Archer Sector, Centaur System, Battleship Singularity
Blinking into existence on the edge of the Centaur System, the Singularity hardly seemed to hesitate. Her sensors mapped out her surroundings near instantaneously, the wavelengths of knowledge hitting her arrays at the speed of light. The passive sensors easily recorded and deciphered the data of the solar system’s natural light and radiation emissions without the ship having to actively transmit a signal of her own.
A solitary, middle-aged sun lay at the core of the Centaur System. Most of the gasses and naturally occurring rock debris had compressed to form planets eons ago, leaving the system mostly free of obstructions.
In CIC, Ensign Walters kept his head down. “Jump complete.”
“Alright,” Zarrey smoothed back his hair, “Get visual feed on Sagittarion. Galhino, what are we looking at?”
“Passive sensor data from this position is over four hours old, sir.” The photons read for that data were limited by the speed of light. “In it, I’m reading an unusual amount material around Sagittarion.” Given the planet had no natural satellites to shed ice and dust, it was anomalous. “There is too much mass for it to have all originated from Base Aquair and other known orbital facilities… High proportions of refined metals: titanium, iron and copper, as well as other elements: phosphorous, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen and carbon.”
“Ship building metals.” Titanium especially found its use in ships, not orbital stations. As an element, it was light and strong. Stations used cheaper, heavier elements that could be easily mined, the mass and durability less of a constraint.
“Sir?” Zarrey turned to the Admiral, surprised to hear the man break his silence. Except to give necessary orders, he’d been silent since the incident earlier. The other crew remained somewhat uneasy, but Zarrey was over it. It was clear he’d be dead if the Admiral had wanted him dead. As long he kept his hands to himself, he doubted the issue would ever resurface.
Answered by the strange hush that fell upon the bridge Zarrey lifted his gaze to the viewscreen where a wasteland of material spiraled in and out of view. “Hell fires in heaven.”
Perforations and scorch marks littered the visible debris. The Admiral recognized this visual all too well. “The phosphorous would have come from projectile weapons.” Phosphorous compounds were used in the manufacture of incendiary rounds, not to mention the tracers of artillery. “Nitrogen, hydrogen and oxygen from ships’ atmosphere and water.” They were looking at all the components of a graveyard in space.
Zarrey felt an unhealthy twist in his stomach. “And the carbon?”
“The human body is 18% carbon by mass.”
Squinting up at the viewscreen, Zarrey could see shapes that looked vaguely human, limp but present. “Corpses.” For them to pick up the unusual amount of carbon from the edge of the system, there must be thousands.
Admiral Gives was unfazed by the wasteland. It would be the first of many if Reeter had his way. He looked to Lieutenant Galhino, “How many ships?”
“It’s impossible to resolve individual parts and compositions from here, sir. But accounting for the mass of material, and the average size of civilian transports known to frequent Sagittarion, I’d say we’re looking at the remains of nearly 300 ships.” The rubble stretched much farther out than the ship’s telescopes could focus at this range. The wreckage, presently condensed around Sagittarion, was slowly dissipating outward, trailing behind in the planet’s solar orbit.
“Civvies?” Zarrey snapped his head to look at her, “All of them?”
"Again, it’s impossible to truly know from this range, but I’m not seeing any parts that would constitute a weapons system.” There should have been turrets, gun barrels or even point-defense laser focusing lenses, but she’d seen nothing. “These were unarmed ships.”
“This was a massacre,” Zarrey growled. These people had been gunned down to protect the secret fleet Reeter was building on Sagittarion. They’d been killed in cold blood trying to flee a life of slave labor, forced to build killing machines that would perpetuate a civil war for years. “Where the hell is Command’s fleet? How could they do this?”
The wreckage on the viewscreen blurred as the ship’s telescopes focused on the five battleships hanging in formation above Sagittarion’s tainted orb. “I have confirmed ID on five,” Galhino said, “The Gothic, Parallax, Serpentus, Lionhead and Astronas.” The infrared engine signatures confirmed them as Keeper-class ships, while the unique detailing and names painted onto their hulls was the only way to identify them separately at this range.
“Where’s the sixth?” There should be six. “It had better not be out here with us,” Zarrey growled. As much as he’d love to punch Command’s loyal followers in the face, they couldn’t afford to be attacked without warning.
“The Gargantia was the sixth,” Admiral Gives answered. “The Lionhead and Astronas are the other two ships in her squadron.” Fairlocke’s ship had been here. The noble jackass had died here, but where was his ship now?
“Fairlocke?” Zarrey said. “There’s no way he would have participated in this massacre.”
