There had been much debate among the three races of the Troika regarding the final solution of Sonoitii Prime. The Eleexx, perhaps the race most invested in genetic engineering, wanted the enzyme-rich egg beds preserved at all cost. The Aggaaddub on the other hand wanted the planet scoured clean, left bereft of life as a warning to others. Intense squabbling ensued, hardly an unusual state amongst the three species, until the Tu’udh’hizh’ak… or more accurately, their Chell servitors... suggested a compromise.
Losing the egg beds would be regrettable, they argued, though they also agreed an example had to be made. Though their initial attack via the drop pods had failed, covert communications from sources in both the Zaitai and EA organizations suggested an alternate strategy. If they coordinated a battle plan using the surviving ground forces along with a surprise attack from the turncoat mercenaries, victory was still possible. It would cost them little, and once the rebels were crushed, they could be dispensed with at their leisure.
The Aggaaddub demanded to know what they would do if the rebels weren’t defeated, setting off yet another round of debates. The Eleexx still lobbied hard for preserving the Sonoitii eggs, though they reluctantly agreed some fields would need to be sacrificed for the greater good. The reptilians showed some wiggle room from their original position as well, though they were still adamant about sending a stern enough lesson to discourage others. While a full Kinetic Bombardment would certainly accomplish that, the Tu’udh’hizh’ak argued that such a devastating response could well drive those races still on the fence straight into the arms of the fledgling Alliance.
Especially if they had reason to believe their worlds might be next.
So again, a compromise was reached. Should the ground attack fail, they would launch a limited kinetic strike to the planet’s surface. Large enough to break the rebellion’s back, yet small enough to claim they had shown restraint, as opposed to what they could have done. Of course negotiations broke down yet again as they quibbled over the exact number of strikes until finally agreeing in principle on delaying each subsequent kinetic strike until they performed a damage assessment.
That left one other matter that still needed attending to: dealing with the Alliance ships still in the system. They could risk a full battle themselves, of course, and would likely emerge victorious, but after all that had happened, why take the chance? Why not hand it off to the turncoats and let them deal with it?
Upon hearing this, the Zaitai and EA ship commanders took a quick headcount (four surviving ships of their own, versus ten on the Alliance side) and absolutely balked. They were already taking a big enough risk as it was. Taking on what any sane individual would call a suicide mission was not on the table, not without a serious commitment in both ships and materials from the Troika.
More negotiations.
In the end, the Troika agreed to face the Alliance fleet once more. What else could they do? When the moment came, the turncoats promised to locate their ships where they could ambush their former Allies. In fact, it wasn’t much different from the tactic they were employing on the surface. Plans were drawn up and approved, as the big day drew closer. When their forces on the planet finally attacked the Allied line, the Troika fleet made its move.
There’s one major difficulty in space combat that is almost impossible to overcome, and that is surprise is all but impossible to achieve. When you can see everything within a trillion-kilometer radius, ambushes become little more than a myth. They’d clamped down hard on security, doing everything within their power to prevent the Alliance from learning their plans, but almost two full days before they’d scheduled the battle to begin the rebel ships began spewing kilotons of chaff in order to confuse their sensors, little bits of metal designed to turn radar images into hash. It was theoretically possible it was nothing more than a paranoia-fueled coincidence, but it was far more likely that their plans had somehow leaked, though no move was made against the turncoats. Heartened by this and recognizing the fact that altering their plans now was impractical, they forged ahead.
There were only ten ships, and some were damaged. Surely, they could manage that much.
On the day of the attack, the ground assault kicked off flawlessly. It looked as if they would achieve their goals quickly, sweeping the board… when the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned-Terrans and their misbegotten Allies managed the impossible. They held.
So. On to Phase Two.
The fleet fired their engines and set course for the Alliance ships, leaving three vessels behind (one from each race) to handle the bombardment. It was more than was necessary, but since none of the races trusted one another they’d learned long ago, it was easier to do it this way. Another brief round of negotiations began as to which race would have the honor of launching the first strike, until they agreed it would be handled by drawing lots… once the computer systems in question had been thoroughly vetted, of course. The computers selected the Chell to fire the Kinetic round, while the rest of the fleet engaged the Alliance vessels.
The enemy realized they were coming, of course. Hiding their fleet’s approach was impossible, so instead they increased to flank speed and charged forward, using their superior technology and numbers to smash their way through. The rebels could maneuver all they liked, but it would not save them from their fate.
