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THE BATTLE FOR CENTAURI PRIME, DAY 1 (cont'd)

Near Alpha Centauri-Sol jump point
The Alpha Centauri System
AUG 22 2416/2416.234; 2235 Hours (FST)

Twelve thousand klicks from the Alpha Centauri-Sol jump point, all of them were set and ready. All of the lines of fighters, bombers, battle wagons, and light gunships the small Confederate forces could spare for arms in the Battle for Centauri Prime were in formation, right outside the extremely thick minefield completed only minutes before.

The fighter squadrons of the armada were composed of retired atmospheric flyers refitted for space combat. All of them had space dirt and oil frozen to their hulls along with nasty looking scorch marks. Among the fighters there were the bird-like F-40B Komodos, the tear-shaped F/A-37A Quicksilvers, the ornithopter-like TB-35A Wyverns, the hulking A-15B Hurricanes, and the demonically symmetric F-42C Vultures. They waited.

Some pilots were so obsessed with fighting in the first battle they still piloted cargo haulers, now refitted into bombers, that spit sparks and vented fluid every other moment. The bombers were composed of air trams also. They packed missile tubes, and looked more ragged and composite then any other starfighter in the rebels’ arsenal. They waited.

The light gunships were simple things; refitted, winged escape pods with four single planet-designed ion cannons mounted on each side. Some were gray and some were black. The pod ships waited as well.

They all waited.

All of them were alone, weak and determined, but they were in numbers nonetheless. The Confederates themselves composed the Confederacy, dedicated to true peace, a peace with a choice, and not an enforced peace.

"For freedom!"

"We fight for home!"

"Martial Law be damned!"

Calls of the hopeful warriors filled the channels, the callers itching to end the conflict that had lasted so long and had cost so many lives. Too many lives had been lost in a war that shouldn’t have been; lives had been lost because of the military’s tenacity to stay on top.

"No more," Lieutenant JG Dawn "Phoenix" McKenzie whispered with fierce determination, echoing the words of others before her: Thomas Jefferson, Martin Luther, and Simon Bolivar. Each of them had wanted to break the titanium chains of oppression binding them, and they had done so. If asked, any one of them would admit it was a hard road, though...

She considered her past and her present. "Nothing... is ever easy," Dawn thought aloud. She had seen so much death in her young life, the death of her entire family. Foolishly, she had decided to join the Terran Federation Armed Forces to end others’ suffering like she had experienced in her childhood.

She had wanted to save lives, not to end them. Unfortunately, she had lost her true agenda, and by doing so had turned herself into a licensed killer, willing to go to any means to complete "the mission." She had become the being she fought against.

She would accept it now, not because of her role’s past, but because of the prominent future it would bring. Phoenix would help end this war, and end Martial Law. Not just for the next month, not for the next few years... forever.

Afterwards, within a government filled with injustice and totalitarianism, a new order would rise forth from the Ashes of War... like a phoenix.

Like her soul.

Dawn McKenzie, formerly a corporal in the Confederate Colonial Marines but now a lieutenant in the Space Navy, finally knew her role in the grand scheme of things. She was a soldier made not to fight in a war, but to end one. The fallen angel on a holy quest of not only her own redemption, but humanity’s.

Toil and trouble be damned—she would end this war.

"No more."

Combat information was relayed to her left HUD, indicating that the Federation’s forces had jumped in and were about to clear the minefield. Those dishonored among the Federates are about to plow through a couple hundred mines to get to us, Dawn thought to herself.

"Here they come, people, like it or not," Brigadier General Victor Grant, Commander-Air-Group of the five joint Confederate fighter wings, spoke over the channel. The General himself was seated in a light gunship/heavy fighter, an augmented space-train car fitted with a corvette’s engines and several missile launchers and guns. "The President of the Confederacy has left me with a message to relay to our soon-to-be offenders. Switching to public channel...

"Federation forces, our President has a message he would like for you to hear." A pause of static echoed in Dawn’s cockpit replaced one again by a recording of words of a different, more determined voice.

"Incoming Armed Forces of the Terran Federation, we stand before you in an armed mass-protest against the injustices—the dictatorship—of Sol’s current government, the World Economic Consortium."

The Union-class battleship/carrier, the USS Alexander, was near the edge of the minefield, scratched from explosions but still very much in fighting form.

"For ten years this war has raged, with no sign of letting up on either side. Our Intell reports that with our recent reclamation of Alpha Centauri from the hands of injustice, the WEC, your fleet is here to put a final end to this war. You have already failed in your mission. You are not going to end this bloody war. We are."

Behind the Alexander, several other carriers with escort cruisers in flank drifted in. In escort of those ships, were top-of-the-line fighters that hopelessly outclassed anything their enemy had.

