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Station Gamma was a dominatus-class resupply station. Hanging in the void, its grey-black spires and docking gantries stretched out like clawing talons. The Dominatus class was a human design unheard of in the wider galaxy. Part space station, part voidship, the Dominatus was a mobile resupply station of greater mass than even the largest super-carriers. Capable of its own propulsion, and even FTL travel, these space hulks were the cornerstone of the human military's logistics supply chain. They could be loaded at Terra, dispatched to strategic locations, and critically, if they were threatened or their position became untenable, they could relocate under their own power.
It would be wrong to characterize them as vessels in their own right. They were slow, cumbersome, and lacked any significant offensive capability. They were critical depots, repair facilities, communication relays and forward operating bases. Two years previous Station Epsilon, another Dominatus, had been ambushed by a Conclave raiding party and destroyed outright. Hundreds of thousands of crew had been killed in that action, and it was widely considered as one of the single greatest military losses in human history.
Station Gamma had been placed here specifically for them. Here they could dock their damaged ships, and unload large numbers of refugees for transit back to Terra aboard the floating city. The relocation had been a matter of utmost secrecy, and so, as they dropped out of FTL, they saw the station was guarded by only two Terran destroyers. The fleet was hailed, and given permission to dock. The destroyers powered out to meet them, and escorted them into the anchorage.
Justinius and Marcus entered the station via a docking limb, and were met by an administrative clerk. The clerk guided them through the station, and took them directly to the station control center.
As he entered the large circular control room, Justinius was shocked by the size and scope of the room's operations. The room was near one hundred meters across, and banks of control stations ringed the room. Set in tiers, these stations spread up the sides of the amphitheater-like room. White uniformed supervisors watched closely as clerks and technicians in their sections ministered to their stations.
A staircase led down to the center of the room, where two figures stood, observing a central bank of screens and consoles.As they approached, the clerk made their introductions.
“Sir, Rear Admiral Justinius and Captain Marcus.” The man bowed, then turned and walked away.
The two individuals turned to face them. Both were middle-aged Navy Officers. One was a large man with black-hair and a hawkish face. The other was a woman with long red hair and a severe expression.
Justinius and Marcus both nodded politely.
The woman spoke first, “Gentleman, welcome aboard. I’m Admiral Alfson, this is Admiral Kobayashi. We were glad to hear the mission was a success.”
Justinius smiled politely, “Thank you Admiral. It was a close run thing.”
On the screens behind the pair, Justinius could see live camera feeds from all over the station. Refugees were being marshaled out of ships in gigantic hangar bays, organized into living groups, and transported to improvised garrisons that had been set up in the empty cargo holds of the vessel.
Seeing his curiosity, Kobayashi looked down at a data-tablet he held in his hands. “We’re prepared for the refugees. We’ve got provisions and accommodations for the full two-hundred thousand, plus a little extra just in case. I hear you also took some pretty serious damage to the fleet vessels.”
Justinius nodded, “Most of the fleet is damaged in one way or another, and some ships are combat ineffective in their current state.”
Kobayashi nodded, “We’ve routed the worst affected vessels to our shipyard docks. With your permission we’ll take these back to Terra with us to conduct repairs. They’ll be safer with us than under their own power.”
“Thank you Admiral. We also have a significant number of dead to entrust you with. They’ll need transport back to Luna.”
Marcus produced his own data-slate, and handed it to Alfson. The Admiral’s eyebrows raised in surprise as she reviewed the data.
“Of course, leave the arrangements to us. It seems from this you all have done more than your fair amount of work in this affair.”
Marcus grunted, and Justinius hurried to end the conversation, “Thank you again. We’ll return to our ships and as soon as you signal that the transfers are complete we can all head back home.”
With respectful nods, the soldiers left the officers to their work.
Marcus was sour and petulant during the walk back to the Fury. His mood undoubtedly stemmed from the recent losses, but Justinius knew for a fact that many soldiers in the Terran Navy found the officers assigned to duties such as that of Station Gamma unimpressive. Their jobs were administrative, not combative, and as such many soldiers considered them less worth of respect than those that served in frontline combat roles.
