourself resolute, your ships in formation. Even as several bolts pass right outside the bridge tower.
Your formation smashes into the last, concentrated rank of Heleians. Batteries turn to fire practically point-blank while captains scream to empty the missile holds. The last act of your squadron is dramatic and vengeful, Heleian corvettes and several larger ships torn to pieces. But so are your destroyers.
Out of the perfect firestorm, only your destroyer and six others emerge; barely a fraction of your original force.
But you made it through.
"All vessels, attack at will!" You bark as your flagship desperately swerves under the battery of the closest assault carrier. "Reserve nothing! Victory or death!"
Like bloodthirsty harpies, your ships circle the larger vessels. One of the assault carriers desperately fires its Comet Shock Canon, incinerating a lone destroyer. But the rest carry on.
"Tubes 1 through 4!" Taras' voice rings clear over the dull boom of ship drives and exterior explosions. "Angle at plus 3! Sustained barrage, fire!"
Your destroyer makes a final turn, dipping low as its four torpedo tubes finally let loose. Graceful, almost delicate arrows cut through space, passing through Heleian shields unmolested and piercing into the hull before they detonate.
Your smile is positively bloodthristy as enormous explosion severs the dreaded ship in two. Your destroyer flies right past the debris, buffeted on all sides by venting inferno, debris and even unfortunate crewmen. Somewhere behind you, the second assault carrier dies, having successfully nailed one of the attacking destroyers with its secondary quad batteries before a second rams straight into it. Only one remains, listing heavily as it limps mortally wounded.
But not yet dead.
Taras orders torpedoes reloaded as your ship enters second attack run. But then the lumbering ship shifts, rolling horizontally to present one of its working quad-batteries right into your face. Your ship's cannons fire, hitting the armor, but not doing much damage. Then, right as you let your torpedoes loose, it fires.
One of the beams plows directly into the first battery, destroying it immediately and passing through on the other side. Secondary explosions tear through thin internal bulkheads and wreck the secondary battery right behind it. Almost all your gunnery crews die instantly while the sleek barrels come loose from wrecked turret, one crashing right against the bridge tower. The force of impact throws you and several others onto deck, while loose elements come crashing down in cacophony of screams and groaning metals.
The second beam passes somewhere behind and below the bridge. Decks disappear immediately, their crews immolated. Secondary explosions cut open further bulkheads, shrapnel and debris turning isolated rooms into charnel houses. Not even bridge is spared as consoles explode, while debris falls all around you.
"PROTECT THE CAPTAIN!!!" Taras shouts, and it is the last thing you hear before you are knocked back and your vision goes dark.
***
The pain is the first sign that you are not dead.
You try to open your eyes, wincing. Your body hurts, including a few places you were only tangentially aware of before. But you seem to be able to move unaided, and most of your cuts and bruises are superficial.
The bridge is a mess. Parts of the ceiling had came down, crushing a number of command pits and cutting the level off from the rest of the ship, though thankfully the bulkheads were still holding together. Lights flicker and exposed cables spark. Gravity was still functional however, and in the background, you could still hear the faint hum of the engines.
This was good. The ship still had power.
You keep looking around, and your eyes widen. "Taras? Taras!"
Your second opens his eyes, coughing phlegm and blood. You only now notice that you had been thrown to the front of the bridge...your old post being in fact crushed by debris. Taras and several servicemen have shielded you with their lives.
"Ca...p...tain." Taras manages to rasp out from beneath the debris. His body from waist down was mulched, and maroon blood already begun to flow over the deck. Even so, he manages a smile. "Y...you...survived.....that...i-is...good."
There is a sharp intake of breath, and his eyes lose focus. He dies smiling, looking almost serenely despite his gruesome wounds. You gently close his eyes and stagger upwards.
"Bridge, report!"
Even with your rasping voice, your command might as well have been booming among the ruins of the bridge. Moans and groans answer you. Some dying, others alive-if-in-pain. You wade to the nearest functioning tactical station, trying to get a picture of the situation. The officer there - you recognize him as your weaponmaster, old, bald and wizened man with thick moustache - lies with his eyes half-lidded, tiny streams of blood flowing from his lips and ears. You check his pulse, but no will inhabits the body anymore. Muttering a short prayer to the old saints, you undo his belt and drag his body out to take his place. The time for decorum would come later.
The enemy assault carrier was destroyed, it's splintered wreck floating back into the asteroid ring. On the simplified projection, you could make out the reminder of the battered fleet - few had made it through, and a handful of cruisers seemed to be holding the rear in a suicidal rear-guard action. But there were survivors, and your job was done.
All that was left was survival.
"Navigation. Can you hear me?" You throw a glance to the front. After what seemed like an eternity, a voice answers.
"...y-yes sir. I am here sir." It is young, feminine. Couldn't be older than 18, maybe even less.
"What is your name, sailor?" You ask almost gently.
"...junior lieutenant Cirilla." You can't see her from your position, but can practically feel the shock in her voice. "Senior Lieutenant Basril and Lieutenant Holtz are dead s-sir. I'm the only one left from navigation section."
"Lieutenant, I need you to focus." You explain quickly. "I need you to check if controls are responding and if we have drive control and Hyshtam drive. We cannot stay here - and right now you are the only one who can get us out. Do you understand?"
"...yes." Her voice grows more even. She does not respond, but you can hear tapping on some screen. Meanwhile, you quickly look around and grab the old weaponmaster's communication earpiece, browsing the chaos of onboard frequencies.
"Engineering, come in."
"Captain! Thank the Saints, we thought the bridge was gone!" The relief in the voice of your chief engineer is palpable.
"What is our status? Do we still have thrust?"
"Yes. We managed to keep the reactor stable, though we had to bleed off a few surges into non-essential systems. We have hull breaches and fires on practically every deck. Frankly, I don't even know how this ship is still in one piece."
You mentally piece the information while trying to work the console in command mode. "Can we go into Hysh?"
"...I give this ship all of one long-range jump before it starts falling apart captain."
One was better than zero. "I see. Very well then, begin pulling out who you can from exposed section. We must leave before some Heleian realizes we're not quite dead." It would also mean that all those survivors trapped in breached sections would die immediately upon jump into the strange, hostile plane beyond your own universe....but it was that or death.
"I understand." The engineer quietly replied. "We will do what we can."
"Captain." Cirilla finally calls in, now more composed. "I have limited thrust, but FTL engine is operational."
You nod. From what limited sensor readouts you had, the vanguard was down to its last few vessels. If you were to leave, it would have to be now.
You close your eyes for just a minute, making a silent prayer to those of your men you had already killed, and those that were to be sacrificed still.
"Lieutenant, execute Hysh jump. Take us out of here."
***
The return to the fleet base in Eos system takes better part of two weeks - there are no unharmed vessels among the survivors, and more than a few of those had to be towed the entire way. Such as your destroyer - the drive failed catastrophically upon Hyshout, but at least the engineers were able to provisionally reinforce the hull to allow a light cruiser to tow you through remaining jumps in relative safety.
Out of your squadron, only three other ships survived - a fraction of the original number, if not less. Of course, three enemy assault carriers had combined weight and crews equal to almost entire escort force.
But that does not fill the gaping hole somewhere in the back of your mind. Your men had trusted you, and you led them to their deaths.
And the worst part was, that on some level, you were sure you would do it again. More than a thousand people lost their lives under you, but you had turned what would be unmitigated disaster into a merely humiliating defeat. You had went into battle, carried out your plan and paid the price.
And in the end, you had emerged victorious.
The journey back is quiet - everyone knows that even Hayrant's cronies will not be able to cover for the magnitude of this defeat. But there is also an odd sense of pride among your survivors. They were put to the ultimate test...and none were find wanting.
Even so, you are a bit surprised that, when your destroyer finally limps into dock and you're allowed to disembark, you are greeted by an assembly of surviving Reyan officers.
As one, they salute you, their immaculate heels clacking against the surface. You barely have the time to salute back when the man in front of speaks.
"I am Captain senior grade Doman Seriph, of the Everlasting Sunrise. I understand that you and your men had been the one to lead the surprise counter-attack at the conclusion of the battle?" Doman is every picture of classic Reyan warrior. Dark skin, more brown than white-pink, silver hair, tighs thicker than most men's skulls. In fact, you were pretty certain his immaculately pressed uniform badly stretched against his positively enormous chest. He was a total opposite of Hayrant.
"I am." You answer.
After what seems like an eternity, Seriph finally speaks. "....you have our gratitude, Captain. It was only through your efforts that the fleet rallied and fought its way out. You and your subordinates....It may be presumptuous for me to say, but even though you were not born Reyan, you clearly have our hearts and spirits. Our gods weep for the souls you lost, while our sailors salute their fellow warriors."
The delegates salute, again, before another officers speak. She is a redheaded woman, with paler skin and eyes like embers.
"I am Captain Mira Xandar. There is one other thing. Namely, the actions of our so-called admiral." The words are spoken with such venom that they honestly surprise you. "I understand that you have been-"
Whatever else she might have said is cut off by the sound of running, a dozen of MPs suddenly swarming your docking bay.
This month just keeps getting interestingly, doesn't it?
***
(QM's Note: Nope, it's not a failure state. However, I think some of you are going to love what's going to happen next. And I don't mean it in "SKY IS FALLING" gm speak. Also, holy batman your PC has insane dice luck, but more on that after prologue).
First Battle - Glories and Punishments
Alastor Mobius Toth
***** ***
- Location
- Neon Ghetto
"Captain Desalt Abess?" The commander of the military police unit is an older, balding man with dark skin and thin moustache. "You are under arrest."
At those four words, the MPs surround you and snap chains across your wrists while the Reyan officers cry out in incredulity. Meanwhile, you try to maintain your best poker face. "Under what charges?" You reply. The commander smiles.
"Treason and insubordination."
That prompts even more ruckus out of Reyans. Even those who were somewhat miffed initially about your race seem positively mortified now. Seriph is positively seething.
"This is an outrage!" He growls and almost bumrushes the MPs, but one of the other captains holds him back. "A farce! Is this how Empire thanks those that fight valiantly in its defense!? You coward-"
"That's enough out of you, Captain Seriph." The MP commander waves dismissively as you are shoved forward with a butt of the rifle. "Do remember your place. The investigation into this traitor's history is...not yet finished."
"Don't think you can get away with this." Seriph doesn't voice doesn't so much growl anymore as it thunders. "Hayrant isn't the only one with connections in the Capitol. The Imperial Guard will hear of your incompetence."
But the MP only sneers and turns on his heel.
Judging by your predicament, Hayrant was still alive, unfortunately.
Truth be told, you had hoped that in the chaos of battle, Hayrant would simply forget about your formation as easily as he had forgotten about his honor. Or that he would find a more subtle punishment than having MPs drag you through the main promenade of Eos Station in chains, under charges of treason. It was blunt and heavy-handed, even for him.
But from the whispers of gathered Reyans and Auxillas, it was pretty clear his attempts at protecting his reputation were doomed from the start. The disappearance of most of the fleet was obvious. It wouldn't be long now before news would reach the Capitol, and incur the displeasure of Cosmo Fleet Command. Still, Hayrant's men among the MPs acted undeterred, taking care to shove rifle butts under your kidneys once in a while.
"Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, Giscky" One spats. You almost retort, when a shape catches your eye in one of the viewscreens overlooking the promenade.
It was a Reyan battleship - equally parts sleek and mammoth design. Twice again as large as a battlecruiser, these ships were rare, typically assigned to first-rate frontline formations. But this one was not colored in the bone-white of Cosmo fleet, but rather midnight black with white highlights.
The colors of the Imperial Guard.
So you only throw back your head and laugh. Oh, you will enjoy your freedom - from Hayrant - soon enough.
Sure enough, as the MPs try to take you to Admiral's office, they are blocked by a cordon of darkly-uniformed soldiers.
"Captain Abess." The woman at the head of the formation is exceptionally pale, short golden hair framing golden eyes. There is no expression in her voice, or emotion in her face - a pale, flat doll in skin of a sapient. "You are expected." Her hair turns ever so slightly towards the MPs. "You are not."
The MPs blanch. Among the varied branches of Imperial military, the Guard was perhaps the most feared. Unaccountable to anyone but Supreme Leader, they were his personal guards and attack dogs. The commander however, was unwilling to relinquish his authority so easily.
"We are bringing the prisoner as requested." His voice is straining as it tries to be polite. "Admiral Hay-"
Almost mechanically, the rifle in woman's hands snaps towards the man's chest. As one, the Guardsmen level their rifles and the MPs now visibly pale.
"You are not expected." The woman repeats.
One of the men leans to the commander and rapid-fires some sort of argument. The man nods dumbly before mumbling something. They leave, and your chains fall down.
The Guardsmen do not lower their weapons until they disappear. "You are expected." The woman turns to you again, with same robotic voice. "Follow me."
As you reach the Admiral's office, you hear a voice. One that every citizen of the Great Space Empire, regardless of race and gender knows. "Where is my fleet? Quintus Hayrant, give me back my fleet!"
