Never before had Rapier stood witness to such an enormous fleet mustered in one location. Dozens of assault carriers and troopships, over three hundred battleships and cruisers, and each one of these capital craft were surrounded by ten frigates for close-in defense. This was the Armada of the Small of which Wakizashi spoke.
Rapier gazed out of the bridge, captivated by the shifting lights in the distance. Such a show of force had surely been ordered by Her Dominance herself, but it was grounds for worry. Not since the war against the great machine empire of the Upsilon had a force so large been raised, and for a moment he wondered what that meant about the current conflict. Then, he expunged doubt from his mind. He may have had his misgivings with his immediate superiors, but his faith in his sovereign, like most Poslushi of the day, remained unshaken. If the great Katana II wished it done, it had to be for good reason.
On a somewhat more relieving note, Rapier had been all but relieved of duty. Overbattlematron Dao of the Oxilini Brood had assumed joint command of the fleet with Wakizashi, but the Tethylen and her escorts would remain as the spearhead of their offensive, joined by a strike group of battleships and carriers.
“You know, this is only about a tenth of our might. Even if we subtract ten thousand of our craft for border patrols, ten thousand more for Judge retinues, and a generous twenty thousand for policing, that’s still only a sixth.” Wakizashi explained.
“It’s impressive, I must say.” Rapier replied, antennae standing almost straight with excitement.
“Her Dominance has made it clear that she will not tolerate delays in the campaign from this point forward. She expects to be meeting with me on Earth quite soon. It shouldn’t be a problem; the Armada alone outnumbers the navies of all their nations combined almost two to one.”
“They really number so little? Damn, we could’ve just had the Council of Arbitrators send a Peacekeeper detachment and been done with it!”
Wakizashi chuckled at the prospect. “Would’ve served those yokel people right. Better than the tit-sucking softskins deserved, even.”
Rapier saw one of the Ovinis crewmen give Wakizashi a dirty look when she wasn’t looking. For a moment, he thought to remind her that such anti-mammalian language was not to be used in mixed company, but found that it would be too blunt and too suspicious.
“Though, that does raise the question: what are you planning to do once we win?” Rapier asked out of a mixture of genuine curiosity and a willingness to change the subject.
Wakizashi’s eyes narrowed in thought. “First, I’ll demolish the capitals of the nations of man and build my palace from the stones, as is custom. Then, once mankind has been brought around, I’ll probably have to rekindle their old martial history. The Council will have… issues with the Combine gaining too much from this war.”
“A prudent choice, ma’am, but would the Council bring a coalition to bear against one of its own Tribunals?” Rapier asked. Such a thing had never occurred before, not counting the war that replaced the Psychocracy with the Upsilon in the position of First Tribunal.
“Remember, Rapier, to put nothing beyond our enemies, and even less beyond our friends.”
Rapier tried to remember what the quote was from. “Tribulations of Sunsword?”
“Axioms of the Before, actually. Nasty time, that was.”
Rapier didn’t know much about the Before; it had been a time of great pain that existed before the rise of Sunsword as First Warlord of Poslush, and all information beyond that was restricted to Judge eyes only.
The bridge door hissed open and someone entered with heavy footsteps. Rapier spun in his chair to see Ulo standing just barely on the inside of the doorway. His bright blue plumage quivered on end with excitement.
“Viceroy, Captain-General, commnets are up and running with all craft. 900th through 1210th Mixed Legions are deploying to the surface as we speak, with artillery and armored elements soon to follow. We’ve currently got 30,000 Aerial Knights in Omen’s high atmosphere as well, but I imagine they’ll be suffering high casualties soon. Human air effectiveness is not to be underestimated, ma’am.”
“Oh, don’t be such a pessimist, Captain. I’m sure the Aerial Knights will perform as admirably as they have ever done.”
Rapier envied Ulo at this moment. As he wasn’t the direct subordinate of Wakizashi, she couldn’t punish him for speaking out without overstepping social norms.
“The issue is not one of performance; it’s one of technology and honor. I’m sure you know of the human air forces’ self-steering air torpedoes, and their tendency to attack without warning. If they were to be engaged by our Knights, it is likely that each enemy fighter could inflict significant losses before running out of munitions or being overwhelmed. The Judges of the Squireworlds would not be pleased to see their Knights wasted, ma’am.”
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
A foul smell permeated the room and Rapier cringed with apprehension. Wakizashi’s voice had a sharp, angered hiss to it. “Well, you can tell the Judges of the Squireworlds that they can write their complaints down, roll them up, and shove them up their cloacae. I am still Viceroy, and the forces they entrust to me will still answer to me. Her Dominance does not tolerate factionalism within her demesne, and neither will I. Understand, Captain?”
Ulo lowered his gaze and tilted his head forward, the closest thing to an apology an Aralu could push aside their pride to give. “Understood, ma’am.”
“Good. Tell Dao that we are ready to proceed with the offensive.” Wakizashi said, shooing Ulo from the room with one hand. Then, she turned to Rapier.
“What do you think, Captain-General? How should we proceed?”
Rapier’s antennae raised in excitement. Ever since she had stung him, she had paradoxically become more open to suggestion. Perhaps she was willing to be more vulnerable before somebody she thought didn’t have the capacity to use such vulnerability against her.