The message continued with courage, even if everyone in the Confederacy was shaking with terror. No one broke from the seemingly endless formation of fighter craft though. "Trust us, there will be battle. Remember before you release fire that you are firing not on ‘the enemy’—a faceless foe only to show up on a KIA report hours after the battle. You are going to fire upon your fathers, mothers, sons and daughters and maybe even brothers. You will attempt to obliterate people who only quench for something everyone should have, but you have taken away: freedom. You will be fighting, tooth and nail, people who are perhaps more loyal to Earth than you could ever wish to be. If that is what you fire your first shots for, so be it.

"A fool follows his own path. Whichever gods you believe in, may they bestow mercy upon your souls." The message ended. Still, the incoming fleet moved on, unshaken.

Another long pause added to the soundless heavens. Finally, General Grant broke the silence, "All light fighters, escort and protect the gunships. Heavy fighters will take on heavy fighters, and everyone covers their wingmen. This may be chaos, but don’t fly like maniacs."

There would be no more waiting for any of them.

"Break and attack!"

With those three words, the Confederacy’s path to freedom... or death... had begun.

The whine of her lasgun cannons charging and the roar of her engines filled her once-silent cockpit as Phoenix engaged herself into battle. She looked on from a distance as the opposing Alexander and her other fleet ships unleashed their fighter compliments like flowing streams of metallic doomsayers.

In three minutes of nerve-burning intensity, several red dots on her targeting HUD came into combat range. Dawn wasn’t one to be selective, so she went after the nearest target: a HF-45D Peregrine-class heavy fighter/bomber. Superior in almost everywhere it counted technologically, McKenzie didn’t worry about that. She supposed that the bastards piloting the fighters were run-of-the-mill spacers punched out from the Academy.

The Federation regulations still ruled the pilots’ reasoning, unlike the Yan War veterans participating on the side of the rebels.

Skill and determination were always what technology could never account for.

"The Phoenix’s fire shall light your way to hell!" Dawn taunted, moving in on her target’s six. Unleashing everything her cobbled fighter could muster, punching through the enemy’s armor and predicting her opponent’s Academy-instilled evasive maneuvers to the letter. It was all too easy for the Lieutenant and all too pathetic for the dying pilot. With an expanding bubble of flame and debris, her first blood of the battle had been spurt upon the field.

Phoenix’s wings of fire spanned into the heavens, and obliterated all that were swept in fury.

USS Alexander; Bridge
Outer Alpha Centauri System
2245 Hours (FST)

"All hands brace for impact!"

"Jesus, sir, we’re taking a beating," Tolwyn’s executive officer commented a moment after the entire ship again rocked violently. "That is the third fighter that has gone kamikaze on us. The ventral side armor is down to twenty-three percent... point defense has moved in to compensate. All three of our escort battle wagons have minor hull breaches, but our forces are still in the fight."

"Yes, I know. Well in the fight." Tolwyn scratched slowly, in deep concentration, at the short hairs that had grown over the past few days. The drama of his bridge staff made the losses seem a desperate and increasing threat to the Federation Fleet... they weren’t. Concentrating on the battle display in the center of the bridge, he spoke after a few long seconds, "Have our fighters being moving toward grid seven by four by six, and concentrate the battle out there."

The Chinese female Tactical Officer gave him a suspicious look as she turned around in her seat to face her commanding officer. "That place is quiet... bringing our forces out that far will leave us defenseless."

"She’s right. It’s a fool’s errand, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir," his executive officer added.

"Our forces will take care of the Confed fighters though, drawing them in," Tolwyn explained. "The more of them that get destroyed, the more will come to bolster their defense. That will allow us to send a heavy bomber flight outside the battle lines, and straight into the armada."

"Then what?" Commodore Demuira ruckled his face. "The Armada’s fighters will just shoot them down."

"Their fighters can’t shoot them down," Tolwyn answered with a wolfish grin. "They will be too busy at grid seven-four-six."

The whole mood of the bridge had become darker since the beginning of the battle. The lights had been dimmed for their energy to be rerouted to the weapons grid. Therefore, the Fleet Admiral was basked in half-light and half-shadow as he stared out toward the port viewport, evaluating the fireworks of death and peril. Past his viewport another Confederate fighter twisted past in a bright flame.

Again, Fleet Admiral Tolwyn stood up toward his forward viewport, looking toward the bright blue marble that was Centauri Prime. He whispered, "Whether hand or fist, you shall be ours once again..."

Frederick knew he was no politician. He was a warrior, an honorable one following in the eight hundred year tradition of his family who served in the ancient navy, army, and air force of Britain and the space forces that preceeded the Federation of Terra’s. His family had seen the best of those moments, and he was proud of the memory of six Victoria Crosses in his family’s past. Tolwyns served at Waterloo, on the Somme, in the Battle of Britain, at Minsk, and the siege of London and had shed their blood heavily in the Galactic Civil War.