Admiral Hayrant looks like a pale piece of meat, trembling and overflowing with sweat. Most of his staff officers are little better, each trying to outdo the other in matching their white uniforms as they stand at attention up against the walls. Around them, there are lined Imperial Guardsmen, with their black uniforms and plasma repeater rifles. And above, floats a vast hologram of the Supreme Leader Bentuss.
The man looks unlike many other Reyans you had seen. Pale-skinned, more so than others, with wild, thick unkempt dark beard and hair slicked back. Almost cavorite-green eyes peeking from behind bushy eyebrows. His statue is neither tall nor fat, yet still imposing even without the positively enormous black overcoat he wears over his uniform, ending with pure white fur collar. Unlike that of his military, his uniform is black mixed with red and gold detailing. A sheathed sword lays in one of his hands, fingers idly playing with the handle as Supreme Leader's eyes bore into incompetent Admiral, while the other hand holds an exquisite glass with some sort of dark liquid.
Beneath the lifelike hologram, you notice one of his Executors. Elite agents of the Imperial Guard that formed his personal lifeguard and acted as his emissaries. Like all of them, she was a Yorhan monk, with platinum silver hair and porcelain-like face, eyes obscured with traditional band. Her dress is elaborate, black-and-white as those of the soldier's uniforms, but the white sword at her hip gleams with polish of a lethal weapon, one used regularly.
Hayrant struggles to say something, but the Supreme Leader cuts him off. "It always astounds me, how you people think something might escape my attention in my Empire. That I would not know of an almost entire fleet lost; of our flank exposed to the barbarians, of you dragging your heels to meet an enemy in the field and then desert the battlefield in the hour of need." He tuts as if talking to a small, particularly troublesome child. Hayrant gulps, his newly-find voice sounding like a whine.
"T-the fleet can be replaced, My Lord..."
"Replaced!" The Supreme Leader bellows in astonishment. "You use words, Quintus, yet you understand not what they mean. They will be replaced. You notice the future tense I'm sure; emphasis on the future tense." The eyes of the most powerful man on entire Reia narrow into slits. "At the cost of resources we could have spent elsewhere, at cost of vessels and crews needed at other, more valuable fronts. Imagine where our Great Empire would be, if we lost a fleet every time it sallied out to crush mere barbarians."
Hayrant bows his head, staring at his feet. The Supreme Leader smirks...and his gaze turns to you.
"Ah...Captain, I believe? Please, make your approach."
Your head almost spins off into space as the Supreme Leader of Great Space Empire, Lord-Protector of Reia, Defender of Faiths, Unifier of Worlds, Scourge of Barbarism speaks to you directly. Your body moves by itself as the Guards bring you next to Hayrant. You snap off your most perfect salute, heels striking against the marble floor of the office.
"Rey Rheyun." You intone.
"Rey Meh." The Supreme Leader retorts, almost bored. Besides you, Hayrant suddenly looks up and gawks, his expression turning into one of fury...and shame.
"HIM!" He screams. "IT WAS HIM, MY LORD!!! GOOD FOR NOTHING BLUESKIN! HE BETRAYED OUR FLEET, MURDERED OUR MEN AND DISOBEYED MY ORDERS!!! I BEG YOU TO-"
"Speak when spoken to." Executor's voice is quiet, but it's sheer chill brings Hayrant's raving tirade to a stop like a palisade to a charge. "Or you will not speak again."
"Now then, Captain...Abess." The Supreme Leader smiles, and becks you to report on the battle you waged. You answer truthfully, to the extent you know events transpired. You tell him of Hayrant's ignorance, of how he disregarded advice and flown right into a trap, just so he could run at first sign of trouble. You say how you have thrown your forces into the fray, to bloody the enemy and save more valuable capital ships.
Bentuss stirs the glass in his hand, deep in thoughts. "So...you did, in fact, disobey an order, captain."
It is a subtle, yet loaded question. "I...have no excuses, My Lord." You lower your head. "The honor of our navy, of the empire itself, had compelled me to fight to death if needed to preserve a chance of success. My superior's orders had denied that chance; and I had been unable to have those orders confirmed. The chaos of battle is no excuse." You know that it was patently false, but the fiction was more likely to preserve your life then blatant honesty. "Either way, I would be forced to disobey. I...made a choice I felt served the Empire better."
The Supreme Leader sips his vintage. "You led hundreds of your own people into certain death."
It is the testament to your masterful self-control, honed throughout the years that you do not grit your teeth. "I had not asked of them anything more I did not ask of myself. To die in your service is glorious, and my men can rest well that their deaths had brought shame upon the enemy and exacted a bloody toll that salved the wounds of our own." You bow your head respectively. "My Lord."
There is a long minute of silence as Supreme Leader sips his drink. "It is a curious day indeed, when one sees a foreigner act more Reyan than Reyans themselves." He smiles at you, almost conspiratorial. "Desalt. You're from Giscander, aren't you?"
"Yes My Lord."
"I've been there once. I had a friend; very beautiful, but also a bit cold. She was a student of your ancient history, and she would regale me with some fanciful tales. Once, she told me that in older, more civilized times, when men had failed so utterly as we have seen today, they would rather throw themselves on their swords, than face their fellows in shame."
"That is so, Your Lordship".
When Supreme Leader Bentuss looks again at Hayrant, it is not a look of disgust, disappointment, or even anger. It is...nothingness. You realize that to this being, Hayrant wasn't even a corpse. He was nothing, a plot of land to step on.
"Now that's a tradition Reyans could get behind. And now that I recall, Reyan warriors are supposed to carry a blade..."
Hayrant stutters, his voice bleating like a goat's. "I-i-I uh, I, uh-uh, d-didn't b-b-ring...m-mine. Um, My Lord."
"That's not a problem." The other Reyan replies without missing a beat. "My Executor brought hers."
Hayrant barely has the time to scream as the blindfolded woman moves to him, so swiftly and quietly she might as well have been gliding. You know not what she hit, but Hayrant screams in pain, before suddenly going rigid. Then the Executor deftly drew her blade, it's handle clacking against the floor as she knelt.
"This is a man's death, Quintus." The Supreme Leader said dispassionately as the admiral's overweight body listlessly rocked back and forth. "And that is more status then you ever should have had."
As if by the Leader's words, the body falls. You watch with morbid curiosity as weight and gravity do their work, Hayrant sinking deeper and deeper along the blade as his white uniform matched the crimson of his collar. Whether finding his long-lost pride, or simply out of whatever neurological damage the Executor did, he speaks not a word, his teeth cracking, nose and mouth filling with pink bubbles. You can hear his breathing go wild, irregular, and then simmer into nothingness.
Then, with the tilt of Bentuss' glass, the Executor withdraws her sword, deftly disemboweling the (now former) admiral.
You watch as blood and guts splatter against the polished floor, and you briefly see Taras' death. Red yet again...brighter red, to match different skin, but red none the less.
"Captain, in recognition of your extraordinary service to the Empire, and your immaculate record, you are hereby promoted by rank and given Citizenship First-class. Continue to serve faithfully, and further rewards shall be forthcoming. All your surviving subordinates and crew shall be given citizenship as well. Those that died in my name are to be given state burials and shall be accorded Honorable Citizenship."
You snap a salute, schooling your face into a mask of military discipline. "Zer Valk!"
With nod, Bentuss turns to his Executor. "Ensure our former Captain is placed under someone capable...and that I don't have to hear about this particular sector for some time."
Another glorious day in a glorious empire.
[]Under Marshall Erina Dommel - Hero of the Empire, Marshall Dommel has fought on almost every of the Empire's many, many fronts. A commander known for her courage, and some dare say, audaciousness, she prizes adaptability as source of strength. She currently commands a mobile task-force that acts as rapid reaction force. Currently deployed in Andromeda galaxy on Heleian Absolute Defense Line.
[]At Touca Front - The Touca are an advanced species inhabiting the recently explored Wayfarer galaxy, inhabiting the space mostly centered around spectacular nebula of red dust known as Sentinel's Eye. Masters of advanced biotechnology said to preside over one of the Wonders of the Universe, they had spent decades resisting Imperial Expansion. Now, by Supreme Leader's decree, they are to be annihilated.
[]As part of the Azure Fleet - One of the primary formation of Imperial Cosmo Fleet, commanded by Grand Marshall Ataliss herself. Known as elite and prestigious formation, it is currently deployed to Imperial heartland of Greater Nostrum Cluster following Angara Campaigns. Typically an assault and peacekeeping formation, they can be expected to act as opposition forces in training while being reinforced; further deployment are to be determined.
****
This took much longer to write then I expected. But here we are.
Hayrant totally tried pinning all the blame on you, but as Supreme Leader pointed out, it is pretty idiotic to assume that a despotic leader of a fanatical civilization does not have access to practically everything. So he knew Hayrant was made from beginning, but was trying to see how Hayrant was going to react regardless.
Didn't end well, obviously.
Now, this quest doesn't really revolve around math and dice, since that just makes my brain hurt. However, I do occasionally make...rolls of sorts, if I ran into situations where character backgrounds and personality make a number of different outcomes likely. Sort of tiebreaker if you will.
While it was unlikely for you to convince Hayrant (on account of him being just a giant dick in general, but racist prick in particular), you actually managed to make your case, and then not be dismissed from your post. Then you actually avoided death by taking the most balls-to-the-wall option by bumrushing entire enemy fleet with destroyers.
Desalt clearly has balls made from refined adamntium and devil's own poker deck.
Also, if I put in evil mind-controlling cats, this is @AKuz 's fault
At those four words, the MPs surround you and snap chains across your wrists while the Reyan officers cry out in incredulity. Meanwhile, you try to maintain your best poker face. "Under what charges?" You reply. The commander smiles.
"Treason and insubordination."
That prompts even more ruckus out of Reyans. Even those who were somewhat miffed initially about your race seem positively mortified now. Seriph is positively seething.
"This is an outrage!" He growls and almost bumrushes the MPs, but one of the other captains holds him back. "A farce! Is this how Empire thanks those that fight valiantly in its defense!? You coward-"
"That's enough out of you, Captain Seriph." The MP commander waves dismissively as you are shoved forward with a butt of the rifle. "Do remember your place. The investigation into this traitor's history is...not yet finished."
"Don't think you can get away with this." Seriph doesn't voice doesn't so much growl anymore as it thunders. "Hayrant isn't the only one with connections in the Capitol. The Imperial Guard will hear of your incompetence."
But the MP only sneers and turns on his heel.
***
Judging by your predicament, Hayrant was still alive, unfortunately.
Truth be told, you had hoped that in the chaos of battle, Hayrant would simply forget about your formation as easily as he had forgotten about his honor. Or that he would find a more subtle punishment than having MPs drag you through the main promenade of Eos Station in chains, under charges of treason. It was blunt and heavy-handed, even for him.
But from the whispers of gathered Reyans and Auxillas, it was pretty clear his attempts at protecting his reputation were doomed from the start. The disappearance of most of the fleet was obvious. It wouldn't be long now before news would reach the Capitol, and incur the displeasure of Cosmo Fleet Command. Still, Hayrant's men among the MPs acted undeterred, taking care to shove rifle butts under your kidneys once in a while.
"Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, Giscky" One spats. You almost retort, when a shape catches your eye in one of the viewscreens overlooking the promenade.
It was a Reyan battleship - equally parts sleek and mammoth design. Twice again as large as a battlecruiser, these ships were rare, typically assigned to first-rate frontline formations. But this one was not colored in the bone-white of Cosmo fleet, but rather midnight black with white highlights.
The colors of the Imperial Guard.
So you only throw back your head and laugh. Oh, you will enjoy your freedom - from Hayrant - soon enough.
***
Sure enough, as the MPs try to take you to Admiral's office, they are blocked by a cordon of darkly-uniformed soldiers.
"Captain Abess." The woman at the head of the formation is exceptionally pale, short golden hair framing golden eyes. There is no expression in her voice, or emotion in her face - a pale, flat doll in skin of a sapient. "You are expected." Her hair turns ever so slightly towards the MPs. "You are not."
The MPs blanch. Among the varied branches of Imperial military, the Guard was perhaps the most feared. Unaccountable to anyone but Supreme Leader, they were his personal guards and attack dogs. The commander however, was unwilling to relinquish his authority so easily.
"We are bringing the prisoner as requested." His voice is straining as it tries to be polite. "Admiral Hay-"
Almost mechanically, the rifle in woman's hands snaps towards the man's chest. As one, the Guardsmen level their rifles and the MPs now visibly pale.
"You are not expected." The woman repeats.
One of the men leans to the commander and rapid-fires some sort of argument. The man nods dumbly before mumbling something. They leave, and your chains fall down.
The Guardsmen do not lower their weapons until they disappear. "You are expected." The woman turns to you again, with same robotic voice. "Follow me."