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Justinius held no such reservations. It was true that they were not warriors the way he and Marcus were. It was also true that he would have made a terrible station commander. Those officers assigned to that role excelled because they were detail oriented, extremely intelligent, level-headed, and above all, diligent in their pursuit of efficiency. They had been chosen specifically for those attributes. A combat vessel needed a leader with tenacity, a balanced desire for action, and no small measure of bravado.
As they approached the docking gantry back to the Fury their communicators pinged.
“Justinius, Marcus.” Halastar’s voice rang out, “I need you two back on the Fury. We’ve got a problem.”
They met the shipmaster in his personal cabin. Justinius had not ever seen the space before. The room was sparsely furnished. An unmade bed, a small bureau, and a desk with a computer station.
As the two men entered the room, it was immediately apparent that something was troubling Halastar. The shipmaster had fixed himself a drink, which was beyond unusual for him, and he had his head cradled in his hands.
“Halastar,” Justinius began, “What’s wrong?”
The shipmaster sighed, and finished his drink in one swig before answering. “I was running through the battlelog from Iunthor.”
“Hal…”Justinius said softly, “You should be resting. You need to leav-”
“It’s not self pity Justinius.” The shipmaster cut him off, “I’m not beating myself up. I found something.”
He scrolled through the data and turned his monitor so the two soldiers could see. It was the message log. Halastar selected a log and pulled it up on screen. It showed the communique that had been sent to Gamma station notifying them of their arrival.
Marcus was losing patience, “The communique to Gamma station. So what?”
Halastar shook his head, “Look at the routing numbers.”
Justinius looked closer. In the header data of the message, a string of data represented the coordinates to which the message was sent. He recognised the coordinates for Gamma station, but there was a string of data he didn’t recognise.
Looking towards the shipmaster, he felt a sense of panic rising, “Halastar, where else did this message go?”
“I don’t know. Those coordinates don’t mean anything to me either. At first I thought it might have been an error but-”
Marcus interrupted, “Who?”
Halastar sighed, “Ensign Jerrick, Comms officer during the battle.”
Marcus slammed the side of his fist against Justinius’ armour and turned to rush from the room. Justinius turned and followed, and together they ran down the hallways of the ship, towards the bridge. Halastar chased after them struggling to keep up with the two power-amoured soldiers.
They burst onto the bridge, startling the crew as they skidded to a halt.
“Jerrick!” Marcus growled, “Where is he?”
The bridge crew, alarmed and afraid at the soldiers tone unconciously shifted their gaze towards one of the ensigns. The man was tall, slim of frame and he looked terribly afraid. Clumsily, he tried to reach into his pocket.
Justinius went to tackle the officer, but Marcus was quicker. The soldier rushed the man, drawing his blade as he did. With his free hand, Marcus pinned the man's hand, which was still inside his jacket pocket. The man yelped, as a powered armoured fist clamped down on his, and pinned it. The force of the impact pushed the officer back against his bridge console, his restrained hand now forced into his abdomen as Marcus pressed him against the wall.
“Marcus!” Justinius called, but the soldier didn’t hear him.
With a single deft strike, Marcus lifted his blade up and through the ensigns armpit, severing the officer's arm at the shoulder. The man screamed, and a prodigious amount of blood spurted all over the bridge stations. Crew stepped backwards in shock, and several looked ill at the sight of the writing man bleeding out. Ensign Jerrick screamed in pain. Marcus carefully stripped the injured man’s jacket, and let him fall to the floor.
Slowly, Marcus peeled the jacket back to reveal what the man had reached for. Justinius saw the metallic shell of a hand grenade, slowly unwrapped from the fabric.
Halastar had finally caught up by this point, and looked in dismay at the ensign, writhing in a pool of blood on the bridge deck.
His dismay was interrupted by a pinging sound.
“Sensors?” Halastar queried.
The bridge was deathly quiet, as Ensign Jerrick’s writhing slowed and stopped.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
“Sensors!” Halastar screamed.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
Halastar rushed over to the sensor station, and pushed the shocked officer responsible for that station out of the way.
Justinius followed the shipmaster over to the console. He stood behind the shipmaster as he reviewed the data. Halastar slowly turned around to face Justinius and gestured to the image on the screen.
“I think I figured out where that message went.”
A grainy image showed seventeen vessels dropping out of FTL on the edge of the system.
Seventeen Committee Vessels.