On the edge of his mind, Frederick heard the Tactical Officer speak into her headset, Mako’s words fading into the chatter of the bridge. "Lieutenant Hirohito to Squadron Commander Vasily..." the young Lieutenant spoke, "move all fighters toward grid seven-four-six, and concentrate the attack there. When that objective is complete, launch Cougar Bomber Flight toward the Armada.

"Their payload: two capital ship missiles each."

CFS Britain; Bridge
Inner Alpha Centauri System
2302 Hours (FST)

"The fighters seem to have concentrated themselves tovard this grid, winding up into a tangling free-for-all. We have only been able to call half of the fighter division back tovard the base for the main assault. However, the other half remains out of communications range," the Russian Tactical Officer noted, pointing toward a grid of battle space on the flickering holographic display.

The military leader empowered with the entirety of the Confederate Armed Forces and answerable only to the system’s President, Fleet Admiral Amus J. Calahan knuckled his long, frizzy gray beard in his fingers. For many days he had known the conflict would end soon, with rumors of a good-sized fleet heading into the system with orders to recapture the Alpha Centauri System. Now was the decisive time, when history would either fall apart or be made into something greater. In a bitten voice, he said to Lerov, his Tactical Officer, "This happened all the time with the Yan. Not to worry, once they see that the rest of the team is heading back, then they will do—"

Without preview, seven obtrusive tones sounded on the display, with the same number of crimson lights appearing in combat range. "Seven heavy bombers and four heavy fighters heading toward us on attack vector! No fighter support in the area," another one of the officers yelled. If the Command Center had been an orderly commotion before, at that moment it had turned into a pure cacophony.

"Damn it!" Calahan bellowed. "Get the forward missile turret batteries on-line and alert our incoming forces!"

His XO, through his headset, bore bad news to Calahan. "They won’t be here for minutes, sir. Not while the bombers are already in range."

"Don’t we have any point defense patrols?"

"No, sir, they were called into grid seven-four-six."

"God damn!" Knowing full well what the numbers of battle had formed into a conclusion, Calahan braced himself as he sat in his chair. He knew it had to end somewhere, and he even knew that the flagship was merely a symbol for the fleet.

"Recalibrate the targeting systems, launch projectile interceptors... Do what you can, people..."

Symbols meant little to Calahan. If the bombers were going to do whatever they needed to do, they would have to pass over the burning hulk of the Britain to do it. "Do what you have to."

Little could be done, though, as the heavy fighters that flew support for the bombers took out the forward weapon’s arrays. Sure, two of the enemy fighters exploded in the attempt, but even those two deaths were futile. The bombers had already released their payloads. It was too late.

The long capital ship missiles bore into the hull with little resistance, tearing into the armor and through the superstructure. That was merely the first phase, but the bombers were done and they headed eagerly back to base.

For a few seconds the twentieth century aircraft carrier-like space vessel, with flat upper deck and curved ventral side, simply cruised along her course. No damage could be seen on her except for the pinpricks in her hull.

With a blind intensity, two seconds later the entire ship ripped itself apart like tin foil. Within the tearing metallic fabric and fibers, orange and yellow gaseous flame spilled forth, washing over the inside and outside of the once-proud ship in the ensuing slow explosion. The crew would never experience a more severe pain, for they simply fell into the fiery clutches of fate.

In the sad end, the flagship of the Confederacy was no more.

CFS Admonisher; Bridge
2307 Hours (FST)

"Sir, the Britain has been lost on sensors. High radiation expanses have taken her place."

Captain Cabreighny stood up from his chair, holding a hand to his beating heart. "The... the Britain has been—"

"—Destroyed, sir, we can only assume. Her fighters were out, her defenses were already week from the last scuffle," his XO answered, sitting at his post at Defense. "Sir, with all due respect, our flagship has just bought it, and our fighters aren’t doing shit out there except dying!" he yelled.

"What do you think we should do about that, Lieutenant Commander?" Donovan asked dryly, his gaze bearing down on the younger man.

His first officer, Bill Wayland, became more agitated. "Stand down. Yessir, I said it and I say it again: we must stand down. That or the civilian population of Centauri Prime will take a beating from the Federate Marines when they arrive on planet through our ship debris. They won’t just win this war, sir, they will punish us for it, to teach the others that rebellions don’t work."

The Ops Officer turned in his seat also, backing up Lt. Cmdr. Wayland. "Sir, with the Britain gone we have one carrier left, us, three light cruisers, and two frigates-turned-destroyers. They will wipe the floor with us when they break through the lines! We won’t even have time to move back and protect the planet!"

"As Fleet Coordinator, it’s got to be your call. Do we stand fast, sir, or surrender?"

"Commander, the only call I am making is to the fleet." Captain Cabreighny scratched the back of his crew-cut head, then began pacing around the upper bridge deck. "Open a channel to the rest of our forces, Priority Three."