***
As you reach the Admiral's office, you hear a voice. One that every citizen of the Great Space Empire, regardless of race and gender knows. "Where is my fleet? Quintus Hayrant, give me back my fleet!"
Admiral Hayrant looks like a pale piece of meat, trembling and overflowing with sweat. Most of his staff officers are little better, each trying to outdo the other in matching their white uniforms as they stand at attention up against the walls. Around them, there are lined Imperial Guardsmen, with their black uniforms and plasma repeater rifles. And above, floats a vast hologram of the Supreme Leader Bentuss.
The man looks unlike many other Reyans you had seen. Pale-skinned, more so than others, with wild, thick unkempt dark beard and hair slicked back. Almost cavorite-green eyes peeking from behind bushy eyebrows. His statue is neither tall nor fat, yet still imposing even without the positively enormous black overcoat he wears over his uniform, ending with pure white fur collar. Unlike that of his military, his uniform is black mixed with red and gold detailing. A sheathed sword lays in one of his hands, fingers idly playing with the handle as Supreme Leader's eyes bore into incompetent Admiral, while the other hand holds an exquisite glass with some sort of dark liquid.
Beneath the lifelike hologram, you notice one of his Executors. Elite agents of the Imperial Guard that formed his personal lifeguard and acted as his emissaries. Like all of them, she was a Yorhan monk, with platinum silver hair and porcelain-like face, eyes obscured with traditional band. Her dress is elaborate, black-and-white as those of the soldier's uniforms, but the white sword at her hip gleams with polish of a lethal weapon, one used regularly.
Hayrant struggles to say something, but the Supreme Leader cuts him off. "It always astounds me, how you people think something might escape my attention in my Empire. That I would not know of an almost entire fleet lost; of our flank exposed to the barbarians, of you dragging your heels to meet an enemy in the field and then desert the battlefield in the hour of need." He tuts as if talking to a small, particularly troublesome child. Hayrant gulps, his newly-find voice sounding like a whine.
"T-the fleet can be replaced, My Lord..."
"Replaced!" The Supreme Leader bellows in astonishment. "You use words, Quintus, yet you understand not what they mean. They will be replaced. You notice the future tense I'm sure; emphasis on the future tense." The eyes of the most powerful man on entire Reia narrow into slits. "At the cost of resources we could have spent elsewhere, at cost of vessels and crews needed at other, more valuable fronts. Imagine where our Great Empire would be, if we lost a fleet every time it sallied out to crush mere barbarians."
Hayrant bows his head, staring at his feet. The Supreme Leader smirks...and his gaze turns to you.
"Ah...Captain, I believe? Please, make your approach."
Your head almost spins off into space as the Supreme Leader of Great Space Empire, Lord-Protector of Reia, Defender of Faiths, Unifier of Worlds, Scourge of Barbarism speaks to you directly. Your body moves by itself as the Guards bring you next to Hayrant. You snap off your most perfect salute, heels striking against the marble floor of the office.
"Rey Rheyun." You intone.
"Rey Meh." The Supreme Leader retorts, almost bored. Besides you, Hayrant suddenly looks up and gawks, his expression turning into one of fury...and shame.
"HIM!" He screams. "IT WAS HIM, MY LORD!!! GOOD FOR NOTHING BLUESKIN! HE BETRAYED OUR FLEET, MURDERED OUR MEN AND DISOBEYED MY ORDERS!!! I BEG YOU TO-"
"Speak when spoken to." Executor's voice is quiet, but it's sheer chill brings Hayrant's raving tirade to a stop like a palisade to a charge. "Or you will not speak again."
"Now then, Captain...Abess." The Supreme Leader smiles, and becks you to report on the battle you waged. You answer truthfully, to the extent you know events transpired. You tell him of Hayrant's ignorance, of how he disregarded advice and flown right into a trap, just so he could run at first sign of trouble. You say how you have thrown your forces into the fray, to bloody the enemy and save more valuable capital ships.
Bentuss stirs the glass in his hand, deep in thoughts. "So...you did, in fact, disobey an order, captain."
It is a subtle, yet loaded question. "I...have no excuses, My Lord." You lower your head. "The honor of our navy, of the empire itself, had compelled me to fight to death if needed to preserve a chance of success. My superior's orders had denied that chance; and I had been unable to have those orders confirmed. The chaos of battle is no excuse." You know that it was patently false, but the fiction was more likely to preserve your life then blatant honesty. "Either way, I would be forced to disobey. I...made a choice I felt served the Empire better."
The Supreme Leader sips his vintage. "You led hundreds of your own people into certain death."
It is the testament to your masterful self-control, honed throughout the years that you do not grit your teeth. "I had not asked of them anything more I did not ask of myself. To die in your service is glorious, and my men can rest well that their deaths had brought shame upon the enemy and exacted a bloody toll that salved the wounds of our own." You bow your head respectively. "My Lord."
There is a long minute of silence as Supreme Leader sips his drink. "It is a curious day indeed, when one sees a foreigner act more Reyan than Reyans themselves." He smiles at you, almost conspiratorial. "Desalt. You're from Giscander, aren't you?"
"Yes My Lord."
"I've been there once. I had a friend; very beautiful, but also a bit cold. She was a student of your ancient history, and she would regale me with some fanciful tales. Once, she told me that in older, more civilized times, when men had failed so utterly as we have seen today, they would rather throw themselves on their swords, than face their fellows in shame."
"That is so, Your Lordship".
When Supreme Leader Bentuss looks again at Hayrant, it is not a look of disgust, disappointment, or even anger. It is...nothingness. You realize that to this being, Hayrant wasn't even a corpse. He was nothing, a plot of land to step on.
"Now that's a tradition Reyans could get behind. And now that I recall, Reyan warriors are supposed to carry a blade..."
Hayrant stutters, his voice bleating like a goat's. "I-i-I uh, I, uh-uh, d-didn't b-b-ring...m-mine. Um, My Lord."
"That's not a problem." The other Reyan replies without missing a beat. "My Executor brought hers."
Hayrant barely has the time to scream as the blindfolded woman moves to him, so swiftly and quietly she might as well have been gliding. You know not what she hit, but Hayrant screams in pain, before suddenly going rigid. Then the Executor deftly drew her blade, it's handle clacking against the floor as she knelt.
"This is a man's death, Quintus." The Supreme Leader said dispassionately as the admiral's overweight body listlessly rocked back and forth. "And that is more status then you ever should have had."
As if by the Leader's words, the body falls. You watch with morbid curiosity as weight and gravity do their work, Hayrant sinking deeper and deeper along the blade as his white uniform matched the crimson of his collar. Whether finding his long-lost pride, or simply out of whatever neurological damage the Executor did, he speaks not a word, his teeth cracking, nose and mouth filling with pink bubbles. You can hear his breathing go wild, irregular, and then simmer into nothingness.
Then, with the tilt of Bentuss' glass, the Executor withdraws her sword, deftly disemboweling the (now former) admiral.
You watch as blood and guts splatter against the polished floor, and you briefly see Taras' death. Red yet again...brighter red, to match different skin, but red none the less.
"Captain, in recognition of your extraordinary service to the Empire, and your immaculate record, you are hereby promoted by rank and given Citizenship First-class. Continue to serve faithfully, and further rewards shall be forthcoming. All your surviving subordinates and crew shall be given citizenship as well. Those that died in my name are to be given state burials and shall be accorded Honorable Citizenship."
You snap a salute, schooling your face into a mask of military discipline. "Zer Valk!"
With nod, Bentuss turns to his Executor. "Ensure our former Captain is placed under someone capable...and that I don't have to hear about this particular sector for some time."
Another glorious day in a glorious empire.
***
For his extraordinary services and loyalty, Desalt Abess was stationed:
[]Under Marshall Erina Dommel - Hero of the Empire, Marshall Dommel has fought on almost every of the Empire's many, many fronts. A commander known for her courage, and some dare say, audaciousness, she prizes adaptability as source of strength. She currently commands a mobile task-force that acts as rapid reaction force. Currently deployed in Andromeda galaxy on Heleian Absolute Defense Line.
[]At Touca Front - The Touca are an advanced species inhabiting the recently explored Wayfarer galaxy, inhabiting the space mostly centered around spectacular nebula of red dust known as Sentinel's Eye. Masters of advanced biotechnology said to preside over one of the Wonders of the Universe, they had spent decades resisting Imperial Expansion. Now, by Supreme Leader's decree, they are to be annihilated.
[]As part of the Azure Fleet - One of the primary formation of Imperial Cosmo Fleet, commanded by Grand Marshall Ataliss herself. Known as elite and prestigious formation, it is currently deployed to Imperial heartland of Greater Nostrum Cluster following Angara Campaigns. Typically an assault and peacekeeping formation, they can be expected to act as opposition forces in training while being reinforced; further deployment are to be determined.
****
This took much longer to write then I expected. But here we are.
Hayrant totally tried pinning all the blame on you, but as Supreme Leader pointed out, it is pretty idiotic to assume that a despotic leader of a fanatical civilization does not have access to practically everything. So he knew Hayrant was made from beginning, but was trying to see how Hayrant was going to react regardless.
Didn't end well, obviously.
Now, this quest doesn't really revolve around math and dice, since that just makes my brain hurt. However, I do occasionally make...rolls of sorts, if I ran into situations where character backgrounds and personality make a number of different outcomes likely. Sort of tiebreaker if you will.
While it was unlikely for you to convince Hayrant (on account of him being just a giant dick in general, but racist prick in particular), you actually managed to make your case, and then not be dismissed from your post. Then you actually avoided death by taking the most balls-to-the-wall option by bumrushing entire enemy fleet with destroyers.
Desalt clearly has balls made from refined adamntium and devil's own poker deck.
Also, if I put in evil mind-controlling cats, this is @AKuz 's fault
Chapter Two - Dust Wars
Alastor Mobius Toth
***** ***
- Location
- Neon Ghetto
[X] Under Marshall Erina Dommel
In less than a week since the Executor's arrival and Hayrant's death, you had received your rewards. For unblemished loyalty in spite of your race, courage in the face of the enemy and generally exceptional service in the armed forces of the Empire, you were promoted to the rank of Commodore and hereby given new orders - to join Marshall Erina Dommel and her independent operations task force as reinforcements. After all, who better to send to fight the barbarous Heleians than the man who had given them a bloody nose on the eve of one of their greatest victories?
Few Auxillas had ever been given the honor - though then again, you were now a citizen, not an Auxilla. As the Imperial creed went, you were no longer a Giscarlander at heart, but one of the Star Lords; a Reyan at heart, if never in blood. And Dommel was universally adored by the Empire. Few officers outside of Supreme Leader had ever earned such loyalty and popularity among the citizenry. Not without reason of course: Dommel won campaign after campaign, battle after battle. No matter the odds, she fought on, whether in defense or on the offensive. When military academies talked about model Imperial Officer, they might as well have simply put up the picture of the Marshall.
But more importantly, you weren't being sent into her service as just another distinguished captain. A Commodore was the lowest among flag ranks, and solidified what informal authority you had as a senior Captain. You would command your own unit and see some of the Empire's finest in action first-hand; a tremendous learning opportunity.
It would of course mean ever-greater scrutiny, but since when did that deter you?
A week more passes, during which elements of your new unit arrive in-system while the rest are being coordinated. The Imperial Logistical Service - normally an inscrutable bureaucratic morass that feeds on its own inertia - for once works as advertized. You suspect it has something to do with Executorial presence, and the fact that several of Hayrant's cronies swiftly followed the good Admiral into the afterlife.
Your new formation will be...:
[]Skirmishers: Centered around Destroyers and Strike Craft with Light and Line Cruiser support. Mostly intended to act as screening and escort force for the heavier formations, as well as to act as deep reconnaissance and raiding formation. Fast and aggressive, but with little endurance.
[]Light Assault: Centered around Reyan fast Light Cruisers, supported with Destroyer and Line Cruiser elements and occasional Heavy Strike Craft. Bulkier and more powerful than screening forces, they are used mainly as vanguards, but also as raiders against more heavily defended targets.
With your new formation, there is also the matter of your new flagship. While your Destroyer had performed admirably, the severe damage it endured meant that it would be scrapped, stripped of anything essential and melted down into base resources that would be rolled back into fleet production. And besides, now that you were a flag officer, you needed something that could withstand more than one particle bolt...
With that settled, you ready yourself for a new chapter in your eternal war...
Needless to say, can cast only one flagship vote, so choose carefully!
In less than a week since the Executor's arrival and Hayrant's death, you had received your rewards. For unblemished loyalty in spite of your race, courage in the face of the enemy and generally exceptional service in the armed forces of the Empire, you were promoted to the rank of Commodore and hereby given new orders - to join Marshall Erina Dommel and her independent operations task force as reinforcements. After all, who better to send to fight the barbarous Heleians than the man who had given them a bloody nose on the eve of one of their greatest victories?
