Ambrose was just a boy. He should have been afraid. Trembling in the metal seat that was much too high for him, his feet dangling hopelessly over air. Whimpering as the command room’s emergency lights exploded across his vision, flashing him with the same red as spilt blood. Crying for his mother and siblings—no, that wasn’t quite right. The former had been murdered, and the latter had betrayed him soon after. It was precisely because of that, that neither his soul nor body quavered. His mind had already purged away fear, and all other emotions. All except anger. Even as he faced the combined forces of the 57th Warhound Fleet, commanded personally by the Stellar Primacy’s First Princess Isabella au Stellaris herself, all he could feel was the icy knives of retribution stabbing his heart.
Eldest sister. We meet again, years after you left me to freeze in the blackness of space. It was cold. So cold. About time I repay you the favour. But I will not be as cruel as you were. I will let you enjoy the warmth of your burning ship.
Ambrose was just a boy. A boy with all the capabilities and vast armaments of an ancient warship under the control of his voice, and the direction of his fingertips. He didn’t hesitate as he spoke the command. Fire.
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That single word was but a simple action with no further context, for the steely finality of its delivery was all the information needed by his loyal crew who trusted him innately: they were to launch everything, with no restraint.
There was a great impact that could be felt reverberating through the floor, the bulkheads, the very superstructure of the entire ship, like an inescapable metal earthquake. If he wasn’t securely strapped into a chair, his knees would surely shake. And then another impact. And another. Then a few dozen more. It all coalesced into a powerful shuddering, the quaking belly of a titanium dragon who was breathing all the fire it could muster out of its mighty jaws.
“ALL missile pods fired, delayed target lock!”
“Shock barrels discharge cycle one of five!”
“Pulse emitters on cyclic charging!”
A chorus of further shouts detailed what was already playing out before him on two different levels:
The first level, as information on his console’s holo-screen; filling status bars, rising temperature readings, scrolling munition counts, as well as white triangles that sped across the screen—representing fired weapon projectiles, grouped by approximate proximity to each other and velocity. The triangles scattered from the green square, his own ship, like wasps from a hive, and converged towards the red squares at the opposite end of the screen in sharp arcs.
The second level was the view directly outside the curved viewport of the bridge’s front. It turned abstract data into raw reality before them like a blazing fire on the blank canvas of space, affirming to all their eyes that the dance of their fingers across their consoles was indeed sending those speeding plumes and flashing needles out through the darkness, accelerating towards the enemy fleet.
The ship’s bridge was an expansive, hollowed dome, where Ambrose’s command station was at the back and elevated over the other stations. All around, dozens of technicians and officers manned a myriad of consoles. Data readouts of essential ship systems were displayed as holographic waterfalls of orange light, flowing in the air above each station ever rapidly as the crew fervently executed their tasks. Each console was smaller than the master console that he sat at, but they still controlled indispensable roles. Engines, navigation, sensors…
Weapons. The weapons officers seemed to be twitching their fingers the fastest.
“Cripple the command ship. Leave no trace of the rest.”
His voice sounded softly, almost like a whisper, yet it unmistakably came with all the force and conviction of a mighty shout. All he needed was the softest breath, and the comm link in front of him could magnify his words to their loudest, and transmit their echo throughout every single deck, bay, cabin, compartment and corridor if need be, such that no soul aboard his ship could claim ignorance to the ultimate will of their commander.
“Roger!” The officers shouted as they were already arranging subsequent firing solutions.
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Damn you, Isabella. He cursed so quietly that even the transceiver couldn’t pick it up.
From the depths of my soul, I hate you. But once, I loved you. I truly did. This is my revenge.
The leading ships of the Warhound Fleet, quicker Spearback destroyers that were speeding ahead of the main force to form an encirclement around his ship, bore the brunt of the first volleys. Their 290 metre-long arrowhead profiles splintered into shards of melted hull plating as the energy from the pulse emitters tore through them with ease. Thus, what was once an expanding encirclement turned into a ring of destruction around the surviving ships, marking them next for death.
