January 22nd, 394

Commodore Caleb Gaines sat in his chair on the bridge, looking through the latest report from his engineering department. Even among ships of her class, the ANS Circe was a tech-heavy warship…and that translated in metric tons of paperwork to go through.

‘Thirteen more days to go…’ The young commodore thought to himself.

As much as he took pride in his rank, Caleb often missed the simplicity of life as a simple console operator. He’d served in the navy for ten years, and most of that had been spent in front of an electronic warfare console. That was probably the reason why he’d been selected to command the lead ship of the Witch-class cruisers…but nothing could’ve prepared him for the stacks of paperwork he had to read through each and every day.

Placed in a lineup with all the other classes of warship ever commissioned by the dynasty, the Circe was a middling warship. Nine hundred meters long and home to a thousand ratings and officers, it would’ve been called a heavy cruiser had its armament not been bumped down a notch in favor of an extremely sophisticated electronic warfare suite.

Placed in the midst of a squadron or battle-group, such a warship served as an amazing force multiplier whose presence could mean life or death for friend and foe alike. Unfortunately, the increased logistical burden of its tech-heavy profile had been the cause of many a headache for both Caleb and the admiralty back on Bridgehead Station.

‘I could really use some…’

“Chai, sir?” A familiar voice came from his right.

Caleb shook his head lighty and turned to look up at, coming face-to-face with a kitchen steward carrying a chai set. ‘Tea Boys’, as the kitchen staff that carried chai to those who needed it were called, were welcomed in almost every part of the ship. That was a rare luxury that few people were afforded; a rating couldn’t simply walk into the bridge and an officer would rather walk into space without a vacsuit than visit marine country.

“Yes please. And a teaspoon of honey.”

“Right away sir.” The tea boy replied, skillfully pouring his commodore a cup of hot chai and adding a teaspoon of domish honey.

“Here you go, sir.” He handed Caleb the cup on a small plate, along with a pair of small biscuits. “The galley just whipped these up.

“Thank you very much, son.” Caleb thanked and dismissed the boy, eager to savor the flavor of honeyed chai.

After many months of rather basic and bland cooking, the akritan navy was once again flush with consumables. The farms of Domusec were increasing in size and variety every week. Cradle Valley honey, especially, had become a hotly-discussed good that everybody who was somebody wanted to get their hands on.

Some wanted it for the clout, but the overwhelming majority had simply missed the taste. Honey was one of those goods too messy, bulky and low-profit to ship in bulk, and Polaris didn’t have the environment to raise bees or grow flowers.

Minutes passed as the entire bridge was served their hourly tea ration -one of the few traditions that hadn’t changed a bit since they were introduced in the navy-. Not just because it was tradition, but because it was effective. Nothing bonded crews better than sharing in food and drink, and everybody drank chai. If you didn’t before joining, you certainly would get the habit after a few months in a tin can with few sources of entertainment and not a drop of alcohol.

And the caffeine didn’t go to waste. Life aboard a warship demanded you to be awake and alert at any time you were needed, and stars knew sleep proved hard to come by during wartime. Thankfully they were now at peace, but that didn’t diminish the important of alertness.

‘All we’re doing is watching a damn patch in space…’ Caleb complained, looking at his sensor screen as he drained the last of his chai.

The spinward jump point of the Pollux system was just that; a three-dimensional patch in space where ships could, and did, spontaneously materialize. To an outside observer—

“Commodore, you need to see this!” His sensors watch-stander called out, worry evident in the tone of her voice. “I’ve got multiple bogeys on the gravidar, coming right out of the jump point!”

‘Shit. What now?’ Caleb cursed, putting down his tea cup. “Elaborate, lieutenant.”

“I’ve got five signatures, traveling at oh-zero-five cee. Acceleration profile is weak; hovering at thirty four gravities. Lidar return…I think it’s civilians, sir, but I’m detected damage. One of the ships can’t keep up and two are leaking atmosphere.”

“Communications, get a hail out to them now on radio and whisker-laser. I want to know where they are from, why they are here and who the hell attacked them.”

The communications watch-stander replied immediately. “Sir, their transponders are still online. Reading as mining barges from the Kingdom of Leonis- wait one.” The lieutenant turned around to face Caleb. “Sir, I’m receiving a video communication. Header says they are refugees. Civil war refugees.”

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

+++

Before

“The Lucky Lamp was hit!” Somebody shouted amidst the crowded bridge of the mining barge, and Luka cursed under his breath.

Try as the group might, the royal guard’s warships were gaining on them…fast. Mining ships were built to move slowly and steadily, not swiftly. The gap between the group of rag-tag escapists and their pursuers was rapidly closing; the only reason the frigates hadn’t fired missiles at them was to not waste ammo.

Instead, they were using their railguns to pepper the vulnerable haulers.

“How long until we’re at the jump point?!” Luka demanded.

“Fifteen seconds!”

“They’ve launched missiles!” The sensorman shouted in panic, his words spreading like wildfire. “Impact in ten seconds!”