Few Auxillas had ever been given the honor - though then again, you were now a citizen, not an Auxilla. As the Imperial creed went, you were no longer a Giscarlander at heart, but one of the Star Lords; a Reyan at heart, if never in blood. And Dommel was universally adored by the Empire. Few officers outside of Supreme Leader had ever earned such loyalty and popularity among the citizenry. Not without reason of course: Dommel won campaign after campaign, battle after battle. No matter the odds, she fought on, whether in defense or on the offensive. When military academies talked about model Imperial Officer, they might as well have simply put up the picture of the Marshall.
But more importantly, you weren't being sent into her service as just another distinguished captain. A Commodore was the lowest among flag ranks, and solidified what informal authority you had as a senior Captain. You would command your own unit and see some of the Empire's finest in action first-hand; a tremendous learning opportunity.
It would of course mean ever-greater scrutiny, but since when did that deter you?
A week more passes, during which elements of your new unit arrive in-system while the rest are being coordinated. The Imperial Logistical Service - normally an inscrutable bureaucratic morass that feeds on its own inertia - for once works as advertized. You suspect it has something to do with Executorial presence, and the fact that several of Hayrant's cronies swiftly followed the good Admiral into the afterlife.
Your new formation will be...:
[]Skirmishers: Centered around Destroyers and Strike Craft with Light and Line Cruiser support. Mostly intended to act as screening and escort force for the heavier formations, as well as to act as deep reconnaissance and raiding formation. Fast and aggressive, but with little endurance.
[]Light Assault: Centered around Reyan fast Light Cruisers, supported with Destroyer and Line Cruiser elements and occasional Heavy Strike Craft. Bulkier and more powerful than screening forces, they are used mainly as vanguards, but also as raiders against more heavily defended targets.
With your new formation, there is also the matter of your new flagship. While your Destroyer had performed admirably, the severe damage it endured meant that it would be scrapped, stripped of anything essential and melted down into base resources that would be rolled back into fleet production. And besides, now that you were a flag officer, you needed something that could withstand more than one particle bolt...
[]Chrono-pattern Light Cruiser: Considered to be the "standard" type of Light Cruisers in Imperial service, ideal for quick actions and raids. Comparable in speed and handling to lighter vessels, yet more durable, they typically form the core heavy element of skirmishing forces and bulk of light assault formations. Armaments are composed of two triple positron batteries, aft light positron battery, a 4-cell and 6-cell dorsal missile battery and 8-cell ventral missile battery as well as 4 torpedo tubes.
[]Vaul-pattern Light Cruiser: An older variant of standard Imperial Light Cruiser, that none-the-less still sees much use, especially in skirmishing formations as main attacker, and in light assault squadrons as fire support. Armaments are composed of six torpedo tubes, two 4-cell dorsal missile batteries and three 4-cell dorsal ones, additional side-6 cell missile batteries and two standard positron turrets. Due to its mobility and strong missile firepower, it can serve in both stand-off and direct attack roles, but it somewhat less durable.
[]Hoeth-pattern Light Cruiser: A variant of the standard Chrono-pattern hull, the Hoeth removes the standard positron batteries and both ventral and dorsal missile batteries in favor of a pair of heavy Prism Cannons. These powerful, long-range attack weapons significantly increase the ship's offensive capabilities. Supplementing them is the standard torpedo compliment and 4 light positron cannons, and a pair of aft-mounted 4-cell missile launchers with much-reduce munition bins.
[]Vaul-pattern Light Cruiser: An older variant of standard Imperial Light Cruiser, that none-the-less still sees much use, especially in skirmishing formations as main attacker, and in light assault squadrons as fire support. Armaments are composed of six torpedo tubes, two 4-cell dorsal missile batteries and three 4-cell dorsal ones, additional side-6 cell missile batteries and two standard positron turrets. Due to its mobility and strong missile firepower, it can serve in both stand-off and direct attack roles, but it somewhat less durable.
[]Hoeth-pattern Light Cruiser: A variant of the standard Chrono-pattern hull, the Hoeth removes the standard positron batteries and both ventral and dorsal missile batteries in favor of a pair of heavy Prism Cannons. These powerful, long-range attack weapons significantly increase the ship's offensive capabilities. Supplementing them is the standard torpedo compliment and 4 light positron cannons, and a pair of aft-mounted 4-cell missile launchers with much-reduce munition bins.
[]Isha-pattern Line Cruiser: "The" naval vessel employed by the Imperial Cosmo Fleet, and one of the few rare vessels that breach the gab between its light and heavy units. Specifically designed as a multirole, medium-weight ship the Isha can keep pace with much lighter vessels while having significantly heavier defenses and weapons, allowing it to serve alongside heavy-duty formations. Perfect for any role, they are armed as standard with three positron batteries, six torpedo tubes, two 4-cell missile launcher on both dorsal and ventral positions and an aft 6-cell missile launcher.
[]Lileath-pattern Line Cruiser: Used mostly among Skirmish and Support formations, but also occasionally Light Assault, the Lileath-patterns are what is known as "Aviation Cruisers". The standard torpedo and missile arrays are sacrificed in favor of major hangar bay, capable of servicing most Strike Craft in Imperial service. Total capacity is 5 squadrons, with additional pair of multirole utility craft. On-board weaponry consist of three positron canon batteries, 4 light positron cannon batteries and a pair of 4-cell vertical missile launchers.
[]Lileath-pattern Line Cruiser: Used mostly among Skirmish and Support formations, but also occasionally Light Assault, the Lileath-patterns are what is known as "Aviation Cruisers". The standard torpedo and missile arrays are sacrificed in favor of major hangar bay, capable of servicing most Strike Craft in Imperial service. Total capacity is 5 squadrons, with additional pair of multirole utility craft. On-board weaponry consist of three positron canon batteries, 4 light positron cannon batteries and a pair of 4-cell vertical missile launchers.
With that settled, you ready yourself for a new chapter in your eternal war...
***
Bit of a shorter update this time around, though as you had picked MAXIMUM ACTION option, your force composition will be vital to the upcoming arc, as it will be deciding in how Dommel will use your force. Well, and you sort of need a new ship too
Needless to say, can cast only one flagship vote, so choose carefully!
Dust Wars - The Fleets Gather
Alastor Mobius Toth
***** ***
- Location
- Neon Ghetto
[X]Light Assault
[X]Isha-pattern Line Cruiser
As ships trickle down into Eos, it becomes obvious that your formation is one of Light Assault. A considerable step-up from your former posting in skirmishing or escort roles, but one you welcome. While there is a fair few role overlaps between the two, your new unit has considerably more firepower and endurance. It is not a formation of the Line, but it does combine survivability with operational freedom, and thus a fair few chances for glory.
The choice of your flagship then, is fairly solid and obvious, if somewhat unremarkable. An Isha-pattern isn't the most special, but it is adaptive. A core of the heavy element of light assault, it will be more durable than regular light cruisers and will have considerable firepower at its disposal, without sacrificing its ability to keep with rest of the formation. A perfect raider or command ships.
Of course, there are also some personal benefits - it is a larger, more prestigious command. A Commodore with a Line Cruiser flagship is an officer of some renown and thus respect, even if he is of Auxilla origin.
It is thus at the end of the week when the final reminder of your formation arrives, together with your flagship. Flying at parade formation with pristine hulls, even in as active base as Eos they gather considerable attention.
You come aboard with full ceremony, watches, salutes, all the bells and whistles. Your uniform is still as pristine white as ever, with gold and red highlights. The only new addition is a midnight black cap, fastened to your uniform with a mark that is an equal parts a symbol of rank and battlefield bravery. You pass through the airlock calmly and confidently, maintaining the grace and poise required of every model commander.
The crew is a mixture of Reyans and Auxillas, though clearly slated in favor of the latter. You can spot numerous blue-tints among the uniformed men, Giscarlanders same as you. Though, there are a couple of other, more exotic species...but your biggest surprise was your Captain. That you had one was in and of itself normal - after all, you were now a flag officer, so you couldn't be bothered to make most ship maneuvers by yourself. A full-fledged Captain would command your vessel, and typically serve as your link to the remaining officers in the fleet, much like how Admiral's aides and flag captain would relate to their officer corps. What is unusual however, is that your Captain is a Reyan.
Hair the color of quicksilver, framing a delicate face of milky alabaster. If not for azure-aqua eyes, she would be the very image of traditional Reyan beauty. You venture to guess any number of reasons she was here: punishment, demotion, torpedoing of a career, a mustang career through fleet without connections, lack of scholarship at prestigious academy...even a spy or executioner. The color was just right for a Yorhan after all.
But you voice none of those things as you return a perfect military salute to her own.
"Permission to enter onboard, Captain."
"Permission granted, Commodore. I hereby turn over the command of fleet over to you." Her accent is high and clipped, reminiscent of the Capitol. "I am Captain Noire Eorlande, and I am to be your flag captain and adjutant." You can't help but hear just a slight hesitation when she pronounces her surname. "We have prepared a brief tour of the vessel, after which I have taken the liberty of organizing a general meeting of all fleet sub-commanders..."
You nod. Some officers might have felt insulted, but you felt inclined to compliment her forward thinking and industriousness. You were unlikely to get much time to prepare, and you'd rather get to work immediately. "Excellent work, Captain. Lead on."
"Zer Valk!"
There is indeed little time to prepare and much to do. The Marshall needs her reinforcements quickly, so the only time you get to synchronize your fleet are the relentless exercises you run whenever your formation is transitioning in-systems between Hyshtam jumps.
Most of your officers are green, mostly former Auxilla from fleets that valued them higher than a disposable cannon fodder. They are far from helpless actually, though you find their experience a bit lacking. Fortunately, there is yourself and a couple of veterans in the formation, and however much the crews come to hate you for your relentless, unwavering schedule, the time when you simulate sinking most of your fleet with just its core heavy element and destroyer wing does much to give them perspective. Your own captain proves helpful as well - while your paranoia isn't gone in the least, she proves herself unobtrusive and capable in her role. She works strangely well with other Auxilla as well, and combination of charm and strict discipline make the enlisted respect her a great deal.
Of course, train as much as you might, you just can't maintain fleet at alert levels at all times, as much as you'd want. It's almost funny...your forgot just how much work Hayrant was making you do now that you are your own officer. You just....don't know what to do with your free time, as it happens.
[]Poor Desalt doesn't know what to do outside of more work. Find something for him, would you? [Write-in]
"Coordinates confirmed. Drives spooled up. We are ready for a Hysh jump."
Noire nodded, turning to you. "The fleet is ready for our final jump into Tansei Station, Commodore." You nod, sitting at your command throne, head buried in tactical display. "Make it so, Captain."
"All ships. Initiate jump!"
A moment in time, stretched into infinity. Space, matter, time, orientation all cease to matter as the world outside of your ship turns into an endless corridor of shapes and colors, unnatural in its speed and intensity. This was the plane of Hysh, the otherwordly realm that made travel between the stars possible. You recall that in old Reyan, hysh meant "magic" or "high sorcery", hence why most sailors referred to it as 'witchspace'. Despite passage of time, little was known about it - no research ever made the headway, although it was somewhat understood that conditions outside shielded hulls were lethal, with temperatures beneath the concept of absolute zero and dense bands of exotic radiation. You also remember that most species experienced jumps differently - Giscarlanders found the experience colorful, but somewhat remarkably unremarkable. Reyans found it profoundly unsettling, and some species reacted to Hysh travel with nothing but utter, screaming terror.
Just as suddenly, the universe comes apart under an intense point of light, and you return to the normal space. A layer of thin ice breaks off the hull of your vessels, forming crystalline vapor trails as ships go under normal impulse power.
Before you, stretched the Tansei Naval Station, the nerve center of Heleian Absolute Defense Line. Literal thousands of ships stretch before you, like endless corals of light under the gaze of a stellar remnant. Massive fortifications floated through space in complicated patterns, with docks, starbases and defense satellites all mingling.
"Look, over there!" Someone down below on the command deck shouts. "It's the Anemone II!"
Your eyes drift through the screens, picking up a massive vessel. It shared the same profile as the battleship of the Imperial Guard, only being colored in bone-white of the Cosmo Fleet, with an intricate pattern of black vines etched into the hull.
"An Asuryan-pattern Battleship." You quietly say to yourself. "Very rate, outside of banner fleets."
"I've heard the Marshall received it as reward from Supreme Leader, after the Well of Souls campaign." Noire replied. "They say her hull was never breached by enemy fire."
A battlefield legend to be sure, you muse, but a part of you hoped it was true...and that you would live long enough to share in same legend.
You are received quickly and without fanfare at one of the Tansei's main operating stations. Well, "without fanfare" was relative, as you are greeted by the Marshall herself.
As you strain yourself to top you already parade-perfect salute, you see that for once the propaganda wasn't far off the mark. Marshall Dommel is as tall and beautiful as pictured, long legs and attractive hips, light skin and wheat-gold hair. The elaborate white-and-gold uniform does not hide her beauty in the least, but there is thundering iron in her stride, and her Marshall's baton is never far from her hands.