“Well, in this situation, I would suggest a doctrine of combined-arms tactics. The Aerial Knights wrest control of the skies and work in tandem with our artillery to bombard enemy positions, and our armored and infantry columns support one another in rolling over what remains.”
A sweet scent tinged the air once again. “Sound strategies as always, Captain-General. Rally the Driver Caste; I’ve been wanting a human servant ever since this war began.”
—
“Flush,” Simmons said, laying her cards out on the floor of the barracks. Overjoyed, Pavlov took his turn to show his hand. “Four of a kind, baby!”
“Ugh, two pair,” Sparrow said, facepalming.
Darren, the dealer, took the opportunity to speak. “And the taker of the grand jackpot of two dollars, a novelty stamp, and a free drink when all this is over: Corporal Pavlov!”
Pavlov eyed the stamp greedily, but before he could collect any of his winnings, Darren’s PDA flashed twice and a message appeared on the screen with a loud ding. Darren picked up the tablet and read the message.
From: Capt. Devon McCullough, USSAC, Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Astral
Get your equipment and proceed to Fort von Richthofen’s helipad for your next assignment. Say your goodbyes; it’s unlikely you will return before the fort has been evacuated.
End transmission.
Darren put the PDA in his bag and said, “Get your gear. We’re leaving.”
“Where to?” Pavlov asked.
“Dunno; it just says to wait for a helicopter.” Darren responded, already donning his ballistic vest and helmet. He picked up his rifle, freshly cleaned and greased, and slung it over his shoulder. A minute of slipping into his boots, adjusting his belt, grabbing his pack, but mostly adjusting his belt later, he was combat-ready and already on his way to the vertiport. The walk was short and the air was brisk and clean, unlike Earth’s cocktail of smog, industrial aerosols, and synthetic ozone that passed for an atmosphere. The place would make a good holiday retreat, as long as CAST won the war first.
The Dark Sparrow lay in wait on the helipad, rotors still spinning. Darren ducked under the blades (such behavior was greatly reinforced after he watched a taller trainee get the top of his head removed during Ranger School) and climbed into the back of the helo, the rest of the platoon close behind. The moment Pavlov, bringing up the rear, got in, the doors slammed shut and the aircraft lifted from the ground. Soon, Fort von Richthofen was nothing but a slowly-shrinking cluster of structures behind them, a little city soon to vanish forever.
The flight was solemn and quiet; the gravity of the situation was clear to everyone for the first time. Normally, someone would step up with a quip or joke to lighten the mood, but it seemed that humor was no longer a viable option. The only noises to occasionally break through the drone of the engines were the occasional report of an artillery piece or the whine of a passing fighter. Darren silently dictated a final address to his mother on a piece of stationery. When the helo came down, he left it with the pilot in case he didn’t return; he couldn’t help but notice several others doing the same.
Darren’s PDA flashed one last time as they emerged atop one side of a steep mountain-rimmed valley, about a hundred feet above the floor of the landform. A column of French and Dutch evacuees had recently passed through, and had managed to goad a more foolhardy Battlematron into sending her forces through the canyon in pursuit. To that end, the platoon, alongside two Marine Raider and one SAS detachment of the same size, would set an ambush for her forces, inflicting as many casualties as they could in hopes of degrading her soldiers’ morale. When the job was done, the four platoons would retreat one after another, the Rangers covering the last of the Marines. Darren chuckled as he imagined what the Marines were thinking about not being last out.
“This is Staff Sergeant Hardwell, 75th Ranger Regiment, requesting sound-off, over.” Darren said, one hand to his ear.
“Sergeant Armstrong in position, over.” a gruff, heavily Scottish voice responded nigh-instantly.
“You’re late to the party. Staff Sergeant Walker and Staff Sergeant Kennedy. You might remember me from that intel raid, over.” another voice with a Brooklyn accent spoke.
It took Darren a minute to remember what he was talking about. “Oh, with the Battlematron Sparrow took a leg off. Yeah, I remember you! How’s Abilene, over?”
“Recovering; some asshole put a Bouncing Betty in our patrol path and she, erm, disarmed it. With her unmentionables. We’re running with a replacement, over.”
“Yeesh.” Darren exclaimed, cupping his hand over his microphone. Looking over, Pavlov looked to be simultaneously horrified and suppressing a laugh.
“Well, that’s all. Let’s try to maintain radio silence; God knows whether or not they’re listening in on us, out.”
“Roger, out.”
“Affirm, out.”
Sighing, Darren clicked off his radio and tried to find a good spot to set up his gun. However, he was immediately interrupted when Pavlov called out, “Hey, they left us a cache!”
Instantly interested, Darren ran over to Pavlov’s side, and sure enough, two large steel crates had been partially buried, bearing the insignia of the French logistics corps. When Pavlov cracked them open, it was like they had struck gold. One crate carried dozens upon dozens of STANAG rifle magazines, and the other contained five anti-material coilguns with enough sabot rounds to put a tank brigade out of commission.
A dark whimsy overtook Darren and he smiled as only someone about to destroy something could. This was going to be fun.