Only the Alliance ships didn’t move; instead, they held their ground, a tactic that made no sense at all. Remaining in their original positions would grant the Troika the best possible firing solutions, allowing them to pound their vessels into scrap with impunity. The rebels had to know this, so why weren’t they maneuvering? The chaff cloud made getting a clear read on the individual ships difficult, but given the sheer size of the Troika fleet they could easily overcome that obstacle with a heavy enough volume of fire. Problem solved.
Still, that the Alliance craft weren’t adjusting position was puzzling. Their formation was odd as well, far too loose to offer the various ships supporting fire. In effect, each craft was on its own, while also leaving a sizable gap in the center of their deployment. It was almost as if they were trying to lose the battle. Strange… but then what could one expect from such primitives?
The first sign something was amiss happened when the Alliance ships opened fire without warning, only not at the Troika fleet. Instead, they turned their guns on the turncoat craft, quickly destroying them before the beleaguered ships could respond. They’d been staked out forward of the rebel fleet prior to the chaff cloud’s deployment, and it seemed their security hadn’t been as good as they’d imagined. Regrettable, but ultimately it was of no consequence. They still outmatched the rebels in every way, and finishing them would prove little challenge.
The second indication things had gone awry, however, was when a previously undetected fleet emerged from the chaff cloud, and opened fire.
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The Troika stared at the preposterous image, stunned beyond belief. How? How could they have managed it? Surely it must be a mirage, some trick of holographic imagery. It couldn’t possibly be real.
But as the combined rebel fleet drew closer, as their beams and missiles struck home, they realized in horror that this was no illusion. Too late they responded, but the Alliance had gambled everything on this and charged forward, firing their weapons until the launchers overheated. The fleet itself was a mixed bag, with vessels representing a dozen separate worlds, and their coordination was less than optimal. But it was still more than adequate for the task, the Troika learned to their dismay, as the rebel fleet took their cues from the vessel occupying the lead position.
The recently refurbished Terran battleship, CCFS Freya.
Flanking her were other Terran vessels; Corsair corvettes and frigates, plus a pair of aging destroyers; Valkyrie armed troopships along with their sole remaining assault carrier, VCS Fenrir; the Tinker repair and support vessel, TCS Edison; the Knight’s hospital ship, KHCS St. Jean Baptiste, plus a veritable host of other vessels from the species who had signed on with the fledgling Alliance.
In the space of a heartbeat, suddenly the Troika armada wasn’t the largest fleet in orbit.
Not that they were going to give up without a fight. They didn’t dare let the Alliance gain a foothold here, for doing so would only embolden others to follow their example. They had to be stopped, no matter the cost. Not just stopped, but beaten, crushed and humiliated as a warning to the rest of the galaxy. It didn’t matter that the rebels had more ships, they could easily call for reinforcements and have a hundred more vessels join them. A thousand, given enough time, but of course that was the rub. Time was a luxury they did not have, as the enemy fleet was here, now, and a lost battle in this place could well prove to be a setback from which they could not recover.
So the Troika fleet bared its fangs and mandibles and charged.
The Perseus Arm hadn’t witnessed a clash on this scale since the days of the Yīqún invasion, two centuries earlier. Until now, the only faction able to raise fleets this size had been the Troika itself, as they strongly discouraged other species from doing the same. Ships on both sides were blown apart as the two formations crashed into one another, with missiles and beams of energy tearing their enemy to shreds. Friend and foe alike collided in the bloody melee, disappearing into balls of blinding light, while desperate crewmen fought to escape their dying ships, punching out in escape pods and praying their faction could manage a rescue.
Fenrir and a contingent of escorts broke off and headed for the planet, racing to prevent the Kinetic bombardment everyone knew was coming. The three Troika ships left in low orbit to carry out the attack stared incredulously as the assault force neared, firing their weapons in a desperate bid to hold them off, but there would be no dissuading these craft. The carrier disgorged assault shuttles that peeled off and dove hard for the surface, dashing to reinforce the beleaguered Alliance troops, while those riding shotgun pounded the enemy with all they had, doing whatever it took to stay the executioner’s hand.
But the Troika could read the handwriting on the wall just as well as the Alliance, and as the battle’s momentum shifted, the flagship gave its last order:
Begin Full Kinetic Bombardment. Leave Nothing Alive.