"Commodore Abess and the 9th Strike Group, reporting as ordered!" You announce. You notice that some officers behind Marshall seem surprised, even angry at your presence. But Marshall herself makes no noise or movement to acknowledge you. Her gem-like eyes burrow into you, before a corner of her lips, ever so slightly, tips forward.
She returns your salute.
"Welcome to the frontlines, Commodore. Good of Command to finally send us reinforcements, but I am afraid there will be no time for formal ceremonies or training maneuvers. The situation is in constant flux, and our groups needs to be on the move, at all times."
You dutifully nod. "We stand ready for your command, Marshall."
The smile grows a little larger. "That's good, because we are sortieing, Commodore. As of two weeks ago, enemy activity spiked across the entire border." The cause of which remained unsaid, of course - "Command anticipates yet another general push by the Heleians. The regular formations are preparing to mount coordinates static defense along the forward perimeter, but enemy projections don't look very enticing. That's where we come in." You wait on her to continue.
"Long-range observations and scouting confirms that Heleians are massing in several systems not far from here, and we're even now receiving reports of their advanced scouting parties. So we're going to hit the beehive before all of them hatch." Marshall's eyes focus on you and your Captain. "I have a plan, Commodore, but for it to work I need my light assault units, yours included. You are to hit high-value targets, places and operations we suspect to be of value to the Heleians, puncture their ballooning confidence."
Classical raiding, by the sounds of it. "As to delay or disrupt their preparations?" Dommel's smile is predatory as she replies.
"No Commodore...to have them chase you."
You blink, surprised, while she continues. "My aim is to provoke the restless vanguard of Heleian fleet into rash action before it reaches critical mass. For this to work, I need aggressive raiding force to make enough nuisance of themselves to make them respond. Destroy their fleets, intercept their raiders, raid their supplies. However, whatever you do Commodore, it is imperative you return to our staging area in Almiratz system in three days. Not before, and certainly not after. Do you understand?"
You nod again.
"Excellent then. You have your orders; my staff will send you my intelligence and list of targets as soon as you return to your flagship. Zer Valk!"
"Zer Valk!"
Luckily, the forward observers had done their duty, and staff had identified several points of interest that can be hit immediately. To maximize operation chances, both Light Assault formations of Marshall's Task Group, the 7th and 9th (that's yours) Strike Groups would be mobilized; however both would operate independently. It was imperative than in three days you manage to rouse enough enemies to follow you into the Almiratz where the rest of fleet was massing.
Sounded simple enough but for the executions...always the hardest part.
What target should you hit?
[]Raiding the Raiders: Scouts are tracking several light raiding forces that typically preempt major Heleian fleet movements, typically striking at light targets of opportunity in its path and acting as ambushes and fast-attack reinforcements in battles. Catching them might be a bit of a challenge, but destroying them will remove Heleian eyes and ears before battle, and force them to respond with less efficient, heavier forces (- High-speed Critical, Wide-open terrain, Superior Enemy Numbers, Far Superior Own Firepower)
[]Bushwacking the Hive: One of forward enemy fleets has speed spotted traveling through Mir-Miram binary system, at edges of Western Tansei Dust Clouds. The dim, blue-and-orange clouds of dust are as much of a nuisance to you as they are to the enemy, and an enterprising strike force could use them as cover to hit the fleet directly and then make their escape. This will be like playing on the enemy's nose - it will garner definitive response, but if you cannot make the getaway, you will be destroyed. (High-Risk High-reward target, Heavy Enemy Presence, Dust Clouds for everyone, Potential Superheavies, Speed Advantage)
[]Civilized People Do it Better: Everyone needs supplies, even Heleians. Forward scouts had identified asteroid sites in Tyth-157 system as temporary forward resupply stations for Heleian fleets. In typical barbarian fashion, these are lightly guarded before fighting starts, paving a way for a strike force to infiltrate and successfully deny the enemy the chance to resupply after a long trek....and gather the ire of the barbaric huntsmen. The obvious issue is that once your are detected, you can expect major enemy reinforcements and you will be fighting at enemy's preferred astro-terrain, beyond friendly lines. (Low Enemy Awareness, Enemy Field Advantage, Reinforcements, Long Travel Time).
[X]Isha-pattern Line Cruiser
As ships trickle down into Eos, it becomes obvious that your formation is one of Light Assault. A considerable step-up from your former posting in skirmishing or escort roles, but one you welcome. While there is a fair few role overlaps between the two, your new unit has considerably more firepower and endurance. It is not a formation of the Line, but it does combine survivability with operational freedom, and thus a fair few chances for glory.
The choice of your flagship then, is fairly solid and obvious, if somewhat unremarkable. An Isha-pattern isn't the most special, but it is adaptive. A core of the heavy element of light assault, it will be more durable than regular light cruisers and will have considerable firepower at its disposal, without sacrificing its ability to keep with rest of the formation. A perfect raider or command ships.
Of course, there are also some personal benefits - it is a larger, more prestigious command. A Commodore with a Line Cruiser flagship is an officer of some renown and thus respect, even if he is of Auxilla origin.
Main Force:
- 114x Destroyers
- 25x Chrono-pattern Light Cruisers
- 20x Vaul-pattern Light Cruisers
- 5x Hoeth-pattern Light Cruisers
Command Element
- Flagship
- 10x Isha-pattern Line Cruisers
- 15x Lileath-pattern Line Cruisers
- 114x Destroyers
- 25x Chrono-pattern Light Cruisers
- 20x Vaul-pattern Light Cruisers
- 5x Hoeth-pattern Light Cruisers
Command Element
- Flagship
- 10x Isha-pattern Line Cruisers
- 15x Lileath-pattern Line Cruisers
It is thus at the end of the week when the final reminder of your formation arrives, together with your flagship. Flying at parade formation with pristine hulls, even in as active base as Eos they gather considerable attention.
You come aboard with full ceremony, watches, salutes, all the bells and whistles. Your uniform is still as pristine white as ever, with gold and red highlights. The only new addition is a midnight black cap, fastened to your uniform with a mark that is an equal parts a symbol of rank and battlefield bravery. You pass through the airlock calmly and confidently, maintaining the grace and poise required of every model commander.
The crew is a mixture of Reyans and Auxillas, though clearly slated in favor of the latter. You can spot numerous blue-tints among the uniformed men, Giscarlanders same as you. Though, there are a couple of other, more exotic species...but your biggest surprise was your Captain. That you had one was in and of itself normal - after all, you were now a flag officer, so you couldn't be bothered to make most ship maneuvers by yourself. A full-fledged Captain would command your vessel, and typically serve as your link to the remaining officers in the fleet, much like how Admiral's aides and flag captain would relate to their officer corps. What is unusual however, is that your Captain is a Reyan.
Hair the color of quicksilver, framing a delicate face of milky alabaster. If not for azure-aqua eyes, she would be the very image of traditional Reyan beauty. You venture to guess any number of reasons she was here: punishment, demotion, torpedoing of a career, a mustang career through fleet without connections, lack of scholarship at prestigious academy...even a spy or executioner. The color was just right for a Yorhan after all.
But you voice none of those things as you return a perfect military salute to her own.
"Permission to enter onboard, Captain."
"Permission granted, Commodore. I hereby turn over the command of fleet over to you." Her accent is high and clipped, reminiscent of the Capitol. "I am Captain Noire Eorlande, and I am to be your flag captain and adjutant." You can't help but hear just a slight hesitation when she pronounces her surname. "We have prepared a brief tour of the vessel, after which I have taken the liberty of organizing a general meeting of all fleet sub-commanders..."
You nod. Some officers might have felt insulted, but you felt inclined to compliment her forward thinking and industriousness. You were unlikely to get much time to prepare, and you'd rather get to work immediately. "Excellent work, Captain. Lead on."
"Zer Valk!"
***
There is indeed little time to prepare and much to do. The Marshall needs her reinforcements quickly, so the only time you get to synchronize your fleet are the relentless exercises you run whenever your formation is transitioning in-systems between Hyshtam jumps.
Most of your officers are green, mostly former Auxilla from fleets that valued them higher than a disposable cannon fodder. They are far from helpless actually, though you find their experience a bit lacking. Fortunately, there is yourself and a couple of veterans in the formation, and however much the crews come to hate you for your relentless, unwavering schedule, the time when you simulate sinking most of your fleet with just its core heavy element and destroyer wing does much to give them perspective. Your own captain proves helpful as well - while your paranoia isn't gone in the least, she proves herself unobtrusive and capable in her role. She works strangely well with other Auxilla as well, and combination of charm and strict discipline make the enlisted respect her a great deal.
Of course, train as much as you might, you just can't maintain fleet at alert levels at all times, as much as you'd want. It's almost funny...your forgot just how much work Hayrant was making you do now that you are your own officer. You just....don't know what to do with your free time, as it happens.
[]Poor Desalt doesn't know what to do outside of more work. Find something for him, would you? [Write-in]
***
"Coordinates confirmed. Drives spooled up. We are ready for a Hysh jump."
Noire nodded, turning to you. "The fleet is ready for our final jump into Tansei Station, Commodore." You nod, sitting at your command throne, head buried in tactical display. "Make it so, Captain."
"All ships. Initiate jump!"
A moment in time, stretched into infinity. Space, matter, time, orientation all cease to matter as the world outside of your ship turns into an endless corridor of shapes and colors, unnatural in its speed and intensity. This was the plane of Hysh, the otherwordly realm that made travel between the stars possible. You recall that in old Reyan, hysh meant "magic" or "high sorcery", hence why most sailors referred to it as 'witchspace'. Despite passage of time, little was known about it - no research ever made the headway, although it was somewhat understood that conditions outside shielded hulls were lethal, with temperatures beneath the concept of absolute zero and dense bands of exotic radiation. You also remember that most species experienced jumps differently - Giscarlanders found the experience colorful, but somewhat remarkably unremarkable. Reyans found it profoundly unsettling, and some species reacted to Hysh travel with nothing but utter, screaming terror.
Just as suddenly, the universe comes apart under an intense point of light, and you return to the normal space. A layer of thin ice breaks off the hull of your vessels, forming crystalline vapor trails as ships go under normal impulse power.
Before you, stretched the Tansei Naval Station, the nerve center of Heleian Absolute Defense Line. Literal thousands of ships stretch before you, like endless corals of light under the gaze of a stellar remnant. Massive fortifications floated through space in complicated patterns, with docks, starbases and defense satellites all mingling.
"Look, over there!" Someone down below on the command deck shouts. "It's the Anemone II!"
Your eyes drift through the screens, picking up a massive vessel. It shared the same profile as the battleship of the Imperial Guard, only being colored in bone-white of the Cosmo Fleet, with an intricate pattern of black vines etched into the hull.
"An Asuryan-pattern Battleship." You quietly say to yourself. "Very rate, outside of banner fleets."
"I've heard the Marshall received it as reward from Supreme Leader, after the Well of Souls campaign." Noire replied. "They say her hull was never breached by enemy fire."
A battlefield legend to be sure, you muse, but a part of you hoped it was true...and that you would live long enough to share in same legend.
***
You are received quickly and without fanfare at one of the Tansei's main operating stations. Well, "without fanfare" was relative, as you are greeted by the Marshall herself.
As you strain yourself to top you already parade-perfect salute, you see that for once the propaganda wasn't far off the mark. Marshall Dommel is as tall and beautiful as pictured, long legs and attractive hips, light skin and wheat-gold hair. The elaborate white-and-gold uniform does not hide her beauty in the least, but there is thundering iron in her stride, and her Marshall's baton is never far from her hands.
"Commodore Abess and the 9th Strike Group, reporting as ordered!" You announce. You notice that some officers behind Marshall seem surprised, even angry at your presence. But Marshall herself makes no noise or movement to acknowledge you. Her gem-like eyes burrow into you, before a corner of her lips, ever so slightly, tips forward.
She returns your salute.
"Welcome to the frontlines, Commodore. Good of Command to finally send us reinforcements, but I am afraid there will be no time for formal ceremonies or training maneuvers. The situation is in constant flux, and our groups needs to be on the move, at all times."
You dutifully nod. "We stand ready for your command, Marshall."
The smile grows a little larger. "That's good, because we are sortieing, Commodore. As of two weeks ago, enemy activity spiked across the entire border." The cause of which remained unsaid, of course - "Command anticipates yet another general push by the Heleians. The regular formations are preparing to mount coordinates static defense along the forward perimeter, but enemy projections don't look very enticing. That's where we come in." You wait on her to continue.
"Long-range observations and scouting confirms that Heleians are massing in several systems not far from here, and we're even now receiving reports of their advanced scouting parties. So we're going to hit the beehive before all of them hatch." Marshall's eyes focus on you and your Captain. "I have a plan, Commodore, but for it to work I need my light assault units, yours included. You are to hit high-value targets, places and operations we suspect to be of value to the Heleians, puncture their ballooning confidence."
Classical raiding, by the sounds of it. "As to delay or disrupt their preparations?" Dommel's smile is predatory as she replies.