“I understand that,” and that’s what got him killed. Refusing Command’s order to slaughter those civilian ships would have condemned Fairlocke and the Gargantia as a whole to death. Self-righteous idiot. Admiral Gives had warned him. Morals sank ships. There came a point where the cost of being a flawless idealist far outweighed the reward. A good commander put the welfare of his ship and crew above all else, including righteous idealism.
Zarrey already didn’t like the tone of this conversation. The Admiral seemed even more disinterested than usual. “Well, where is Fairlocke?” He was a potential ally, especially if he’d split from Command over this massacre.
“Dead.”
Zarrey clenched his jaw, trying to mind his temper. “Oh yeah, you made it pretty damn clear he was dead to you when he left five years ago.” That was a long time to hold a grudge, especially against Fairlocke, who seemed to be as morally pure as they came. “I believe your exact words were, ‘Get the fuck off my ship before I stake you to the hull.’”
The Admiral said nothing to that as he contemplated the next logical course of action. He did not see any point in denying the truth.
“I get that he somehow managed to piss you off, but dammit, Admiral, he’s one of us.” Fairlocke was still a member of the Singularity estranged family, even if he had chosen to leave the ship. “He was a loyal officer on this ship for years. You were damn near ready to hand the Singularity over to him. He was going to be your successor! You owe it to him-”
“I owe him absolutely nothing.” Fairlocke was a sick little traitor as far as the Admiral was concerned. “He made his choice.” Fairlocke had chosen to leave. Then the righteous man had decided his morals were worth more than his life, dooming his ship in the process, so maybe it was a good thing Fairlocke had chosen to leave. If he hadn’t, the Singularity and her crew would have been in the Gargantia’s place.
“That’s cold, even for you, you bastard.” Zarrey snarled. “Fairlocke was a good man.” At one point, the Admiral would have agreed.
“Fairlocke is dead, so I would suggest you let it go, XO.” That was a fact.
Zarrey stared at the Admiral’s blank expression. “You can’t know that.”
“Note the damage to the Serpentus and Parallax.” The Serpentus’ three engines were all dark, gouges left along her flank. The Parallax’s gun deck was cratered and mangled, most of her main battery taken out. “There was a fight here.” Command’s other three ships weren’t unscathed either, their mostly gray hulls punctured and pitted. Fairlocke had put up one hell of a fight, the Admiral would give him that. I suppose that little traitor learned something from me after all. But that did not change the facts. “The Gargantia never stood a chance.”
Against five ships of her own kind, trying to defend a helpless fleet from massacre, the odds of the Gargantia’s survival were extremely unlikely. Adding the ghost’s knowledge of Fairlocke’s death, it was almost certain the Gargantia had sunk. But where was the wreck?
Looking closer at the quintet of war machines on the screen, Zarrey knew the Admiral was right, but it still pissed him off. As much as he tried not to be bothered that perfect indifference, Zarrey couldn’t always manage. It left him clenching his fists. “This doesn’t bother you, does it?” Thousands of people had died in this system, a close friend to the crew among them, and the Admiral couldn’t care any less if he tried. “You’re just going to turn away.”
“Am I?” That’s odd. He did not recall declaring that intention.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
True, the Admiral had already fulfilled his objective here. It was clear enough that Fairlocke’s morally righteous refusal to take part in a massacre had gotten him killed. His connection to the Singularity had nothing to do with it, meaning the crew’s families remained safe for the time being.
Unfortunately, the goody-two-shoes that Fairlocke was, it was highly likely that the Gargantia had saved some of the civilian ships in her sacrifice – ships that would be gunned down if they attempted to make port.
Admiral Gives knew the procedures for these nasty little massacres better than he wanted to admit. Command’s ships would have recorded the identity of every ship that fled Sagittarion. They’d be put on a wanted-dead list. Any national guard, allied police force or UCSC ship would sink them on sight – before the escaped ships even realized they were a target.
Naturally, they would not be publicized as refugee ships, more likely as radicals carrying chemical weapons or some other justifiable lie. The reality of the massacre in Sagittarion’s orbit would be swept under the rug. To conceal the truth about the New Era’s intentions on Sagittarion, several thousand more people would die.
Really, it would be a lie to say Admiral Gives actually gave a damn. The last thing he wanted was to get roped into Fairlocke’s hairbrained determination to do the morally right thing. Simply, that was not his job. His duty was to keep his ship afloat and his crew alive.
