CHAPTER 25: MARCUS BRIGGS
F.W.S. Independence
Outer Mars Orbit
Waiting had to be the most psychologically taxing experience for any sailor, a truth universally acknowledged among those who had braved the vastness of space. Admiral Briggs was no stranger to the long, drawn-out anxiety of combat, yet many of the crew members aboard his flagship, the Independence, were still green to such harrowing circumstances. The aging Admiral ambled through the expansive, metallic corridors of the megalithic ship, diligently observing the crew as they kept themselves occupied with a myriad of tasks. They had to stay engaged; otherwise, the looming trauma of knowing that possible death was hurtling toward them at nearly 20% of light speed would drive any man to the brink of insanity. That is, anyone who had not grown accustomed to such dire circumstances. Marcus Briggs had fought countless battles against his long-time adversary, the Russian Republic, and had become far too familiar with the relentless waiting game that gnawed at the psyche, a torment that could erode even the most stalwart of spirits.
Yet, it was not merely the waiting that set the Admiral's nerves on edge. It was the impending battle itself, a specter looming over them like a dark cloud, heavy with menace and dread, threatening to burst with the storm of conflict at any moment. Never in his century-long career commanding ships into combat had he faced an adversary as formidable as the Alliance. Even considering the Federation's advantage with kinetic weapons, the Alliance boasted a nearly limitless fleet of ships, an overwhelming force that seemed to multiply with each passing moment, an ever-looming tide of destruction. He had never encountered a foe capable of replenishing any vessel he destroyed within mere minutes, a terrifying prospect that gnawed at his strategic mind and filled him with an unsettling sense of urgency. Moreover, Sol had never been threatened in such a profound manner. The Republic had invaded Sol on numerous occasions, even launching attacks on Mars, but the last time Republic forces had inflicted damage on Sol was long before the Federation Navy even existed, during the brutal and unforgiving takeover of Mars. Now, the Alliance had torn through Sol's outer planets and was making its inexorable way toward the inner system, where the vast majority of Sol's population resided in relative safety, blissfully oblivious to the impending doom that loomed on the horizon like a distant thunderstorm.
Compounding the dread was the Legion, a force shrouded in mystery and unknown capabilities, an enigma that sent shivers down the spines of even the most seasoned veterans. Almost nothing was known about the Legion of robotic killers, except that every encounter with them thus far had resulted in the complete annihilation of whoever crossed their path, leaving nothing but silence and destruction in their wake. Legion ships had entered the system in a perfect one-to-one ratio with Alliance ships, yet they showed no signs of advancing toward anyone. They had positioned themselves a staggering seven light hours away from the main fleet, making no movements toward either Alliance or Federation vessels, posing no immediate threat to anyone within the system. They simply hovered there, only making subtle maneuvering corrections to maintain their galactic position within the outer limits of the Sol system, like ominous shadows waiting for the right moment to strike, a chilling reminder of the unknown horrors that could be unleashed at any moment.
This was Sol's last stand, and it could very well be humanity's final stand. If they failed to halt the invasion here, not only would Earth and Mars be at grave risk, but they would also be unable to prevent the destruction of Alpha Centauri or Sirius. Sol was currently the most heavily fortified system in human territory; even the Republic had no home left to defend other than Earth, an ironic twist of fate in a universe filled with treachery and betrayal. This battle would dictate the fate of all humans, not just those in the Federation, a reality that weighed heavily on the Admiral's shoulders, a burden he bore with grim determination, an anchor tethering him to the very essence of his duty.
