[ P | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | E ]
THE BATTLE FOR CENTAURI PRIME, DAY 2
Planet Centauri
Prime; Noreau Plains, West Coast District
The Alpha Centauri System
AUG 23 2416/2416.235; 0240 Hours (FST)
“Damn it...” Master Sergeant Richard Reddy (E-8) shook his head, taking a moment to catch his breath and regain his bearings. He brought a hand to his brow and wiped the sweat that was streaking into his eyes.
Since the conflict had begun, the 1st Confederate Colonial Marine Battalion had been giving the battle all they had. The Force Recon Marines were doing their very best to show the Federates no weakness on the front lines, the light drop infantry regiments and MEUs not backing down either. The Federation’s HAPCs and other ground assault vehicles that had been disgorged from the Federates’ five assault LCs and twelve dropships could be seen skimming across the battlefield on suspension fields, their turreted lasers providing cover fire for the Federate Marines as they moved in, picking off Confederates by the dozen.
By the sheer horror of the entire scene, it was as if the Federats was employing some kind of Scorched Earth policy.
Under the first rays of the rising red giant sun of the Alpha Centauri System the bloody conflict was waged, the Federates’ overwhelming numbers and technology giving the enemy a clear and present advantage that couldn’t be ignored.
That didn’t mean the Confederates were going to give up. Not by a long shot.
“Rich... Rich...”
Under the deafening noise of the plasma grenade that had gone off not a kilometer away, Master Sergeant Richard Reddy barely heard the familiar gurgling voice behind him. He turned on his heels to see his friend and comrade, Lance Corporal Lawrence McKinney.
“Give a guy... a hand, Rich?”
The two men had gone through the WEC Marine Corps School of Infantry together before siding with Confederates’ cause and joining the Confederate Colonial Marines. Late in the Yan War they’d fought side-by-side on Luna and Europa. It had been Richard that had introduced McKinney to the woman that had become his wife, and McKinney that was the godfather of his only daughter on Earth. They’d shared each other’s hopes and dreams, they’d gotten piss drunk together, and they’d taken nearly every planetside vacation together since enlisting.
Yet it was not Lawrence McKinney he saw on the crater-ridden ground beside him, however, but an unrecognizable, blackened, bloodied figure reaching up to him with the only arm he had left.
“Lawrence...” Reddy spoke in a low whisper.
“Rich... you’ve... you’ve been a good friend... these years... I-I’m sorry I... I...”
“No, Lawrence,” Reddy pleaded. “C’mon, don’t be sorry, pal... you’ve got nothing to be sorry for. Damn it, we’ve got to... Lawrence? Lawrence!”
The figure gave one last sigh, then collapsed on its chest, its arm falling slack.
Master Sergeant Richard Reddy solemnly stood away, calling on his military conditioning to exorcise the rising emotion out of his mind. He held his Marscorp MPR-16 Railgun high, bellowing at the top of his lungs before making a dash toward the enemy beside the men and women of his platoon, “Long live the Confederacy!”
CRIMSON FLIGHT
F-40B Komodo
CFF-06
0340 Hours (FST)
“Heads up, Python! Evasives!” warned Lt. Colonel Tom “Reaper” Sanders, Atlas Squadron’s squadron commander.
Captain Jacob “Python” Hayes barely acknowledged him, putting his F-40 Komodo light fighter into a spin as he busily dodged the laser turrets of the small gunship that had, for the last half-hour, managed to take down a squadron or two of his fellow pilots in the 2nd FW.
Over the past hour the number of enemy fighters had become almost overwhelming. That last tactical data downloaded to his computer APU from the Admonisher had notified him and every other Confederate pilot out there that they were outnumbered three to one.
Right now though, it seemed to Jacob that they were all outnumbered five or six to one.
The incoming Alexander seemed to be a fleet in and of itself. Not only did she carry a compliment of about fifty assorted fighters in its fighter wing, but a few smaller ships inside her as well—system patrol craft, nimble gunships, and the larger assault landing craft and dropships that hours ago had gotten through the Confederate flanks and already touched down on Centauri Prime. Most of which had been released during the battle.
Regaining control after the spinning, Hayes swung his Komodo around and up towards the underbelly of the gunship.
“I’m making this one count.” Pressing on the touch-sensitive screen of his shipboard computer, he quickly accessed the projectile control. With another tap, his lone heat-seeking missile was released upon the ship.
The missile pounded into the gunship, which in turn transformed itself into a shattered burning pyre of a vessel.