He very much intended to do a better job of that than Fairlocke had, but the crew would never forgive him if he turned away and left those people to die. He would probably never hear the end of it. Not to mention, there were five wounded ships out there that had already committed themselves to Command’s corrupted agenda. They were ripe targets to send a simple message, and there wasn’t any sense in wasting the element of surprise.
“Prepare for hyperlight skip,” he ordered. The quick FTL maneuver to and from hyperspace would reduce a four-hour trip at the speed of light to mere minutes. “Get a Warhawk in the air. I want the real-time positions and orientations of all five of Command’s ships. Condition is irrelevant. The pilot is to jump in and jump out as soon as possible.” Lingering there would only risk detection, not that it would be much of a warning, considering what he had in mind.
“Ensign Walters and Lieutenant Gaffigan, I will need your attention for a few minutes.” This would be a relatively simple plan, though it would require some precision. “Ensign Owens,” he turned to the yeoman, “I will need our stellar charts for this system as well as the engineering schematics we have on record for the Keeper-class ships, a marker, a ruler and a calculator for the Colonel.”
“Hey,” Zarrey complained, “don’t pretend you don’t want me to check your math.” Life and death out here were quite literally determined by the accuracy of one’s calculations.
“Yes, sir,” Owens said, laughing as she hurried off.
“We will have three objectives during this operation.” The Admiral informed the crew, “First: finding the remaining civilian fleet. We’ll need to search for the Gargantia’s wreck or ask Command’s ships what they know.”
“Second: observing the conditions on Sagittarion’s surface. We need to learn as much as we can about the fleet the Erans building.” That would require deep scans of the planetary surface from orbit.
“And lastly,” the Admiral said, “I would like to politely remind Admiral Reeter who he is dealing with.” Making a show of force here, at a location critical to the New Era’s overall plan, would prove them a force to be reckoned with. Reeter would think twice before coming after them.
“How polite are we talking, here?” Zarrey asked, an eager grin pulling at his lips. “Arsenic in the water tanks or shotgun to the face?” After the last few weeks, he was more than ready for an all-out brawl with Command’s forces.
“XO,” the Admiral said passively, “I only intend to remind of something they forgot.”
“And what’s that?” Zarrey knew the ship commander too well to assume this was a harmless educational intention.
“Why they don’t want to dance with a demon.”
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Archer Sector, Centuar System, Battleship Gothic
A clone to the Gargantia’s bridge in every way, the Battleship Gothic’s bridge was lined with screens and holographic controls. It was relaxing and just dark enough to see every nuance of the holograms and indicator lights.
The room was focused, every crewman surrounded by their controls and working on their tasks. There was no dissent, no unnecessary chatter. If they spoke, it was to their departments elsewhere on the ship, or to the Gothic’s computer core itself. Their hushed tones were picked up by their headsets, but never heard above the running noises of the ship.
That was just how Rear Admiral Tyler preferred it. His crew were each but a braincell to a much larger organism. They operated in unison, hurrying along like worker bees, repairing and bettering their hive. To their credit, the damage left by the Gargantia had been almost completely repaired.
Tyler held back a growl at the reminder of the young Commander Fairlocke’s futile display. All five of Command’s ships had survived, but none had been left untouched. The Serpentus and Parallax had suffered severe damage due to his error in judgement.
Had he been so wrong to hope that the idealistic Fairlcoke would see the potential in Reeter’s movement? Of course. Fairlocke had lived a privileged life, free of the suffering known by so many others. Someone like him would never understand.
“Sir,” the communications officer called, “Priority hail from the Astronas. Audio-only.”
“Accept it,” Tyler ordered, tracing over the golden rank pins on his collar. He’d come far in his life, farther than some men would ever go, but somehow, he felt this hail would strip it away from him.
“Sir, we picked up a contact.” Holding position on the edge of their blockade formation, the Astronas’ detection range exceeded the other ships’. “It was brief. A small ship hiding out in the debris field.”
“Sink it.” Command had made their orders clear. “No witnesses.” Sagittarion would be cut off entirely from the rest of the worlds, the planet a prisoner.
“It jumped away, sir.” The ship had appeared and disappeared before the Astronas could identify it. “I believe it was operating as a military scout.” It would have taken a civilian craft much longer to recharge its FTL Drive.
Tyler ran a hand along his shaved head, “A scout for who?” The Gargantia had sunk, wherever she was. And if by some miracle she hadn’t, then it would be foolish to return here. “Command?” Had Reeter sent someone to observe his worth?