"No Commodore...to have them chase you."
You blink, surprised, while she continues. "My aim is to provoke the restless vanguard of Heleian fleet into rash action before it reaches critical mass. For this to work, I need aggressive raiding force to make enough nuisance of themselves to make them respond. Destroy their fleets, intercept their raiders, raid their supplies. However, whatever you do Commodore, it is imperative you return to our staging area in Almiratz system in three days. Not before, and certainly not after. Do you understand?"
You nod again.
"Excellent then. You have your orders; my staff will send you my intelligence and list of targets as soon as you return to your flagship. Zer Valk!"
"Zer Valk!"
***
There is much information that the Admiral's staff brings you; unfortunately most can be easily summed up as "the Heleians are bringing everything". As they always do.
Luckily, the forward observers had done their duty, and staff had identified several points of interest that can be hit immediately. To maximize operation chances, both Light Assault formations of Marshall's Task Group, the 7th and 9th (that's yours) Strike Groups would be mobilized; however both would operate independently. It was imperative than in three days you manage to rouse enough enemies to follow you into the Almiratz where the rest of fleet was massing.
Sounded simple enough but for the executions...always the hardest part.
What target should you hit?
[]Raiding the Raiders: Scouts are tracking several light raiding forces that typically preempt major Heleian fleet movements, typically striking at light targets of opportunity in its path and acting as ambushes and fast-attack reinforcements in battles. Catching them might be a bit of a challenge, but destroying them will remove Heleian eyes and ears before battle, and force them to respond with less efficient, heavier forces (- High-speed Critical, Wide-open terrain, Superior Enemy Numbers, Far Superior Own Firepower)
[]Bushwacking the Hive: One of forward enemy fleets has speed spotted traveling through Mir-Miram binary system, at edges of Western Tansei Dust Clouds. The dim, blue-and-orange clouds of dust are as much of a nuisance to you as they are to the enemy, and an enterprising strike force could use them as cover to hit the fleet directly and then make their escape. This will be like playing on the enemy's nose - it will garner definitive response, but if you cannot make the getaway, you will be destroyed. (High-Risk High-reward target, Heavy Enemy Presence, Dust Clouds for everyone, Potential Superheavies, Speed Advantage)
[]Civilized People Do it Better: Everyone needs supplies, even Heleians. Forward scouts had identified asteroid sites in Tyth-157 system as temporary forward resupply stations for Heleian fleets. In typical barbarian fashion, these are lightly guarded before fighting starts, paving a way for a strike force to infiltrate and successfully deny the enemy the chance to resupply after a long trek....and gather the ire of the barbaric huntsmen. The obvious issue is that once your are detected, you can expect major enemy reinforcements and you will be fighting at enemy's preferred astro-terrain, beyond friendly lines. (Low Enemy Awareness, Enemy Field Advantage, Reinforcements, Long Travel Time).
Dust Wars - Dust Chase
Alastor Mobius Toth
***** ***
- Location
- Neon Ghetto
GM's Note: Since we were tied on the fleet objective, I had to use my tried and proven tiebreaker (i.e coin flip) and hitting the enemy raiders won out. Also, due to a number of constraints and issues last week, I wasn't able to devote as much time as I'd like to writing, so the Obligatory Training Montage will be played out later as an interactive Interlude. But before that, exploding spess ships!
[X]Train Martial Arts with your officials.
[X]Raiding the Raiders
Catching a Heleian fleet sounds simple in theory. In practice, like with all theory, it is somewhat more involved. The Heleians are wild, aggressive race, and though your forward observers do good work, it is difficult to anticipate their movements in full. It doesn't help that, while swift, your own formation still lags behind theirs. In fact, by the time your ships depart, half of the forward observers had reported that they lost track of the enemy forces.
What is supposed to be a quick, decisive action turns into a slow, meandering plodding along Tansei Ways, chasing down sensors ghosts and extrapolating enemy presence from incomplete scouting reports. It is frustrating, and frequent jumps wear on novice crew. You do ran across a few scouting parties, and dispatch them without issue, but the main raiding force remains illusive.
But you remain adamant, staying on bridge all day staring at strategic screens while watches changed below you. The Heleians were barbaric, true, but they were still sentient. They had goals, objectives. Something they would attack. Much like in the layered game of pizeres, though enemy movements could remain obscure and incomprehensible, the competent player knew that sooner or later, the enemy would be forced to take one of the objectives. Identify objective and its most likely path, and you can use it to trace the enemy...
It is then that you have an epiphany. You scour through the list of every Imperial colony and station in the sector, interposed on the local galactic map. Most are duds of course, but one - one target fits the profile.
Akin Station was a remote deep-space habitat in Tyth-459 system, orbiting a prospective colony world. A civilian installation, it was warned of oncoming attack, but lacked any local defending forces, nor could it count on reinforcements. A wild settlement, vulnerable in the face of oncoming storm. And within lay the life-sustaining prizes - air, water and food, and whatever valuables Heleians would take from the would-be dead crew and pioneers aground. A good raid target to gather provisions, bloody the troops and strike the first blow unopposed. And, more importantly, an occasion which would absorb most of the frontier fleet element. You could catch them in one system, perhaps even destroy the fleets one by one as they assembled.
But only if you make it on time.
It is still a narrow-thing - your fleet pushes the drives to its limits, and in-between jumps you manage to catch some semblance of sleep. If your calculations are correct, you should arrive right into the thick of enemy attack...but quietly, you admit that you wouldn't bet your life on those odds. One way or the other, it would be a near-run thing.
"Jump Completed. All vessels accounted for." Noire reported as the bridge crew went to work, command nests vibrating with dull sound of quiet conversations. "As you've suspected, Commodore. We are picking up Heleian fleets converging around...wait, stand by-" Your tactical screens blink as they're fed with new information, while Noire quickly falls into a rapid conversations with her First Officer and sensor operators.
"We are detecting a major Heleian fleet element near us. Judging by their vector, they must have Hyshed out just before us."
Your eyes narrow as you observe the formation before your eyes. It was fairly large, but mass and energy estimates put most vessels around Corvette-weight, with scant heavy vessels. Against a pure skirmish force a challenge, but your bulk and weight could smash them apart easily...
"Signal to fleet, execute attack plan Silver-3. Cruisers will take the front, while our Command element will commence support. Reserve the fighters until ordered." You quickly order. Attack Plan Silver was the general term for a fast, frontal attack; the third variant emphasized the staying power of your cruisers as a mailed fist, with lighter forces conserved for screening and further action.
Noire transmits your orders, and you watch as your ships come about, impulse engines whirling into full power. Your crews were green, but the harsh training you've had them put in is now paying off as ships quickly and efficiently assume their positions. There were still a few rough spots, but they would be polished with experience. Besides, you are confident in your Sub-Commanders - your meet was...unconventional one, but for the most part you were confident in their ability to both obey orders and react to unforeseen circumstances.
"Well." You grin wryly. "A little bit of luck didn't hurt either."
Indeed, you were fortunate to arrive into the system at all on time, and even more so to catch the trail end of enemy fleet by surprise at the same time.
You watch as the fleet takes a wedge-like formation, resembling a squashed spearhead. The Heleians ahead have finally became aware of your presence, but their reaction time has cost them dearly.
"Hold fire until ordered." You declare, silently watching as your formation closed in. Your prism cannons were already in range, but a handful of batteries wouldn't deal as much damage as you'd want. Instead, you hold them until remaining weapons are in range. Shock and awe was as important as raw firepower - not just destroying the enemy by panicking the survivors, denying them the ability to reform.
"Be swift as a coursing river, powerful as a roaring storm and unmovable as a mountain" You mentally recite one of your old readings as painfully slow minutes trickle by. Heleian vessels begun to rapidly turn, like a flock of spooked fish, but it was too late now.
"Captain, you may fire when ready."
Noire nods, before stretching out her hand, as her voice clearly rings above command nests. "All batteries - fire!"
As one, the guns fire, lighting the space in brilliant kaleidoscope of colors while the missiles streaked onwards like rogue meteors. The element of surprise and superior range of the Imperial gunnery proves lethal as ship after ship explodes, each becoming a little star on its own. Though few in number, the bright beams of your prism cannons are clearly visible as they scythe through what few heavy units the Heleians have. With last battle still on your mind, you can't help but feel satisfaction as you watch what is possibly the enemy flagship snap in half as its hit midship, fire and debris pouring from hull breaches. Elsewhere corvettes and destroyers come apart under positron hits, fine burning debris showering other ships in the fleet. Missiles swerve and chase after more mobile strike craft and frigates, to great effects as you watch their signals wink out.
The weight of your first assault is enough to halt the barbaric mass - and the second breaks it. Though you may be only a Light Assault element, against an isolated Heleian fleet element you are a hammer. And appropriately, you watch as you slam the guts out of the technobarbarians, as further ships turn to dust. With the priority targets destroyed, your prism-bearing ships focus on the main fleet, scything through it like swords of light. In their path, surviving corvettes tumble in uncontrolled flight, trailing smoke and missing halves of their hull...those that are not incinerated outright, at least. Your own ship rumbles, as Noire adds her personal arsenal to the symphony of destruction.
At this point, discipline among Heleians breaks down, and a few surviving vessels begin to scatter right and left. Most however continue on, dead set on ramming into your fleet. At long last, green particle shots begin to rain onto your fleet. However, with most of the enemy down, and with your lightest forces held back, they take no ships - though a few of your light cruisers are left scarred, hulls twisted with heat and trailing black clouds. Inside, engineers and medics fought desperate battles of their own among fused decks and clouds of burning oxygen, restoring systems functionality and saving whoever survived. Meanwhile, your return salvo hits the Heleians at point-blank range - close enough that a few ships don't even bother with guns and simply tear apart Heleians with massed point defense fire.
Like an armored knight, your fleet barrels through what was left of Heleian fleet, leaving behind only the specter of death.
"A fine beginning, but merely a start of a greater battle." You think cautiously, while Noire gathers reports on the deck beneath.
"Sir" she calls you "We have passed through the Heleian fleet. Their casualties are total. However, that brought us from behind the moon, and the remaining Heleian fleets would surely notice the discharges from the battle..." she trails off, while you drum your fingers against your command throne.
"Formation White-2. Accelerate to attack speed." You order, watching as the fleet assumes a more conventional formation composed of multiple three-dimensional wedges and spherical formations of your screening forces. The gauntlet was thrown; now all that remained was the barbarian's reaction...
You grimace.
Unfortunately, whoever was in the overall command of the enemy force, they weren't a complete fool. The fleets dispersed around the world and Imperial station immediately begin moving, coalescing into two separate fleets. A few units - likely transports and heavier vessels - remain anchored at the station, but the intent was clear.
They were going to run.
"Aspect change!" One of the crew reports, almost happily. "Enemy units...are disengaging! We've got them on the run."
"Picking up transmission from the station!" Another reports. "They are requesting urgent relief!"
Your fleet had enough speed that you could still catch them, if barely. But that would necessitate engaging the entire remaining fleet at close range, hardly an optimal solution. If you chose a more classic engagement, you would make the most of your qualitative superiority, and likely destroy them completely, but you'd then have to chase down other groups...but by then, most would probably get away. The station was an issue too. Technically, they aren't your problem...but they have requested your aid, and it would be just and proper to answer. You could commit your strike craft assets to task...but that would leave them out of the coming battle, where their influence could be decisive.
You decide to...:
[]Charge the fleet: The enemy raiders cannot be allowed to disperse again. Though the circumstances are less than ideal, you have the bulk and firepower. You will engage ship-to-ship.
[]Stay in formation: Heleian uncoordinated-but-fluid battle style works well in chaotic, close-range actions. It would be prudent to keep your distance to maximize the effectiveness of your fleet. You will have only limited opportunity to engage however, while the rest of the enemy fleet scatters.
Meanwhile, you order your strike craft to...:
[]Help the station: It is a difficult choice, but manageable. You will loose your fighter assets for a while, but you can still protect your fleet with destroyers and seeker missiles.
[]Support the fleet: The assistance of your fast-moving fighters and gunships is too crucial to spare. They will remain with the fleet and assist in action against the enemy you came here to defeat.
[X]Train Martial Arts with your officials.
[X]Raiding the Raiders
****
Catching a Heleian fleet sounds simple in theory. In practice, like with all theory, it is somewhat more involved. The Heleians are wild, aggressive race, and though your forward observers do good work, it is difficult to anticipate their movements in full. It doesn't help that, while swift, your own formation still lags behind theirs. In fact, by the time your ships depart, half of the forward observers had reported that they lost track of the enemy forces.
What is supposed to be a quick, decisive action turns into a slow, meandering plodding along Tansei Ways, chasing down sensors ghosts and extrapolating enemy presence from incomplete scouting reports. It is frustrating, and frequent jumps wear on novice crew. You do ran across a few scouting parties, and dispatch them without issue, but the main raiding force remains illusive.