Another enemy fighter screen had been set up before him and his wingmen—twelve or so fighters floated before him, each of them firing their laser, mass driver, and ion guns. Juking to port and starboard, only a few streams and pulses of energy glanced by his hull. His wingmen fired their own missiles in turn, detonating them prematurely in order to break the phalanx. Two missiles burst, their explosion vicinities sending seven Federate soldiers to the abyss.
Hayes fired his lasers afterward, tearing through the wings of an F-34A Gladiator and sending it spinning away into the starry darkness. With another stream of fiery energy, an inbound HF-45D Peregrine fighter/bomber was sliced into two pieces and its pilot consigned to vacuum.
As Python pulled off for another pass he was suddenly pelted violently by one of the remaining A-15B Hurricanes. Two ion pulses rammed into his starboard wing, ripping it off with a shriek of steel heard from within the cockpit. This forceful impact shoved Python off his axis, sending his small fighter into a spin.
With a couple of Gs pressing on him from his proximity to Centauri Prime’s gravity well, Captain Hayes forced to regain control. Effectively, his fighter was torched and worthless in battle–he only had one lasgun. But one was all he needed. He wasn’t going to stop for repairs. Directing more fuel to his starboard afterburner, he swung his ship around and dived back into the foray.
“God save us,” he whispered, firing another barrage into the night.
CFS Warchild;
Bridge
0355 Hours (FST)
Lieutenant Commander Mitchell Foster rapped upon the armrest of his command chair. The fisheye effect of the space outside shown on the ship’s 2D viewscreen threatened to hypnotize him, with eddies of streaking stars and planets stretching past the Warchild.
“How long has it been?” he asked politely, even though he and each of his crew knew they were about to enter a place of almost-inevitable doom.
The ship’s navigator and XO, McHenry, notified him. “Thirteen seconds.”
“It’s been long enough—” he commented, then ordered, “—disengage the Hopper Drive.”
"Acknowledged. Powering down; entering normal space in three, two, one...”
The fisheye effect ceased, merging the Warchild into a thick and bloody battle, when only minutes before the Minotaur-class battlewagon had been stationed in planetary defense of Centauri Prime. Mitchell wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing, putting his ship in danger either unnecessarily or too early, but he knew the Warchild wouldn’t do a damn if the entirety of the Federate attack fleet breezed in right upon Centauri’s doorstep.
The Warchild was only a battlewagon. A steel rectangular crate with some cannons and engine nacelles soldered on haphazardly, hell, she was powered by a mere nuclear reactor making her under-powered with only a Hopper Drive, not the Jump Drive the newer fleet carriers and battleships possessed to a limited extent. With a crew of thirty, she was never meant for battle in this day and age, and even during the Yan-Terran War a ship of her capabilities was only designed for hit-and-run operations, never for a prolonged battle.
And yet here she was.
Foster combed his fingers through his slick red hair. A burly man, he was still too young for command... thirty-two. And yet because of the undermanned state of the Confederacy he had been given the post of CO on his own ship.
This ship and her crew, he realized quickly, were his responsibility. Today he and his people were about to go down in history as heroes, renegade bastards, or martyrs.
“Sound General Quarters. Initiate the defense grid. Scramble all fighters.”
An acknowledgement to his orders came from the respective stations, and soon enough the meager fighter contingent of four Komodos thrust from the ship and into the foray.
With a few taps on his armchair console, a channel to all the nearest Confederate forces was opened. “Lieutenant Commander Foster of the Warchild to all ships: we are here to provide service and repair to any and all fighters. If your ship is nearing critical damage, please do not hesitate to come in for a landing.”
A minute passed. “Any responses? Any ships coming in for repair?” Foster asked.
“No on both counts, sir,” McHenry reported. “The Admonisher has hailed us—we’re being ordered to get back into the planetary defense force.”
“Tell Cabreighny to standby,” he barked. “I am not backing down. Not now and not ever—that old codger Tolwyn has pulled his ship into the foray to burst apart our forces one by one. It’s high time we draw his attention.”
“I agree,” McHenry replied. “And so does everyone else. All stations reporting full battle readiness.” Also, everyone on the ship knew the Warchild was seriously outmatched beside the Alexander by a factor of four. A crew of thirty officers didn’t care about that right about now—they cared about the millions of lives at stake back on Centuari Prime.
“Bring us into a dive towards the target. Flank speed.”
“Aye, going into a dive.”
Behind and under the Alexander, the much smaller battlewagon proceeded.