The fleet of 42 ships was commanded by First Princess Isabella, whose chilling beauty was said to pierce through any man as decisively as her adept manipulation of her ships pierced through enemy fleets. All subjects across the Thousand Worlds knew that this lady of peerless beauty and intellect was guaranteed a meteoric rise to royal power. Many had already accepted her to be the future queen. None had ever thought of a future where she would be killed in battle. Such an event was inconceivable; impossible.
And yet, in mere minutes, a full half of her entire fleet had been smashed.
He had seen no error in the way Isabella had ordered her ships to move. Expanding her ships out in an encirclement was the optimal tactic against his single, larger ship. It would quickly bring all of her fleet’s guns to bear on him with widened fields of fire, and prevent his stronger weapons from wiping out groups of ships at a time. Aggressive wolfpack tactics, bringing overwhelming firepower in a short span of time was the Warhound Princess’ deadly specialty. However, there was nothing she could’ve done about the reality of his ship’s vastly superior weaponry. In truth, her fleet had lost this battle the moment they had consigned themselves to it.
He could imagine her as she was now, poised on the bridge of her own ship. Cursing up a storm. Squeezing the hilt of her ceremonial sabre until her knuckle turned white, and damning the gods of battle for pitting her against such an insurmountable foe. But even then, all the while, grinning through gritted teeth. Shouting at her crew to never lose heart. Bellowing out her next command with unshaken resolve. The Isabella he remembered was a burning spirit that would never let itself be extinguished. Not without a fight.
The enemy fleet began changing their tactics. Behind the flaming wrecks of the destroyers, the slower Claymore battleships, each ship 600 metres of heavy armour, tightened up their formation and maintained their distance from his ship, forming a rough wall in front of the fleet’s command ship.
It would seem the quick loss of her frontline had instantly flipped her offensive push to a stalwart defence. To any standard ship, a blockade of Claymores was exceedingly difficult to overcome. Their broad, boxy signatures and heavy distribution of armour at their fore structure effectively made them ship-sized shields. Although it was classed as a superheavy battleship, if a Claymore only received attacks from its front, its armour rating was effectively equal to that of a heavy cruiser. Given the ineffectiveness of head-on fire, then, one would either need to gain a flanking angle, or use a weapon system such as guided missiles to target its sides.
That was all true for a standard ship.
In an instant, the entire frontal plating of a Claymore battle cruiser ruptured open in a sizeable hole, and explosions plumed out its sides, across the length of the ship. A single projectile had penetrated along the entire ship’s spine through its supposedly impenetrable front. Naturally, armour was only useful when it was not bypassed. Entire decks of the ship were destroyed as its vulnerable insides imploded.
Facing the Claymores towards him head-on only meant that his rail drivers—electromagnetic cannons firing massive tungsten slugs at incredible velocities—could deal maximum damage, punching cleanly lengthwise along each ship. Realising this, some of the other ships swayed sideways like panicking whales, only to get their sides pulverised immediately from the pulse emitters.
However, the use of his rail drivers had no significant bearing on the battle regardless. In truth, his ship possessed overwhelming power, and more than enough ordnance to obliterate a fleet multitudes larger than the Warhound Princess’ paltry strike group. If he had wanted to, he could have used any single weapon system to make quick work of the enemy—their pulse emitters still had enough thermal capacity to sustain themselves, and their first volley of missiles hadn’t even been fully expended yet. This battle was tantamount to a lion going against mice—it mattered not whether the lion used its claws, jaws, or simply the weight of a single paw… the outcome would still be the same.
He did not want to admit it to himself. That the reason why he was pulling out all the stops to not just eliminate, but absolutely obliterate this fleet in such spectacular fashion, was all for a foolish personal reason.
“Ambrose. If I am to die on my ship someday, then I would like it to be a noble death, fighting the galaxy’s greatest battle. A battle to decide the Primacy’s fate.”
Those words had been spoken then, during a time that no longer existed, spoken to a boy who was now dead. So why did he still remember? Why was there still a child, hearing the words of his brave, older sister?
I’ll grant you your wish, Isabella. If you had only managed to stop me here. You could have saved the entire Primacy from its impending destruction.
Once he killed her right there and then, the child would finally die. And he could finally freeze over, fully sheathe himself within the frigid chill. There would be no more foolishness. Only cold vengeance.