But you remain adamant, staying on bridge all day staring at strategic screens while watches changed below you. The Heleians were barbaric, true, but they were still sentient. They had goals, objectives. Something they would attack. Much like in the layered game of pizeres, though enemy movements could remain obscure and incomprehensible, the competent player knew that sooner or later, the enemy would be forced to take one of the objectives. Identify objective and its most likely path, and you can use it to trace the enemy...
It is then that you have an epiphany. You scour through the list of every Imperial colony and station in the sector, interposed on the local galactic map. Most are duds of course, but one - one target fits the profile.
Akin Station was a remote deep-space habitat in Tyth-459 system, orbiting a prospective colony world. A civilian installation, it was warned of oncoming attack, but lacked any local defending forces, nor could it count on reinforcements. A wild settlement, vulnerable in the face of oncoming storm. And within lay the life-sustaining prizes - air, water and food, and whatever valuables Heleians would take from the would-be dead crew and pioneers aground. A good raid target to gather provisions, bloody the troops and strike the first blow unopposed. And, more importantly, an occasion which would absorb most of the frontier fleet element. You could catch them in one system, perhaps even destroy the fleets one by one as they assembled.
But only if you make it on time.
It is still a narrow-thing - your fleet pushes the drives to its limits, and in-between jumps you manage to catch some semblance of sleep. If your calculations are correct, you should arrive right into the thick of enemy attack...but quietly, you admit that you wouldn't bet your life on those odds. One way or the other, it would be a near-run thing.
***
"Jump Completed. All vessels accounted for." Noire reported as the bridge crew went to work, command nests vibrating with dull sound of quiet conversations. "As you've suspected, Commodore. We are picking up Heleian fleets converging around...wait, stand by-" Your tactical screens blink as they're fed with new information, while Noire quickly falls into a rapid conversations with her First Officer and sensor operators.
"We are detecting a major Heleian fleet element near us. Judging by their vector, they must have Hyshed out just before us."
Your eyes narrow as you observe the formation before your eyes. It was fairly large, but mass and energy estimates put most vessels around Corvette-weight, with scant heavy vessels. Against a pure skirmish force a challenge, but your bulk and weight could smash them apart easily...
"Signal to fleet, execute attack plan Silver-3. Cruisers will take the front, while our Command element will commence support. Reserve the fighters until ordered." You quickly order. Attack Plan Silver was the general term for a fast, frontal attack; the third variant emphasized the staying power of your cruisers as a mailed fist, with lighter forces conserved for screening and further action.
Noire transmits your orders, and you watch as your ships come about, impulse engines whirling into full power. Your crews were green, but the harsh training you've had them put in is now paying off as ships quickly and efficiently assume their positions. There were still a few rough spots, but they would be polished with experience. Besides, you are confident in your Sub-Commanders - your meet was...unconventional one, but for the most part you were confident in their ability to both obey orders and react to unforeseen circumstances.
"Well." You grin wryly. "A little bit of luck didn't hurt either."
Indeed, you were fortunate to arrive into the system at all on time, and even more so to catch the trail end of enemy fleet by surprise at the same time.
You watch as the fleet takes a wedge-like formation, resembling a squashed spearhead. The Heleians ahead have finally became aware of your presence, but their reaction time has cost them dearly.
"Hold fire until ordered." You declare, silently watching as your formation closed in. Your prism cannons were already in range, but a handful of batteries wouldn't deal as much damage as you'd want. Instead, you hold them until remaining weapons are in range. Shock and awe was as important as raw firepower - not just destroying the enemy by panicking the survivors, denying them the ability to reform.
"Be swift as a coursing river, powerful as a roaring storm and unmovable as a mountain" You mentally recite one of your old readings as painfully slow minutes trickle by. Heleian vessels begun to rapidly turn, like a flock of spooked fish, but it was too late now.
"Captain, you may fire when ready."
Noire nods, before stretching out her hand, as her voice clearly rings above command nests. "All batteries - fire!"
As one, the guns fire, lighting the space in brilliant kaleidoscope of colors while the missiles streaked onwards like rogue meteors. The element of surprise and superior range of the Imperial gunnery proves lethal as ship after ship explodes, each becoming a little star on its own. Though few in number, the bright beams of your prism cannons are clearly visible as they scythe through what few heavy units the Heleians have. With last battle still on your mind, you can't help but feel satisfaction as you watch what is possibly the enemy flagship snap in half as its hit midship, fire and debris pouring from hull breaches. Elsewhere corvettes and destroyers come apart under positron hits, fine burning debris showering other ships in the fleet. Missiles swerve and chase after more mobile strike craft and frigates, to great effects as you watch their signals wink out.
The weight of your first assault is enough to halt the barbaric mass - and the second breaks it. Though you may be only a Light Assault element, against an isolated Heleian fleet element you are a hammer. And appropriately, you watch as you slam the guts out of the technobarbarians, as further ships turn to dust. With the priority targets destroyed, your prism-bearing ships focus on the main fleet, scything through it like swords of light. In their path, surviving corvettes tumble in uncontrolled flight, trailing smoke and missing halves of their hull...those that are not incinerated outright, at least. Your own ship rumbles, as Noire adds her personal arsenal to the symphony of destruction.
At this point, discipline among Heleians breaks down, and a few surviving vessels begin to scatter right and left. Most however continue on, dead set on ramming into your fleet. At long last, green particle shots begin to rain onto your fleet. However, with most of the enemy down, and with your lightest forces held back, they take no ships - though a few of your light cruisers are left scarred, hulls twisted with heat and trailing black clouds. Inside, engineers and medics fought desperate battles of their own among fused decks and clouds of burning oxygen, restoring systems functionality and saving whoever survived. Meanwhile, your return salvo hits the Heleians at point-blank range - close enough that a few ships don't even bother with guns and simply tear apart Heleians with massed point defense fire.
Like an armored knight, your fleet barrels through what was left of Heleian fleet, leaving behind only the specter of death.
Main Force:
- 114x Destroyers
- 25x Chrono-pattern Light Cruisers (4 damaged)
- 20x Vaul-pattern Light Cruisers (1 damaged)
- 5x Hoeth-pattern Light Cruisers
Command Element
- Flagship
- 10x Isha-pattern Line Cruisers
- 15x Lileath-pattern Line Cruisers
Strike Craft: At full capacity
Morale: Eager
- 114x Destroyers
- 25x Chrono-pattern Light Cruisers (4 damaged)
- 20x Vaul-pattern Light Cruisers (1 damaged)
- 5x Hoeth-pattern Light Cruisers
Command Element
- Flagship
- 10x Isha-pattern Line Cruisers
- 15x Lileath-pattern Line Cruisers
Strike Craft: At full capacity
Morale: Eager
"A fine beginning, but merely a start of a greater battle." You think cautiously, while Noire gathers reports on the deck beneath.
"Sir" she calls you "We have passed through the Heleian fleet. Their casualties are total. However, that brought us from behind the moon, and the remaining Heleian fleets would surely notice the discharges from the battle..." she trails off, while you drum your fingers against your command throne.
"Formation White-2. Accelerate to attack speed." You order, watching as the fleet assumes a more conventional formation composed of multiple three-dimensional wedges and spherical formations of your screening forces. The gauntlet was thrown; now all that remained was the barbarian's reaction...
You grimace.
Unfortunately, whoever was in the overall command of the enemy force, they weren't a complete fool. The fleets dispersed around the world and Imperial station immediately begin moving, coalescing into two separate fleets. A few units - likely transports and heavier vessels - remain anchored at the station, but the intent was clear.
They were going to run.
"Aspect change!" One of the crew reports, almost happily. "Enemy units...are disengaging! We've got them on the run."
"Picking up transmission from the station!" Another reports. "They are requesting urgent relief!"
Your fleet had enough speed that you could still catch them, if barely. But that would necessitate engaging the entire remaining fleet at close range, hardly an optimal solution. If you chose a more classic engagement, you would make the most of your qualitative superiority, and likely destroy them completely, but you'd then have to chase down other groups...but by then, most would probably get away. The station was an issue too. Technically, they aren't your problem...but they have requested your aid, and it would be just and proper to answer. You could commit your strike craft assets to task...but that would leave them out of the coming battle, where their influence could be decisive.
You decide to...:
[]Charge the fleet: The enemy raiders cannot be allowed to disperse again. Though the circumstances are less than ideal, you have the bulk and firepower. You will engage ship-to-ship.
[]Stay in formation: Heleian uncoordinated-but-fluid battle style works well in chaotic, close-range actions. It would be prudent to keep your distance to maximize the effectiveness of your fleet. You will have only limited opportunity to engage however, while the rest of the enemy fleet scatters.
Meanwhile, you order your strike craft to...:
[]Help the station: It is a difficult choice, but manageable. You will loose your fighter assets for a while, but you can still protect your fleet with destroyers and seeker missiles.
[]Support the fleet: The assistance of your fast-moving fighters and gunships is too crucial to spare. They will remain with the fleet and assist in action against the enemy you came here to defeat.
Omake - A Citizen's Rewards
- Location
- Germiston, South Africa
*Gulp* Alright first omake attempt.
Omake - Eos Refurbishment HQ.
For some minutes now, your routine visit to Refurbishment HQ has been ... decidedly non-routine.
You presented your orders at the counter, expecting to be told which vessels had been assigned to your shiny new Commodore command.
Instead, you have been invited past the counter by an oddly respectful clerk, and led led past office after office to the one at the end. With the bronze plaque reading 'Commodore Kay Eor Volant, Port Admiral'.
The receptionist looks up, nods to the clerk, and leads you straight into the office.
Eor Volant wheels his decidedly old-fashioned, non-powered wheelchair out from the starship sized desk and to the meeting nook.
Waving you over, he orders you to sit, and reaches into one of his chair's panniers - for the tasseled, square cap of an Imperial Servant.
Taking off his uniform cap, he puts on the tassel cap, pours two glasses of wine and ... smiles at you.
'Welcome Citizen, if you are wondering why you are seeing me, the reason is simple, I have been tasked with providing the Fief Minor to go with your Full Citizenship.
By Imperial command, it is on Giscander, I in fact wanted it to be in the area your family lives.
However, since your family seems to be as competent as you, an engineer here, a high-skilled foreman there, all in great demand, no such luck I fear.
What I have done is placed it in unit 2271, where your uncle lives, and assigned him as the Steward for the Fief.
Now as to the details ...'
Several minutes later he leans back, takes another sip of wine and says
'On a personal note, I am very pleased to have had the opportunity to aid you.
It is people like you who show the worth of the Imperial system, rising up by courage and skill from barbarian cultures to heights you could not have dreamed of.
Congratulations Citizen, I hope to meet you again with yet more accomplishments to burnish your name.'
Replacing his uniform cap, he switches back to a tone of command.
'Commodore, I am giving you the Umbra, Captain Eorlande, I think you will be a good fit. Light Assault Wing. Your orders are cut for a shuttle to Umbra. Dismissed'
Years of practice keep your posture erect, your face calm, and your steps even as you leave the office.
You have met a high Reyan who genuinely believes in the Imperial System - and - he approves of you?
OOC - First attempt so both kudos and critics happily received.
Edited for unfortunate both parents dead, grammar.
Omake - Eos Refurbishment HQ.
For some minutes now, your routine visit to Refurbishment HQ has been ... decidedly non-routine.
You presented your orders at the counter, expecting to be told which vessels had been assigned to your shiny new Commodore command.
Instead, you have been invited past the counter by an oddly respectful clerk, and led led past office after office to the one at the end. With the bronze plaque reading 'Commodore Kay Eor Volant, Port Admiral'.
The receptionist looks up, nods to the clerk, and leads you straight into the office.
Eor Volant wheels his decidedly old-fashioned, non-powered wheelchair out from the starship sized desk and to the meeting nook.
Waving you over, he orders you to sit, and reaches into one of his chair's panniers - for the tasseled, square cap of an Imperial Servant.
Taking off his uniform cap, he puts on the tassel cap, pours two glasses of wine and ... smiles at you.
'Welcome Citizen, if you are wondering why you are seeing me, the reason is simple, I have been tasked with providing the Fief Minor to go with your Full Citizenship.
By Imperial command, it is on Giscander, I in fact wanted it to be in the area your family lives.
However, since your family seems to be as competent as you, an engineer here, a high-skilled foreman there, all in great demand, no such luck I fear.
What I have done is placed it in unit 2271, where your uncle lives, and assigned him as the Steward for the Fief.
Now as to the details ...'
Several minutes later he leans back, takes another sip of wine and says
'On a personal note, I am very pleased to have had the opportunity to aid you.
It is people like you who show the worth of the Imperial system, rising up by courage and skill from barbarian cultures to heights you could not have dreamed of.
Congratulations Citizen, I hope to meet you again with yet more accomplishments to burnish your name.'
Replacing his uniform cap, he switches back to a tone of command.