“Target locked. Forward laser batteries are charged.”
Foster breathed for a minute. “Fire.”
On the viewscreen two crimson beams lanced out toward the underbelly, streaking down its posterior slowly. After a five second release, the two lasers discontinued their bombardment.
“Damage?”
McHenry swirled around in his chair, rubbing his head. “None sir... none at all. Not even a scratch.”
Mitchell stood up from his chair. “This is useless. Arm aft torpedo launchers. Turn us around, a full ninety degrees.”
“I’m reading an energy spike! The Alexander is firing an ion barrage!” the Ops Officer to his left announced. “Full bombardment in T-minus three, two...” Already on the viewscreen several blue pulses could be seen rushing toward the ship with no hope of missing their target.
As the blazing inferno shot up around him, Lieutenant Commander Mitchell Foster saluted Tolwyn and his Alexander with a curt middle finger.
Crimson Flight; F-40B Komodo CFF-07
0440 Hours (FST)
The USS Alexander and her battle group was adamantly parked within the intense skirmish of fighter craft, Dawn noticed as she swung around for another pass. Her two fusion-powered lasgun cannons and single linear-accelerated mass driver cannon bolts lancing out and streaking across fighters, obliterating each of them as they went quietly into the night.
Quietly... because in space, as the saying went, no one could hear a scream, or a laser firing, or a soldier dying, crying out for their loved ones. Or cursing against the incoming end, witnessing the terrors by the worst parts of humanity, and not even the sacrifices for freedom could be heard.
No space opera went on here; no dramatic music or edgy battle sound effects would be heard. Only silence.
Only silence. And silence was what angered Lieutenant JG Dawn “Phoenix” McKenzie the most.
Her friends, her squadron mates, and fellow Confederates were winking out of existence around her as the Alexander continuously fired volleys of her Yan-based tachyon pulse cannons. Her whole element, save for Python, had already been cut down. No screams could be heard from the pilots or from their exploding vessels.
Some pilots went out in a blaze of glory, other pilots escorting bombers and the like simply committed to their final duty in peace.
“Phoenix, you’ve got a scout on your tail!” a voice shouted frantically from her headset.
The laser and neon green tachyon pulse cannons’ fire missed her fighter by mere centimeters but arced into her cockpit view. In her rickety plane she pulled up hard and corkscrewed, evading even more beams attacks as she then performed a Burnout maneuver.
“In for a penny, in for a pound, motherfucker,” the Lieutenant whispered to her enemy as she pitched hard toward the Alexander, skimming right across the flatbed top of the Union-class battleship.
In reaction, two turreted laser batteries rotated on her position, and once Dawn went in between them. They fired, missing their mark and instead obliterating each other. Two massive explosions occurred afterwards, taking out the scout that had been following her.
She banked her Komodo fighter off the Alexander’s port, heading toward the Confederate light cruiser Warchild. The lengthy patrol vessel had arrived at the battle in order to add to the fighter support and to allow injured fighters to land briefly for treatment and repair. However, the latter service seemed unused at the moment.
Every Confederate seemed centered on going down the hard way. Behind her, a flight of light fighters exploded as four lasers lanced out and cracked each of them open like eggs.
The Alexander had proved to be the most capable and deadly ship of the entire Federate Fleet. Half of her had been refitted with Yan technology or concepts, and the other half was two hundred billion credits of pure war-horse firepower. That firepower was dedicated to the turreted laser batteries accompanied with enhanced targeting crays, which with Yan concepts provided the Alexander with barely any match.
The fifty fighters the carrier housed in its hangar did not add any hope to the Confederacy either, as they were each built and maintained to serve as the most deadly knives in the vessel’s arsenal.
Every few minutes a handful of fighters would land in the flagship, have quick repairs, and rush back out to fight another couple of hours. The Alexander had a routine that was efficient. She was a ship built refit in the midst of an alien conflict, one effectively refit to fight against future foes in the aftermath. The designers never thought humanity would be one of those future foes.
Two red laser beams lanced out from the Warchild, streaking across the keel and underbelly of the Alexander. It was futile. The armor absorbed the heat.
In retaliation, the Federate Flagship released a salvo of ion pulses, each of them ripping into the front portion of the light cruiser near her sensor array. McKenzie flinched. Those hard-ass bastards—they hope to take her out blind, then beat the holy hell out of her.
“No more,” Dawn said once again, for the final time. “Crimson Four to Crimson Flight: requesting cover on vector approach toward the Alexander.”