The megalithic size of the Juggernauts never ceased to amaze Briggs, a testament to human engineering and ambition that had been forged through centuries of struggle and innovation. Having served aboard the Independence since her launch some seventy years ago, he had never fully explored her in her entirety, a labyrinth of metal and technology where every corner held the whispers of history, each panel and corridor a reminder of past glories and sacrifices. Even with advanced high-speed mag lift systems installed throughout the superstructure, it still took several hours to traverse from bow to stern, just over two hours from port to starboard and dorsal to ventral. The Admiral yearned to explore the ship, moving from deck to deck; he needed to tour her before the battle to boost the morale of his men and women, to remind them of the strength they possessed when united against a common foe. The tradition of the highest-ranking officers conducting a tour of the ship before a battle had not died away for Briggs, but he had never managed to stray too far from the command decks. If he was needed in Control, he had to reach it quickly. Being stuck in the engine room, three hours away from Control, would be crippling, a thought that sent an involuntary shiver down his spine, a reminder of how quickly the tide of war could turn, spiraling into chaos at a moment’s notice.
As he walked past the massive gym on deck seventeen, he paused for a quick peek inside. A smile crept across his face as he observed officers and enlisted personnel together, lifting weights, working on cardio, and even engaging in a few spirited court games, laughter and camaraderie filling the air, a precious balm against the encroaching darkness that threatened to engulf them all. 'Enjoy yourselves; you've earned it; you'll need the energy soon enough,' he thought to himself, a twinge of envy stirring within him as he recalled the years when he would join them in their physical pursuits, pushing his body to its limits alongside his comrades. Yet, even with the advances in medical technology that had allowed him to reach the venerable age of 150, his body was beginning to betray him, a painful reminder of his mortality and the relentless march of time that awaited them all, ticking away like a metronome marking the rhythm of impending doom.
After a brief stop at a galley substation near the command deck, he filled his coffee cup to the brim with the steaming brew, the rich aroma offering a momentary reprieve from the weight of his thoughts, and continued his slow trek back to Control. He moved deliberately, reluctant to return to the vast room filled with equipment and personnel, a chaotic hive of activity that demanded his attention and focus. He had been awake for over forty hours straight and desperately needed to hit his bed, to surrender to the sweet relief of sleep, even if just for a few precious hours. The hiss of the double hatch opening into the command room, known as Control, seemed to pierce his fatigued ears; this was the last place the Admiral wanted to be at that moment, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him like a heavy shroud, one that felt almost suffocating in the charged atmosphere. 'Just a quick check before I hit the rack,' he told himself, knowing deep down it was a lie, a desperate attempt to justify his presence in the crucible of command.
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"Sitrep," Admiral Briggs said, his voice softer than he had intended, barely audible over the din of the room, which buzzed with the frantic energy of anticipation, a palpable tension that hung in the air like a storm cloud ready to burst. Fortunately, the duty officer was not far from the hatch and heard the Admiral's order, his expression a mixture of concern and alertness, ready to act at a moment's notice.
"Sir, I was just about to call you and Captain Smith. They have stopped accelerating," the duty officer reported, a sense of urgency lacing his tone, his words crackling with the electricity of the moment as the reality of their situation began to crystallize.
"Shit," Briggs thought, though the word escaped his lips as little more than a whisper, a fleeting expression of frustration that echoed against the metallic walls, reverberating in the silence that followed. The duty officer noticed and gave the Admiral a cautious look, unwilling to comment on it but clearly sensing the weight of the moment pressing down on them all. "Show me their track," he finally managed to say aloud, willing his vocal cords to respond to orders, straining against the fatigue that threatened to overwhelm his senses.
"Here they are, sir, still drifting and heading right toward us," the duty officer replied, his finger hovering over the controls as he displayed the data on the screen, the glowing figures illuminating their grim reality, a stark reminder of the fight that lay ahead.
The Admiral's gaze locked onto the plot, his brain grappling with the information presented before him, the numbers swimming in a sea of anxiety, a tumultuous whirlpool of dread. Yet, in the back of his mind, he understood the implications of what this meant, the gravity of their situation settling over him like a thick fog that dulled his senses and clouded his judgment.
"Con, Optical," the optical duty officer called in a report request over the bridge intercom unit—a separate line from the Master Circuits that only connected to other stations within Control, a lifeline of communication in the tempest of war. The main command center was an expansive room, housing all critical sensor equipment and department heads; one had to use a communication system to reach the Officer of the Deck, a protocol that kept operations running smoothly amidst chaos.