They were doomed. Months of preparations, bribes and hiding, and now they were going to be turned into so much stardust and forgotten. Unless…

“Overload the propulsion systems! The gravitic plating, the inertial dampeners, the reactor, all of it! We can still make it!” Luka shouted, hoping that somewhere deep inside he still believed it. The panic made it so hard for him to think, to feel, anything more than survival in the immediate future.

Disagreements, arguments and shouts of horror should’ve followed his orders. The ore haulers were built with a surge-capable propulsion system, but for all the shiny stuff the kingdom kept building it hardly -if ever- actually maintained that which it already had.

The royal guard, as well as some of the navy’s elite units, were the exception. Everything else, from apartment buildings and factories to space stations and ore haulers -especially the ore haulers- hadn’t seen a proper repair and refurbishment cycle since the day they left the shipyard.

Alas, is crew was caught up in the same do-or-die adrenaline rush he was under.

“Overloading now!” The woman in charge of propulsion shouted, and Luka felt his teeth grind against each other as the ship’s inertial dampening strained against the effort.

“We’re going to make it!” The same man who’d called out the missile launched shouted in shock and awe, even as he gasped for breath.

“The Coal Prince is hit!” Somebody shouted, and cries of anguish washed over the crowd as the barge disintegrated. Yet Luka knew it had not been hit; its inertial dampeners had simply failed. In less than a nanosecond, eight hundred souls had been snuffed out of existence. He couldn’t, wouldn’t point it out; this was their only chance at survival.

“Helmsman, take us into hyperspace!” He shouted, and suddenly his mouth tasted gray and he could smell laughter.

For a moment, he was at peace. And then reality crashed back into existence.

“Jump successful!” The helmsman shouted.

Not everybody took the abrupt change of scenery as good as the man; many collapsed into coughing fits or puked the insides of their stomachs. The visceral reaction sparked a chain reaction; the air turned putrid, the sight sickening. Nevertheless, Luka didn’t stop. This was their chance at survival, if only he could grab it with both hands.

He’d heard it from the rumor mill, that’s why they’d jumped this way instead of attempting the hellish dash to hegemony space some seven systems away. Some merchantmen had passed through Leonis without stopping, having traded away their wares and refueled in a bustling colony in the Praxis system. A colony with warships, supposedly. It was a gamble, but maybe…just maybe, those warships would protect them. Because stars knew nobody else would in this slice of the galaxy.

“There they are…” He mumbled in disbelief, finding what he was searching for. Warships, patrolling near the jump point. One big and two small ones, though even those were bigger than the frigates that were chasing him. Would that be enough? He had no idea; he had spent his entire adult life in the mines with little in terms of education or news beyond what few rumors were recycled throughout the mining station he’d been born on.

2

“You, communications!” he shouted to the woman manning the console, who turned around to face him. “I’m going to send you a message, and I need you to send it at those warships. They will help us.” The last part was meant more for him than her; he was grappling with straws.

The woman puked out her guts, but nodded to the affirmative nonetheless. Knowing that was all he was going to get, Luka turned to the camera of his own console and started talking.

“To all who may hear this message: we need your help. We are refuges, seeking-“

+++

Now

“-to escape slavery. T-Their warships are chasing us, they’ll kill us all! Please, you have to help us, there are kids on board!”

Hearing the man’s plea, Caleb felt his blood boil. Looking around the room, he couldn’t help but notice the rest of the bridge crew had stony expressions.

“Your orders, Commodore?” His communications officer asked.

Many times in his life, Caleb had had to think deep before issuing orders. A commodore had to make tough choices if he wanted to see his mission through, and the war against the Vogdi had tested akritan morals and morale to the absolute limit.

This was not one of those times.

Careful not so smash his display, he pressed a buttn and recorded a video reply.

“Refugee ships, this is the akritan navy warship Circe. Maintain maximum viable acceleration and head for the fifth planet farthest from this star; our people will be waiting for you with medical aid and hot meals. The Circe and her subordinate warships will cover your retreat.”

“Message sent, Commodore.” The communications officer replied.

“Good, I’ve got another one for the entire squadron. Get on the 1MC and call general quarters.” Caleb replied, feeling a fire grow in his heart.

With a short acknowledgment, the lieutenant pressed a few keys on his console. A shrill whistle tone sounded throughout the ship.

With a gesture from the officer, Caleb spoke into his console’s microphone.

“All hands, this is Commodore Gaines. A group of refugees have been hunted into the system by unknown combatants intent on killing them. Our task is to defend the refugees by all means necessary. Give. No. Mercy.”

Akritan discipline held back what cheering might’ve come from the rest of the crew on the bridge, but Caleb could see the fire in their eyes as they looked at him. At least half the men in this ship were first or second generation refugees chased into the arms of the dynasty by Vogdi savagery. Though they did not know who these refugees were or where they came from, there was an immediate sense of kinship with the unfortunate men and women trying to escape from their deaths.

“Tracking four bogeys exiting hyperspace at spinward jump point.” The sensor officer reported, his tone sharp.

‘There they are.’ Caleb though. “Tag all bogeys as bandits. Let’s show these scum the business end of akritan guns.”