Python interdicted. “You’re fucking nuts, Phoenix. We got the enemy fighters to deal with! If they punch a hole through our screen—”
“And if we cripple the already-weary Alexander, we will have them running scared. That ship is their only real support in this vicinity... lose it, and they are lost too.” Throughout the battle Dawn had released her modulated voice from its usual monotone, to a more emotional one. She had let herself get into this conflict too deeply... or maybe it was the massacre going on around her. “All I’m asking you to do is cover me from their defensive measurements. Let me handle the rest.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. She simply pulled her Komodo into a central attack vector directly toward the bow of the vessel. Reluctantly, three other Komodos moved in on her wing.
Tapping a few buttons furiously on her hand console she tried to identify the sensor array of the Alexander on her VDU but the computer, in its obsolete state of disrepair, could only manage to determine a twenty meter-wide generalized area of where the array could be.
“It doesn’t matter,” she told herself, “it’s going to be messy enough to hit a bit of everything.” She looked at her HUD and MFDs, tapping a few more buttons. She was twenty seconds away from array.
Already she began firing all her guns, pelting through the armor. The flagship’s defense grid was already trained on her, but was knocked out quickly by her friends. Her twenty meter-wide targeted area had become slag and heated under her fusillade, with several chunks of armor and durasteel hull splitting off.
Python opened a channel to Dawn. “Phoenix, pull away now! She’s blind, I repeat, the Alexander is blind!” Captain Hayes’ words went unheeded, though, and he must have then realized Dawn’s master plan from the beginning of the pass.
As proximity alert klaxons blared within McKenzie’s cockpit, the rest of Crimson Flight and Atlas Squadron pulled away to leave the Marine-turned-pilot that had at last found her peace of mind to her sacrifice.
“Dawn—no!” Python shouted.
Within the blink of any eye, a Komodo light fighter became an expanding ball of fire on the topside of the flagship. The entire fighter heaved and shook in reaction to the impact, with several smaller gushes of fire happening in chain reaction.
Just another casualty of war... out like a candle’s flame.
USS Alexander;
Bridge
0510 Hours (FST)
“Now what in the hell was that?!” the Fleet Admiral bellowed, standing up from his command chair. His ship had just shook violently, knocking several crewmen to the deck. Also, the main holographic viewer along with several viewing stations winked out. In seconds they turned back on, but instead of the battle data they had previously displayed, only the spinning symbol of the Terran Federation was shown.
“Our sensors have been knocked out by another suicidal fighter!” the Ops Officer notified him. “We’re blind until we can get an EVA repair team outside to fix it!”
His First Officer stumbled over to him. He was bleeding from his head and right arm. “Sir,” he hoarsely whispered, “They have only thirty or so fighters left out there. In an hour they will be wiped out, but in fifteen minutes the remaining rebel ships will be done intercepting us and we will be within their firing range.”
His Ops Officer turned in her seat. “All of their ships except the flagship Admonisher are sad excuses against us... they will be wiped out just as easily as the Warchild was. And the Admonisher won’t do much better when the Bike and Cike forces return from their completed objectives... she’ll be outnumbered and outgunned.”
“And the Marines’ effort on Centauri Prime?” Tolwyn asked, a frantic tone to his voice.
The Ops Officer took a few moments to confer over her comset with General Kreig on the planet below, then looked emptily at his CO. “Our Marines and ground assault vehicles have nearly routed the Confederates... the Confederates are still fighting, but there’s not many of them left.”
Frederick slapped his fist against the armrest of his chair. “Damn it, they must already know this! They must know now, above anything else, that they can’t win!”
In the background of the bridge, consoles chirped with data, while chatter among the crewmen was also constant. The Fleet Admiral took in a breath, then let it out. A decision was made. “Recall all fighters and message all our forces to stand down. That goes for the Marines, too.”
“Sir, you have been under—” Demuira piped up but was cut off.
“I have been under nothing short of lunacy, Commodore. It is time... time to retrieve the ethics and morality that we all lost sight of eight years ago. Now recall all of our forces and signal a cease-fire.”
It was then that he heard the wine of a charging laser pistol, and the not-so-familiar poke of its business end in his back. “On behalf of this crew and everyone loyal to Earth,” Demuira spoke, “I am placing you under arrest for treason against the Terran Federation, and treason against the World Economic Consortium. You will now step down from command. Sir.”
Tolwyn looked at Hirohito. Hirohito looked at Tolwyn.