No doubt they were reporting the mess in orbit and deplorable condition of his fleet at this very instant. The thought made him want to spit on the Gargantia’s grave. Fairlocke had no idea how many people he’d condemned in his foolish righteousness, let alone what he’d condemned them to.
Tyler turned to a yeoman, “Get me some coffee,” he ordered, “and tell the grease monkeys I want to be at full operational status within the hour.” He was not in a mood to wait anymore. The Gothic had been dealt only slight damage, but the engineers seemed incapable of quickly and accurately completing the repairs.
“Sir,” the Lieutenant at sensors said, “I’m reading an incoming warp signature.” A ship was preparing to drop out of hyperspace almost right on top of them.
“What?” Here of all places? They must have a death wish. Sagittarion had been blacklisted, labeled a completely unsafe destination for travel.
Out in the void, the next instant seemed to last an eternity. The debris of the massacre danced along an invisible wind, distant shrapnel spinning like snow. It randomly collided, bouncing off in new directions, and in the hours after the battle, had spread into the battleships’ formation. There, it scraped along their hulls, unable to penetrate even the battle-weakened armor, though it remained a constant, deadly threat to the workers conducting repairs outside the ship.
Millions of photons bombarded the ships’ torn hulls in that second, the resultant solar radiation pressure irrelevant to the battleships’ hardened structures. The small fleet hung in the warm light of the system’s yellow star, each ship identical to the others, save their varied levels of damage and the unique coloring of the details painted onto their hulls. They were modest ships for the UCSC Fleet, less aggressive in shape and armament than others. They had been built with rounded hulls and three small main engines whose technology had been imperfectly compressed.
The Keeper-class ships were mere foot soldiers in Command’s fleet, but still, they remained more powerful than any country’s individual navy. What they lacked in individual maneuverability, stealth or armaments, they made up for in sheer number. They were the worker bees of the hive, warriors, not queens. While they could detect a ship preparing to drop out of hyperspace moments before it happened, Tyler wasted that moment’s warning in shock.
There was a mirage-like ripple, barely noticeable against the backdrop of stars as it pushed the nearest debris away. From it emerged a golden column of starlight that briefly concealed the ship within, but the light faded and the energies of hyperspace dispersed to reveal a ship that had come prepared for a fight.
Her main armaments were already raised and angled towards her targets, their positions revealed by her scout, and confirmed near-instantly upon arrival. She fired without a warning, sending two massive shells into each of the Keeper-class ships as she glided easily into an orbit above the fleet.
The battle was over before it began. The blows were never meant to kill, just very precisely cripple as they tore into the fleet’s gray armor. In the perfect silence of vacuum, the shells punched in in, then an instant later, shredded wires, metal shrapnel and air blew back outward in a decompression. The mess spewed out, seeming to take with it the power of the entire fleet.
The triad of engines on the Keeper-class ships left orange plumes of waste heat behind them – an indication of the engines’ internal processes and continual operation. In the seconds after the attack, the plumes began to dim, then flicker, and one after another, they died. The engine power of the entire fleet was gone, leaving the ships coasting in their orbits, the slight drag of Sagittarion’s upper atmosphere slightly, but inevitably starting to slow them down.
The impacts shook the entirety of the Gothic worse than any of the Gargantia’s lucky hits. “Direct hit!” The engineer on the bridge called, “The engine fuel pump control module has been destroyed.”
Tyler wiped a stream of blood from his newly split lip. “Who-?” He didn’t finish the question. There wasn’t any point as the bitter scent of a short circuit reached his nose. The holographic radar display was still working. Above the fleet’s little green dots was a larger green dot, a ship that the automatic programs colored as an ally. “The Singularity.”
“Sir, our allies have lost engine power too. All direct hits to the fuel pump control module.” Every ship in the fleet had been crippled precisely in the same way. “They used our formation against us.” With all their ships oriented the same way, it had been easy to fly by and land accurate hits on every ship in the fleet.
“The Steel Prince sends his regards, Tyler,” the whisper came from his headset, the bemused tone of a predator watching its prey helplessly squirm.
Command was here, watching. Reeter’s pet AI was lingering, observing the struggle like it was a lab experiment. “This battle isn’t over,” he growled.
A cold little chuckle answered him. “Yes, it is.”
Tyler licked the dribble of blood off his upper lip, disgusted by the taste. “Order the fleet to lock target and return fire!”
“Sir-” the helmsman tried to interrupt.
“Return fire!” Tyler roared. He would not be considered helpless. He refused.
The Gothic was the only ship to fire. Three of her small, but numerous guns discharged. The orange tracers of the shells lanced toward the black shadow lingering above, their aim true.