'Commodore, I am giving you the Umbra, Captain Eorlande, I think you will be a good fit. Light Assault Wing. Your orders are cut for a shuttle to Umbra. Dismissed'
Years of practice keep your posture erect, your face calm, and your steps even as you leave the office.
You have met a high Reyan who genuinely believes in the Imperial System - and - he approves of you?
OOC - First attempt so both kudos and critics happily received.
Edited for unfortunate both parents dead, grammar.
Last edited:
Dust Wars - Go Forth and Battle
Alastor Mobius Toth
***** ***
- Location
- Neon Ghetto
[X]Stay in formation: Heleian uncoordinated-but-fluid battle style works well in chaotic, close-range actions. It would be prudent to keep your distance to maximize the effectiveness of your fleet. You will have only limited opportunity to engage however, while the rest of the enemy fleet scatters.
[X]Help the station: It is a difficult choice, but manageable. You will loose your fighter assets for a while, but you can still protect your fleet with destroyers and seeker missiles.
You drum your fingers against the command throne as you consider your options, your eyes boring into tactical displays.
"Stay in attack formation." You order. "Fighting Heleians on their own terms right now is exactly what they're hoping for. Besides, we are here to draw enemy attention, not just to kill." Noire nods at your explanation, surveying her own tactical readouts.
"And what of the station?"
You drum your fingers once more. "Detach strike craft as necessary; advise destroyers that with our fighter cover gone, the brunt of point defense will fall to them. Ensure they maintain appropriate position relative to our fleet; squadron commanders can handle dividing individual tasks."
Noire quickly begins to relay your orders, and you watch how your fleet responds once again. Like a hive of bloodthirsty metallic wasps, your strike craft swarm away from the vicinity of your fleet, rapidly accelerating to attack speed along shortest attach vector. You see that the enemy fighters around the station rally a defense, but with the reminder of their fleet retreating the situation was grim. You smile - Imperial fighters were usually technically superior to Heleians in one-on-one combat, but more often than not found themselves overwhelmed by sheer enemy numbers. Not so much today; you were certain that the Auxilla pilots would be more than eager to even up the score.
Meanwhile, your own attack develops as the fleet takes as wide formation as possible without isolating individual units, thereby increasing their fire coverage. Luckily, the enemy seems too busy with the retreat to organize their formations, giving you the first move.
"Remind all vessels that munitions are to be strictly rationed." You idly remind your captain. "Engage."
A few tense heartbeats more, and your ships enter the maximum range of your positron batteries. And as one, the fleet speaks with beams of light.
You watch as light enemy vessels are speared one by one, like fish at the hands of ancient fisherman wielding a spear. Fast and numerous and unpredictable, the corvette and destroyer swarms of Heleians were a danger up close, were a second of inattentiveness would bring death from unsuspecting vector. But here, at range, your fleet dominated - Heleian raider fleets were too light and fast to have heavier vessels following them, which meant they were deprived of true long-range weapons.
True, they would have some missiles at their disposal, but so far enemy return fire was sporadic, with only a few serious bursts that were easily focused down by your destroyer wings. Meanwhile, your ships were taking the maximum advantage of being just outside of enemy return fire. You watch with some satisfaction as wrecks limp out of formation, burning and trailing smoke.
"Out attack is almost unopposed." Noire summarizes as she looks up from the tactical bridge. "But the range and speed means that a lot of enemy vessels are eluding us. Enemy kill estimates are 35 to 50% lower than what I imagined."
You grunt. You had too few prism-armed ships to truly engage in an artillery hunt, meaning you could only realistically focus on the trail end of enemy formation...still, your ships were doing well overall.
"Aspect change!" One of the officers called as displays winked with updates. "Enemy strike craft incoming!"
You frown. Detaching from retreating fleet was their own fighter cover, a swarm of angry red ants. Judging by how the ships didn't slow down, you venture a guess that the enemy was expanding their strike craft in an effort to stall or even hurt you, while they continued to flee. Crude and barbaric...but effective in a way.
"Tighten up our formation, and have tactical prepare for anti-fighter combat." You order, before focusing on Noire. "How are our own fighters doing?"
There is a pregnant pause as she quickly taps away on her command console before speaking with someone.
"The attack is progressing well Commodore. Our fighter attack has largely achieved superiority over the enemy. One capital ship has already been sunk and the remainder is attempting to withdraw. Squadron leaders are...requesting that permission to hunt them down is given."
Somewhere out there, a lethal dance is growing, between the sleek, black-gold Imperial fighters and the boxy, seemingly decrepit and yet surprisingly fast and well armed Heleians. Pilots weave and dodge amidst frantic exchanges of rapid-fire cannons and heavy pulsers. Missiles snake out from pylons and internal bays, shattering targets apart. Somewhere, a fighter spins out of control as it collides with debris, caving in hull and causing internal fire. Somewhere, a corvette attempting to intercept a flight of fighters is bushwacked by an element of heavy bombers, detonating as heavy pulsars directly pierce its reactor core.
Your fighters are doing good work - good enough to drive the enemy away and achieve their objective. You quickly weight your options - you are confident that you could recall your fighters in time before the enemy reaches you in strength, dooming them from the start. But the overwhelming success of your massed fighter strike can be pressed further, into hunting down the few heavier ships the raiding fleet brought with it. Your fighter wing would take losses, true, but a pilot's life and plane were a paltry sum compared to a warship. But they could not be in two places at the same time; you would need to make a choice.
"Hmmmm...." you nod noncommittally as you study the battle. The second enemy fleet, escaping over the sunlight side of the unclaimed world was moving well away from you, but you could still catch the other one. At this point it seemed unlikely that it was an intentional ploy; likely the Heleians realized the firepower of their fleet and chose the proverbial better part of valor. You could still catch up with the second fleet, and with the losses they incurred, you are confident that you could destroy them ship-to-ship. But that would require plowing into enemy fighters at flank speed. If you recalled your fighters then, it would take some extra time for them to return, and without their support, you would be left mainly at the mercy of your destroyer's flaks.
You order your fighters to...:
[]Return to fleet: With their primary objectives achieved, the priority of the fighter wing is to assist it's mother force in combat. The enemy has been sent packing and losses were caused; they can be killed another time.
[]Give chase: While the bulk of enemy fleet runs, the opportunity to cull their heavier ships and transports unsupported presents itself. Let the pilots have their glory, and in process remove troublesome pieces of the play.
Meanwhile, you order your fleet to...:
[]Maintain its distance: You will not be dragged into a chase on the eve of victory. Maintain appropriate distance, ensuring the fleet can properly support itself. However, the enemy will almost certainly escape unmolested.
[]Charge: The enemy is running, their fighters spent as suicide missiles against your might. The time to strike is now; you should still be able to annihilate the reminder of enemy fleet, though some casualties are bound to happen.
****
Bit of delay this time. Unforeseen events, board games, learning to cast tabletop rules from some stuff...the usual, when it comes to me
The next few updates will likely be a bit on the short side, but I hope I can also get them done with greater frequency.
[X]Help the station: It is a difficult choice, but manageable. You will loose your fighter assets for a while, but you can still protect your fleet with destroyers and seeker missiles.
You drum your fingers against the command throne as you consider your options, your eyes boring into tactical displays.
"Stay in attack formation." You order. "Fighting Heleians on their own terms right now is exactly what they're hoping for. Besides, we are here to draw enemy attention, not just to kill." Noire nods at your explanation, surveying her own tactical readouts.
"And what of the station?"
You drum your fingers once more. "Detach strike craft as necessary; advise destroyers that with our fighter cover gone, the brunt of point defense will fall to them. Ensure they maintain appropriate position relative to our fleet; squadron commanders can handle dividing individual tasks."
Noire quickly begins to relay your orders, and you watch how your fleet responds once again. Like a hive of bloodthirsty metallic wasps, your strike craft swarm away from the vicinity of your fleet, rapidly accelerating to attack speed along shortest attach vector. You see that the enemy fighters around the station rally a defense, but with the reminder of their fleet retreating the situation was grim. You smile - Imperial fighters were usually technically superior to Heleians in one-on-one combat, but more often than not found themselves overwhelmed by sheer enemy numbers. Not so much today; you were certain that the Auxilla pilots would be more than eager to even up the score.
Meanwhile, your own attack develops as the fleet takes as wide formation as possible without isolating individual units, thereby increasing their fire coverage. Luckily, the enemy seems too busy with the retreat to organize their formations, giving you the first move.
"Remind all vessels that munitions are to be strictly rationed." You idly remind your captain. "Engage."
A few tense heartbeats more, and your ships enter the maximum range of your positron batteries. And as one, the fleet speaks with beams of light.
You watch as light enemy vessels are speared one by one, like fish at the hands of ancient fisherman wielding a spear. Fast and numerous and unpredictable, the corvette and destroyer swarms of Heleians were a danger up close, were a second of inattentiveness would bring death from unsuspecting vector. But here, at range, your fleet dominated - Heleian raider fleets were too light and fast to have heavier vessels following them, which meant they were deprived of true long-range weapons.
True, they would have some missiles at their disposal, but so far enemy return fire was sporadic, with only a few serious bursts that were easily focused down by your destroyer wings. Meanwhile, your ships were taking the maximum advantage of being just outside of enemy return fire. You watch with some satisfaction as wrecks limp out of formation, burning and trailing smoke.
"Out attack is almost unopposed." Noire summarizes as she looks up from the tactical bridge. "But the range and speed means that a lot of enemy vessels are eluding us. Enemy kill estimates are 35 to 50% lower than what I imagined."
You grunt. You had too few prism-armed ships to truly engage in an artillery hunt, meaning you could only realistically focus on the trail end of enemy formation...still, your ships were doing well overall.
"Aspect change!" One of the officers called as displays winked with updates. "Enemy strike craft incoming!"
You frown. Detaching from retreating fleet was their own fighter cover, a swarm of angry red ants. Judging by how the ships didn't slow down, you venture a guess that the enemy was expanding their strike craft in an effort to stall or even hurt you, while they continued to flee. Crude and barbaric...but effective in a way.
"Tighten up our formation, and have tactical prepare for anti-fighter combat." You order, before focusing on Noire. "How are our own fighters doing?"
There is a pregnant pause as she quickly taps away on her command console before speaking with someone.
"The attack is progressing well Commodore. Our fighter attack has largely achieved superiority over the enemy. One capital ship has already been sunk and the remainder is attempting to withdraw. Squadron leaders are...requesting that permission to hunt them down is given."
Somewhere out there, a lethal dance is growing, between the sleek, black-gold Imperial fighters and the boxy, seemingly decrepit and yet surprisingly fast and well armed Heleians. Pilots weave and dodge amidst frantic exchanges of rapid-fire cannons and heavy pulsers. Missiles snake out from pylons and internal bays, shattering targets apart. Somewhere, a fighter spins out of control as it collides with debris, caving in hull and causing internal fire. Somewhere, a corvette attempting to intercept a flight of fighters is bushwacked by an element of heavy bombers, detonating as heavy pulsars directly pierce its reactor core.
Your fighters are doing good work - good enough to drive the enemy away and achieve their objective. You quickly weight your options - you are confident that you could recall your fighters in time before the enemy reaches you in strength, dooming them from the start. But the overwhelming success of your massed fighter strike can be pressed further, into hunting down the few heavier ships the raiding fleet brought with it. Your fighter wing would take losses, true, but a pilot's life and plane were a paltry sum compared to a warship. But they could not be in two places at the same time; you would need to make a choice.
"Hmmmm...." you nod noncommittally as you study the battle. The second enemy fleet, escaping over the sunlight side of the unclaimed world was moving well away from you, but you could still catch the other one. At this point it seemed unlikely that it was an intentional ploy; likely the Heleians realized the firepower of their fleet and chose the proverbial better part of valor. You could still catch up with the second fleet, and with the losses they incurred, you are confident that you could destroy them ship-to-ship. But that would require plowing into enemy fighters at flank speed. If you recalled your fighters then, it would take some extra time for them to return, and without their support, you would be left mainly at the mercy of your destroyer's flaks.
You order your fighters to...:
[]Return to fleet: With their primary objectives achieved, the priority of the fighter wing is to assist it's mother force in combat. The enemy has been sent packing and losses were caused; they can be killed another time.
[]Give chase: While the bulk of enemy fleet runs, the opportunity to cull their heavier ships and transports unsupported presents itself. Let the pilots have their glory, and in process remove troublesome pieces of the play.
Meanwhile, you order your fleet to...:
[]Maintain its distance: You will not be dragged into a chase on the eve of victory. Maintain appropriate distance, ensuring the fleet can properly support itself. However, the enemy will almost certainly escape unmolested.
[]Charge: The enemy is running, their fighters spent as suicide missiles against your might. The time to strike is now; you should still be able to annihilate the reminder of enemy fleet, though some casualties are bound to happen.
****
Bit of delay this time. Unforeseen events, board games, learning to cast tabletop rules from some stuff...the usual, when it comes to me
The next few updates will likely be a bit on the short side, but I hope I can also get them done with greater frequency.