A high-pitch whistle tone acknowledged his order.

"This is Captain Donovan Cabreighny of the Admonisher. The Britain, our flagship, has been destroyed. Radio contact with the ship has not been re-engaged, so we must assume the worst. With the fall of the main carrier, myself commanding the Admonisher, I am acquiring leadership of the Confederate Space Navy.

"It has been recommended of me, in the spirits of mercy and the sanctity of life, to surrender to the incoming Federate forces. My crew has said that when the Federation comes knocking at our home system’s door, they would ‘punish us’ for this war. Yes, perhaps teaching the rest of humanity that... what was it? Oh yes, ‘rebellions don’t work.’

"No one who enlisted with this group should have assumed we were going to win." His voice went gruff, serious. "When they scratched their signature onto the form, proclaiming themselves ‘rebels,’ they should have accepted the strong possibility of pain, tears, and yes, even death. You people should have assumed that you would no longer live under the WEC’s Emergency Decree 242... no longer live under Martial Law, and if the Federation ever came to reinstate it here, that you would die for your freedom." The Captain became frustrated and angry. "To give up now is cowardice. Just because these guys start playing rough, because this rebellion doesn’t look like a sure-fire deal, you have decided that Martial Law may not be that bad after all? Well, I am ashamed of those who think that. Damned ashamed. You have not only failed me, but the ones who you fight for, because they are the ones who will have to face the real punishment.

"As the Commander-in-Chief of the Confederate Space Navy, I am not throwing in the towel. The Federation will have to crawl over our dead bodies to get at the people on Centauri Prime. By your shield, or on it, I say.

"Anyone who hasn’t listened to me worth a damn, can stand down now and have your freedoms taken away. Otherwise, keep on fighting. End message."

A moment of silence filled the bridge as the Captain concluded his transmission. Only the beeps and hums of the status read-outs and engines made any sort of sound.

The Captain sat down in his chair, finally. "Have we got any return message indicating a surrender?"

The comm officer piped up. "N-no, sir. Everything is clear."

"Good. Very well, then..." He sighed heavily, forcing a smile for the sake of his crew. He would remain strong, but he knew in his heart he was asking the Confederacy to stay and die. "Let’s... keep fighting."

USS Alexander; Bridge
Outer Alpha Centauri System
2315 Hours (FST)

Commodore Demuira stepped up to Tolwyn, and whispered, "The rebels are being routed and dealt with... they’re not even a significant threat to us anymore. They keep on fighting. Another one of their cruisers has been lost, and most of their heavier fighters have been exhausted. They aren’t going to win, sir. They won’t."

Tolwyn looked out his window again, gaping at the battle outside. He specifically had the Alexander positioned within the sortie, now they were cruising through the massive engagement, taking several shots at the larger fighters.

"And they are retreating, correct? Turning back around toward their base?" He winced, hoping despite himself the answer to one of the questions was "yes." "Perhaps a surrender...?"

The Commodore turned a flustered glance, a frustrating one of irritation and bewilderment that made it seem as if the man was ready to slam a fist down on the nearest console. "No, sir! That’s exactly it! They aren’t doing anything except fighting! They haven’t backed down one inch... and they must know we have them. Do you want to have all ships hold their current positions, or continue on?"

Frederick looked deep within himself for the answer. It was a war, not a slaughter. Or was it? If anything, Tolwyn was going to give the Confederacy one last chance to prove itself a true, legitimate cause. "I... I think it would be best..."

"Sir...?" Demuira looked concernedly at his CO. "Sir, are you all right?"

"I’m... fine. Thank you." Tolwyn straightened his composure, scolding himself for letting himself falter in front of his subordinates. "I was saying, I think it would be best if we held on for... just a second."

Lieutenant Hirohito swung around in her chair, shooting the Admiral a look of suspicion at his faltering. "If we let them go for just a second, sir, they could regroup around the orbital defense of the planet and use them against us. They could even lay some more mines, and after that last field, I don’t know if we should risk it. The repair teams have their hands full already."

Tolwyn remembered his words to Captain Jefferson Eisen earlier:

It will be "control." So in the end... we won’t be allowing a few worlds freedom, we will be guaranteeing oblivion...

The Admiral stood up, sucking a breath then releasing it as he started pacing on the bridge. Sometimes good men can do bad things, too, for the good of all, he thought to himself. It sounded good; it sounded right. He just wished he could believe it.

"Begin the final phase, then," he ordered moments later. "Let us... break through the line, and to the planet."

"Yessir." Hirohito smiled as she turned away, pleased and reassured to know that her CO would still press the advantage against the rebels.

Tolwyn slumped back in his command chair. For the first time since he had accepted his promotion and assignment from the World Economic Consortium president, Fleet Admiral Frederick Tolwyn found himself beginning to deeply question his duty.

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