“If... if you say so.” The Fleet Admiral adhered. In step with the Commodore, he began walking up the steps toward the bridge lift.
With a lower-pitched whine and discharging tone, Demuira slumped to the floor before he knew what was happening. Dead before he hit the ground.
The Tactical Officer holstered her smoking M-34 Machine Pistol, lightly uttering, “Sir.”
“Lieutenant.” Tolwyn turned around to give a brief, grim nod to Lieutenant Hirohito before moving back to his seat, making a conscious effort to avoid the sight of Demuira’s corpse as he did. After a long moment of silence, the Admiral then addressed the entire staff on deck. “We have been living in the lap of luxury here, and not paying attention to the families and friends we have left behind under Martial Law. The ones in charge look the other way when people cry out for freedom. We ourselves have remained blind for so long, it took the lives of our fellow countrymen to make us finally see the light of truth.”
Some of the crew looked around at each other, and then considered their own positions. Their CO was absolutely right.
“Our fighters have been recalled and the rest of our forces have complied to the cease-fire,” Hirohito repeated, getting the information through her comset. “Admiral Antamura aboard the Hiroshima, however, refused to stand down.”
“Oh?”
“He has been relieved of his command.”
Tolwyn flinched a bit, but moved on. His people were with him, and that gladdened him.
He stood again, straightening his uniform a little. For the first time since he had departed the President’s oval office with his orders, he truly felt like he was doing the right thing. “Open a channel to the Admonisher.”
A minute later the signal was picked up, and a response appeared on the viewing display.
The slick, black-haired fellow known as Cabreighny answered. “Admonisher t—” The man broke off, recognizing the Admiral almost immediately. “Hello, Fred.”
“Don,” Tolwyn answered dryly but with a hint of welcome remembrance. “Nice tub you got there, old friend.”
The Captain forced a chuckle. “You had her first, Fred... then I took the reins when they gave you your Admiral mint. Now it feels... well, sort of empty here.”
Frederick mused a bit, “Nah, not empty, son. She’s better off now than she was when I had her against the Yan.” He paused, and stepped up from his chair. “Yes, I had heard you had gotten mixed up in this rebellion. I’d always expected you to go neutral, but to join up... hmm, that was a concept further than I could imagine.” Tolwyn winced, his posture faltering before his old friend. “But then it would seem I’ve been wrong about a number of things lately, wouldn’t it?”
The Captain became a bit more serious. “When the Terran Federation’s garrisons summarily executed my starving son for stealing a loaf of bread, I drew the line. What was it that the Security Officer told me...? Oh yes, he said, ‘These things happen.’”
The Fleet Admiral flinched again. In a heartbeat, a decision was made. “And it will be cases like that which will be explained to the WEC Senate.”
This time Donovan stood from his chair. “What are you saying, Admiral?”
“I am agreeing to your Confederacy’s demand that WEC’s Emergency Decree 242—that Martial Law—be lifted. With my words, I will arrange a meeting between the Confederate leaders and the WEC Senate.”
Donovon was unsure. “Look, Fred, they may not agree—”
“I am Federate Fleet Admiral Frederick Tolwyn. Commanding officer of the flagship of the entire Terran Federation, USS Alexander, and commander-in-chief of this task force. They will agree.”
“So... so no more? No more fighting, dying, and maybe no more Martial Law...?”
“As long as I am with you and the summit takes places.” Frederick mustered up a weak smile. “No more.”
Planet Centauri
Prime; Noreau Plains, West Coast District
0530 Hours (FST)
A few stray flechettes streaked over the mist-ridden battlefield before the firing ceased entirely.
“It’s over...” Master Sergeant Reddy sighed minutes later, not believing it despite the clear, indisputable message being repeated over his helmet comset. “Just like that... it’s over... it’s fucking over...”
He limped awkwardly on, favoring his right leg over the wounded left as he went. He got thirty feet before he let himself fall to the ground beside two of his fallen men. He buried his face in the gritty soil, all of his strength exerted but content that his mission had been accomplished.
“Hey, buddy. You need a hand?”
Reddy pushed himself halfway up at the deep voice, squinting at the soldier looming over him. A Federate Marine about as old as Reddy; a staff sergeant. The enemy, but the enemy no longer. The man shifted his assault rifle and offered him an outstretched hand.
For several moments Reddy didn’t say a word. He simply held the soldier’s gaze, studying the face of a man that had probably been trying to kill him minutes ago. Giving a half-grin, he finally reached up and firmly clasped the man’s hand. “Sure.”