The Tu’udh’hizh’ak vessel already had a rock primed and ready since they’d been chosen to launch the attack. They entered a simple command into the tactical computer, before moments later jettisoning a hunk of nickel-iron, leaving behind it a trail of ionized fire as it rocketed towards the surface. Even as the Alliance ships watched, they saw the Eleexx and Aggaaddub ready their own weapons of mass destruction... as a massive red bloom detonated on the surface.
Unlike the Troika, Freya did not issue an order to the shuttles. It was the pilots themselves who altered course, veering away from the planet and making a beeline for the three ships preparing to bomb Sonoitii Prime. There was no time to gather reinforcements, and the shuttles themselves were too lightly armed to destroy the Troika ships.
So instead they accelerated, trading their lives for the planet as they rammed the enemy vessels, sending them down in flames.
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Dust filled her lungs as she struggled to breathe.
Fighting her way back to consciousness, Rúna opened her eyes… and saw nothing but uniform gray. A wracking cough threatened to shred her organs as she gasped for oxygen, choking on gobs of grit while she convulsed. She felt for the canteen at her waist, desperate to clear her mouth, but found nothing. If only she could see, her mind whispered, as she tried to clear her eyes, only to have her hands bounce off her helmet. She smacked the side of it with the heel of her palm, hoping to jar whatever had stopped working back into position, but her efforts came up short. Instead, she loosened the chinstrap and slipped it off, blinking as she gaped at the world around her.
She stared in shock at a wasteland.
A hot wind blew towards the sea, throwing up sand and dust and forcing her to shield her face, but other than that an eerie silence covered the land. The grey dust covered everything, raining down from the immense cloud towering over her, even as she scooped up a handful and examined it. A sudden sneeze scattered the fine powder in every direction as she brushed off her hands. At least now she knew what to call it.
Fallout.
It wasn’t radioactive, which was probably the only good news she’d find this day. An asteroid hitting the ground might resemble a nuclear detonation, but thankfully didn’t come with gamma rays. The heat, the concussive blast, the fallout, all of that was there, just not the radiation.
Yay.
She coughed again, trying to stand, but her body refused to cooperate. Once again, her hands searched her body, this time looking for damage, but she could find no new breaks or injuries. Was it her spinal cord? Another concussion? There was no way to know.
Out of the corner of her eye she spotted movement, as something stirred beneath the soot. A figure rose through the fine grit, coughing and struggling just as she had. As she looked around, she saw others clawing their way back, shaking off the dust as they began pawing through the granules of powder, searching for other survivors. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom as she recognized piles of scattered bodies buried beneath the fallout. Some were moving, trying to make sense of what had happened, while others laid still, never to rise again. Rúna’s head snapped up as she finally remembered what had happened, those last few seconds.
The squad.
“Oh, God,” she rasped as she began digging frantically for the others, feeling around for any sign of them. As she searched yet another body came back to life, rising from the earth like an undead corpse as they stood, beating at their clothing as they shook the dust loose. The figure swiped a sleeve across their face, exposing just enough flesh for her to recognize them.
“... Doc,” she whispered, “... find the others.”
It took him a moment to focus, to make sense of her words, but then with a shaky nod he began scrabbling through the dirt, tripping over Arthur a minute later. His arm was still badly mangled as the medic got to work, making do with torn strips of filthy cloth since his kit was nowhere to be found, while she continued to search. Feeling her way through the layers blindly her hand brushed against something soft and yielding. Close to delirious, she scraped away the powder as she uncovered another individual, quickly orienting herself as she wiped their face clean. “Kai!” she shrieked in recognition, her heart skipping a beat as he lay there unmoving. Digging her finger in his mouth, she cleared his airway as best she could before straddling him, starting chest compressions while every few seconds pressing her mouth to his and blowing air into his lungs.
“Get over here!” she shouted at Doc, “Kai needs your help!” Arthur gave him a weary nod as the medic stumbled over, with Rúna sliding off his chest and focusing on his breathing while he took over CPR, squashing his chest hard enough to crack the ribs. Again and again she filled his lungs with precious oxygen, until Doc gripped her shoulder and slowly shook his head.
She pushed him aside frantically and started compressions herself. “Come on... come on,” Rúna pled with him, fighting for his life, until she slowly ground to a halt. Twin rivulets cut through the caked dust on her face as she looked up at the others, her wet eyes filled with pain. “Please,” she begged.
“He’s gone,” Doc whispered, as she broke down and sobbed.