"Optical, Con. What do you have?" The duty officer replied promptly to the request, his tone professional and focused, a steady anchor in the storm of uncertainty that surrounded them.
"Sir, scopes are picking up light emissions from some of the ships; more are appearing. They seem to be emitting drive plumes. It appears they have begun their braking maneuver," the optical officer reported, his eyes wide with the thrill of the unfolding events, a mixture of excitement and dread stirring within him, an emotional cocktail that mirrored the turbulent atmosphere in Control.
The Admiral was right; despite his sleep-deprived mind's reluctance to process the data, the Alliance ships had reached the halfway point between Jupiter and Mars and were beginning to slow down, the tension in the room palpable, a living thing that wrapped around them, tightening like a noose. "This is it, ladies and gentlemen; start the clock." A countdown timer appeared on all the display units across the ship, and on various independent time displays strategically placed throughout the command area, a grim reminder of their dwindling time. The timer read five hours, but they were still more than five hours away from the point of contact, a cruel reminder of the time they had left—time that seemed to stretch and contract like a coiled spring, compressing their fate into a single moment.
"How much time until they reach the point of no return?" Briggs inquired, referring to the critical threshold beyond which they could not easily escape and turn back to bypass Mars—the point where they would be forced to engage, regardless of their speed, an inescapable fate that loomed over them like a guillotine.
"Twenty hours, sir," came the response, the weight of the words hanging heavily in the air, an anchor of despair that threatened to drag them all under.
"That leaves us with four hours after that to contact, correct?" Briggs pressed on, his mind racing through the implications of their timeline, calculating risks and strategies with every heartbeat, each second ticking away like a metronome counting down to their doom.
"Aye, sir," the officer confirmed, the tension in the room thickening, a palpable sense of impending conflict that suffused their surroundings, wrapping around them like a shroud.
"Alright, I want duty rotations to be strict. All first-shift personnel are to rest for twenty hours. Put second and third rotations on until then; I don't care how you do it. I want our best people at their stations, fresh," he ordered, his voice firm and resolute, a captain steering his ship through stormy seas, the storm clouds gathering on the horizon, dark and foreboding.
"Aye, sir," the duty officer acknowledged, taking note of the commands with a sense of urgency that underscored the gravity of their situation.
"Inform Captain Smith to get five more hours of rest. I'm going to do the same; no need to wake me. I'll set the alarm. I'll return when it's time." The duty officer nodded once again, comprehension etched across his face as the Admiral's gaze remained fixed on the plot. Three hundred blue symbols scattered across the Martian orbital space, while over three thousand red dots approached them at well over 0.4c, slowing down as hard as they could, preparing to unleash fiery devastation upon their unsuspecting targets. They were outnumbered nearly a thousand to one, and their kinetic advantage would mean little against the overwhelming numbers they faced, a grim reality that loomed like a specter over their heads, a constant reminder of their vulnerability and the stakes at hand. He wanted to wait before playing his ace card; if he evened the playing field too soon, it might spook them and cause them to break off their burn. The element of surprise would be lost, leaving them with another chance to attack or, worse yet, to accelerate again and shoot past them, heading straight for Earth—traveling so fast that the fleet could neither stop them nor catch up before they could rain destruction down on Earth, a nightmare scenario he could not afford to entertain.
No, the Admiral had to remain patient, a virtue he had cultivated over decades of service. He had two cards left to play: the first one would come in five hours. At that point, he would know how dire their situation truly was, the moment of truth drawing ever closer, a fateful reckoning on the horizon. At the twenty-hour mark, he could deploy his ace card, calling in reinforcements; at that moment, the Alliance fleet would have no option but to engage with the defense fleet, a desperate fight for survival that would decide the fate of humanity. His rack was screaming his name—'Five hours,' he thought to himself, 'Five hours of rest. Not enough,' but it would have to do, for the fate of humanity rested upon his weary shoulders, a weight heavier than the stars themselves, a burden that he would carry into the depths of the coming storm.